Blurred Lines (Love Unexpectedly #1)(18)

“And Redhead was here before we arrived,” I add.

Parker gives us a baffled look. “How do you two know this?”

Lori reaches across and pats Parker’s hand. “This is why you brought us, sweetie.”

“Why, so I can learn how to stalk people? I wanted help with picking up guys, not CIA training.”

“It’s not so different,” I explain.

Parker gives me a look. “Puh-leeze. I’ve seen how often you’ve watched Jason Bourne. Keep your guy-spy fantasy out of this.”

“No, he’s right,” Lori says. “It is a little bit like spying.”

I give a thank you, Lori smile, and she smiles back, holding my eyes. I jerk my gaze away, lest Parker catch on. Lori is ridiculously hot, and in any other situation, I’d absolutely have made a move months ago.

But strangely enough, I sort of get why Parker’s so determined not to let me hit on her friends. In a perfect world, Lori and I could hook up, scratch the itch, and move on. But despite Lori’s sex-kitten vibes, I hear about all the dates she goes on from Parker.

Real dates, not drunken hookups.

I’m not looking for that. At all.

“So, wait,” Parker says, taking another slurp of her drink. “You’re telling me that I should be…casing the joint?”

“Absolutely,” I say, managing to keep a straight face. “Be sure you bring your pistol, too.”

She shoves her glass across the table at me. “Okay, smartass. I reject your sarcasm but accept your drink offer. So does Lori.”

“One vodka tonic, one Jack and diet coming right up,” I say, scooting out of the booth. “Also, Parks? Watch and learn.”

I ignore her puzzled Huh? and make my way to the bar, deliberately positioning myself on the other side of the redhead who’s talking to the guy in the black shirt.

The bartender doesn’t see me, but I don’t rush to catch her eye. I have a lesson to teach.

Black-Shirt Dude is talking Redhead’s ear off about football.

Big mistake, dude.

But his mistake will make my job easier. I’m almost bummed. It’s been a while since I’ve had a good challenge.

I raise my hand to get the attention of the bartender. A futile gesture, because the tatted-up blonde’s back is to me and she’s shaking the heck out of some cocktail, but it accomplishes what I need it to.

My elbow barely—just barely—hits the shoulder of Redhead, who’s standing to my right.

My hand is already touching her forearm in apology as she’s turning toward me.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say, laying it on a little thick. Most dudes would grunt an apology, if at all. But this kind of over-the-top courtesy has gotten me the girl more than a couple of times.

My fingers linger on her forearm as she turns all the way toward me, surprise flickering over her face. And the face is a good one. I was expecting her eyes to be hazel or brown, but they’re blue. She’s got a full mouth, which I like, because, hello, and her body’s as good from the front as it was from the back.

“No problem,” she says, a slow smile sliding over her face. It’s a predatory smile, which is kind of a turnoff, but I’m not marrying the girl, so it’s cool.

“Buy me a drink and we’ll call it even?” she says.

Yup. I’d been right. No challenge here. Still, just as well. The little lesson I’m putting on for Parker could not be going any better.

You’d better be watching this, Parks.

“I think I can do that,” I say easily to the girl. “What are you having?”

She pushes a near-empty glass toward me. “White wine. Whatever she’s pouring back there, I’m not picky.”

“You got it,” I say, before flicking my eyes to the dude in the black shirt who just now seems to be figuring out what’s going on here. I’m stealing his target.

“What are you drinking?” I ask him, to soften the blow. I’m not a total dick. Plus, I need him to stick around. With any luck, Lori will understand what I’m doing here and somehow maneuver Parker into this guy’s path. Not because I have any intention of letting her go home with someone who looks slightly dead behind the eyes, but she said she wanted practice, and this guy’s harmless.

“Um, beer?” he says.

I hide a grimace. Whitehorse Tavern has more than twenty beers on tap, some of them pretty damn good microbrews. Beer doesn’t quite cut it as far as descriptors go. I’m about to ask if he wants to be a bit more specific, but the scent of familiar perfume catches my attention. Parker wears Chanel Chance. I know this because I buy it for her every Christmas. It’s expensive, but it’s a win-win, because she squeals in delight every time, and I don’t have to do any thinking.

I turn around to find her looking at me in exasperation. She points at the glasses in front of me. “You forgot our drinks.”

“I didn’t forget,” I say, giving her a meaningful look.

She tilts her head in confusion, clearly understanding that I’m trying to tell her something, but not comprehending what.

Good lord. I glance around for Lori, and find her back at the booth where I left her, engaged in conversation with a hipster type. Some wingwoman. I’m on my own.

“Parker, this is…”