I wonder if I could sneak out the door without him noticing. Having Connelly find me here, in this dump of a club, decked out in a glittery, skintight dress… That would be the rotten icing on the past-its-expiry-date cake that this weekend is turning out to be.

“And you know what’s harder? The whole online-dating thing,” Ronny is bemoaning.

I tear my eyes off Jake. “Yeah, online dating sucks,” I say absently, trying to locate the waiter.

“I get all these matches and girls being like, ‘Hey handsome, you’re so great and sexy,’ and then the conversations just die. I don’t get it.”

Really? He doesn’t get it? Because I have a sneaking suspicion why those conversations are dying. Elements of his game are desperately lacking. For example, the casual mentions of his “whore mother” and constantly referring to himself as a “dropout.” Sadly, Dope might not be putting his best foot forward, but I refrain from offering constructive criticism. I’m too busy trying to execute an escape plan.

My gaze darts toward the stage. Jake’s still engaged in deep conversation with the guitarist.

Crap. Where is that waiter? I need to pay for my drinks and get the hell out of here.

“You’re a cool chick, Brenna,” Ronny says awkwardly. “Easy to talk to.”

I cast another look around at the room. It’s time to go. If Jake notices me, he’d never let me live this down. The dress, the location, the company.

Yes. I spot the waiter emerging from the swinging door next to the bar. I frantically wave my arm.

“Sorry, just trying to get the bill,” I tell Ronny. “I—”

I stop talking. Because Jake isn’t across the room anymore.

Where on earth did he go?

“You’re leaving?” Ronny is crestfallen.

“Yeah, I’m getting tired, and I—”

“There you are, babe,” drawls a familiar voice. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

The next thing I know, Jake strolls up, cups the back of my neck, and lowers his mouth to mine.

9

Jake

I didn’t plan on kissing her. I was merely going over there to save her from the dude she was clearly trying to escape. But her lips are right there. Pouty and red and so damn tempting I can’t resist.

My mouth brushes over hers in a scant tease of a kiss. I think it teases me more than it teases her, though, and I regret it almost instantly because fuuuuuck, I want more. I want tongue. I want it all.

But I can’t have it. I came to rescue her, not to make out with her.

I’ve gone out with Hazel and seen her get hit on by somebody she’s not feeling, enough times to be able to recognize an SOS in a woman’s eyes. It’s a cross between dear Lord make this stop and someone please get me out of here.

Brenna’s eyes were conveying that telltale panic. I couldn’t believe it when I spotted her across the room. My first thought, however crazy, was that she followed me here, but I quickly dismissed it. That’s not Brenna Jensen’s style. Once I got over the shock of seeing her, I noticed her desperately trying to signal the waiter, and I snapped to action.

As I ease my lips off hers, my entire body rebels. My dick yells at me and my mouth demands another kiss. A real one this time. Instead, I come up behind her and wrap both my arms around her slender frame.

“Hey, Hottie,” I murmur, bending my head so I can nuzzle her neck. Holy hell, she smells good.

She stiffens for a second before relaxing. “Hey. You’re late.” She tips her head to meet my gaze. We share a moment of understanding before she turns to our third wheel. “Ronny, this is my boyfriend, Jake.”

“Oh.” Unmistakable disappointment clouds his face. “I didn’t realize… Uh, I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” she says lightly.

“Yes, there is.” He sends a remorseful look in my direction. “I was chatting up your girl. Sorry, bro.”

“All good.” I run a hand down her bare arm. It’s a playful gesture, but also a possessive one. Translation: she’s mine.

His expression takes on a hint of envy. “How long’ve you been together?”

“About a year,” I lie.

“One year too many,” she grumbles.

Ronny frowns.

“Ignore her.” I trail my fingers up Brenna’s arm, and her breath hitches. Hmmm. She likes it when I touch her. I tuck that nugget of wisdom away for future use. “Trust me, she’s obsessed with me. Blows up my phone every day telling me how much she loves me. I think psychologists call that love-bombing.”

“Oh, don’t get me started on love-bombing,” Brenna says sweetly. “He writes me a beautiful haiku every night before bed. Usually about my eyes. And my lips.”

“And her ass,” I say with a wink. My hand slides down her delectable body to squeeze the aforementioned ass. Which is a terrible idea, because it’s firm and juicy and feels like heaven in my palm. Almost instantly I’m rocking a semi.

“Wow. You two are…so in love, huh? It’s nice to see. This goddamned hookup culture is killing love. Everyone is disposable, you know?” He smiles at us, and it’s so sincere I feel bad for lying to him. “You make a cute couple.”

I plant a kiss on Brenna’s shoulder. Another bad idea. Her skin is hot beneath my lips, and smells so good. “Yeah. We’re in it for the long haul.”

“Forever and ever,” she chirps, beaming up at me.

Ronny polishes off his Corona and sets it on the table. “Well, I won’t bother you anymore. But thanks for the chat. Have a good night, you guys.”

Once he’s gone, Brenna disentangles herself from my arms and puts about two feet of distance between us. A deep scowl twists her crimson lips. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I asked first.”

I shrug. “I’m with the band.”

“Right. I’m sure you are. Why aren’t you out celebrating your big win with the rest of your Harvard cronies?” Her dark expression tells me precisely how she feels about our win.

“I told you, I’m friends with the band. I went to high school with the lead guitarist.”

Speaking of Danny, I turn to make sure he’s not glaring at me for abandoning him, but he’s involved in an animated discussion with a dude in a Metallica hoodie. When I catch his eye and signal I’ll be a few minutes, Danny nods and continues talking.

“Well, you should tell your friend that his set needs to be longer than fourteen minutes,” Brenna says. “I blinked, and it was over.”

I chuckle. “I know. But this was their first gig, so you can’t fault ’em.” I signal the passing waiter, who stops at our table. “Could I get a Sam Adams, please? And another of these for my girl.” I gesture to her empty glass.

“I don’t—” Her protest dies, because the man is already bounding off. “I didn’t want another one, Connelly,” she mutters.

“It’s on me. The least you could do is have a drink with me. I just saved your ass, after all.”