Dream On(17)

“Not too bad, I’m fine. But yeah, let’s just say Perry thinks I’m bonkers. Either that or a stalker. If I show up at the flower shop again, I wouldn’t be surprised if he called the cops.”

“How about I invite Devin to swing by my bar so you guys can talk?” asks Marcus.

“Your bar?” I ask.

“Marcus manages Zelma’s Taphouse on West Thirtieth,” Brie says.

I had no idea. “Oh, well, then yes. Sure. That’d be great.”

Marcus’s phone is in his hands before I can object, his thumbs already flying across the screen. After a minute of tense silence, he looks up. “He’s free tonight.”

“Tonight?” I blurt. “What did you say? Did you tell him about me?”

“I asked if he wanted to meet me for a drink and catch up since it’s been awhile. I didn’t mention you—way too hard to explain your situation in a text. I figured I could introduce you when he arrives and you can take it from there. Is that okay?”

“Yes, that’s perfect.” Brie pats my knee. “We need to get to the bottom of this,” she says to me.

I shrug in surrender despite my stomach pulling backflips. “Okay.”

Marcus nods and texts Devin back. After several long moments, he looks up. “We’re all set for seven.”

I check the time on my phone and swallow hard, trying to shove down the total freak-out I feel coming on. It’s already after six, not even an hour before I meet Devin face-to-face. “Yes, good. Seven. Perfect.”

“I’ll be right by your side the whole time,” says Brie. I shoot her a grateful smile.

Marcus slips his phone into his pocket. “Speaking of Zelma’s, I need to get back to work. See you guys there?” Marcus looks at me expectantly and Brie nudges me with her elbow.

“Yep.” My voice is steady but my stomach is anything but. Doubt, dread, anticipation, fear, and tendrils of hope swirl and collide, sucking me toward a head-spinning vortex that threatens to pull me under.

How the hell do you prepare to meet a man you’ve only dreamed about?



* * *



“I don’t think I can do this,” I shout over the bar’s loud music.

The push-up bra Brie insisted I wear under my low-cut top digs into my ribs, and I tug at the underwire. I’m wearing three-inch heels, but even without them I tower over her. The other kids in school used to call us “the odd couple.” Petite five-one Brie with her eye-catching curves, thick blond hair, perfect button nose, and adorable gap-toothed grin. And then there was me: gangly Cass Walker with the too-long legs, twiggy five-nine frame, and long nose always stuck in a book. Kids at school openly wondered why we were friends. Even now we tend to attract looks when we go out.

And attracting looks is the last thing I want at the moment. What if Devin walks into the bar, spots me, and there’s nothing there? No recognition. Or worse, disgust. Or even worse… recognition and disgust. I need to be the one to see him before he sees me. My heartbeat accelerates and I wipe my sweaty palms on my black skinny jeans.

“You can so do this.” Brie bumps my hip with hers.

“You ladies doing okay? Need anything else?” asks the bartender. She’s at least twenty years older than us and moves with the precise efficiency of someone who’s spent years tending bar. My mouth is so dry all I can do is shake my head.

“Another round of Miller Lites, please,” says Brie.

The bartender nods. With practiced movements, she plucks two bottles out from under the bar and cracks them open before placing them in front of us.

“Thank you,” I finally manage to croak, but the bartender has already moved on to a couple seated at the end of the bar.

Brie shoves one of the beers in my hand. I finished the first one in about fifteen minutes flat, but it hasn’t done anything to calm my nerves. I take several noisy gulps, then hold the bottle against my neck. The cool condensation feels good against my heated skin.

The door to the kitchen swings open and Marcus appears. He strides over when he spots us. “How are you holding up?” he asks from behind the bar.

“So far so good,” Brie calls over the general murmur, giving me an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Any updates on Devin’s ETA?”

Marcus shrugs. “He said seven.”

I check my phone for the dozenth time since we arrived at 6:55. It’s a quarter after seven. Maybe he’s not coming. Relief and disappointment wage war in my intestines. I swallow a burp.

“Hey, Marcus, my man,” a deep, silky voice rings out behind us.

Every muscle in my body stiffens and I nearly drop my beer. Breathing heavily, I swivel my neck just enough so I locate the source of the familiar voice out of the corner of my eye.

Devin. He’s here. And he’s standing directly beside Brie—barely five feet away—and my God, he looks good. He’s wearing a faded gray T-shirt partially tucked into slim jeans, and a cotton blazer with the sleeves rolled up to midforearm. I knew from spotting him today that he was the same Devin I remembered, but I’d questioned whether my memories would continue to live up to reality when I eventually saw him up close and personal.

But this Devin, the real Devin? At this distance, I can absorb the subtle tilt to his eyebrows, the soft color in his tanned cheeks, the golden glimmer in his chocolate-brown eyes, and the rise and fall of his broad chest. His features are so sharp and vibrant, they’re mesmerizing… and even more alluring than I remember.