Grace’s inamorato strolls out. If he’s older than me, I’ll eat my glasses. He also looks like an underwear model. “Damn,” Bea says. “Hey.” I drag her stool closer. “You’re with me.” She glances back my way. “What?” “I said”—I drop my voice and lean close, breathing in her soft scent and barely resisting the urge to press a kiss to her neck—“you’re with me.” “Oh.” She smiles. “Don’t worry. He’s not my type.” I narrow my eyes. “What is your type?” “Tall, dark blond, and stuffy.” She looks me up and down. “Obviously.”
