Vince

I lied and told Kayla I had a website question, so now I’m standing next to her desk, watching out her office window, my heart jackhammering.

Jackie ignored my advice and didn’t talk to J.T. Saturday morning. Last night over beers and pizza, she sat on my sofa and promised she was going to do it “tomorrow.”

So here we are. Monday, aka tomorrow.

“My God, she’s doing it.” Kayla sounds proud, and when I take in her beaming expression, I see she looks it too.

“Yeah,” I mutter, one arm crossed over my chest and my other propped on it as I pinch my bottom lip. I’m trying to remember why I thought this was a good plan in the first place.

Outside, Jackie gestures, water bottle in hand, then smiles and offers it. J.T. smiles, nods, and accepts the water. But he doesn’t jog on, no no. He cracks the top, takes a swig, then stands taller, pushing his chest out.

What a dick.

“Vince!” Kayla reprimands. I must’ve said that out loud.

“Well…” I point to the window but she shushes me. We continue watching, Kayla with rapt attention and me in abject horror.

Jackie wears a respectable black wrap dress and heeled sandals. Her long hair flows over her shoulders in waves. She gesticulates wildly now that she has nothing in her hands, and the action is so her, I wedge my molars together in frustration. She’s giving J.T. the real Jackie. The guy she’s supposed to be using and leaving.

I didn’t give the real me to the girls I jumped into bed with. Don’t get me wrong—I didn’t lie. But I wasn’t the me I was with Leslie. I was infinitely smoother, careful to hold back. I focused on them, asking questions and striking up conversations. Just like J.T. is doing with my best friend.

I can tell the moment Jackie gets nervous because she uses both hands to push her hair behind her ears. She shifts her weight from foot to foot and J.T.’s smile fades into a look of mild concern.

Tell her no, tell her no, I chant silently.

He isn’t going to say no. Jackie looks beautiful today, and she could disarm a nuclear warhead with that smile. Fuck.

Predictably, J.T. nods, grins, and then offers a hand, which she shakes. He lifts the water bottle in a Hey, thanks and jogs away. Jackie turns toward the window and gives two very vigorous thumbs-up.

Groan.

“Yay! I knew she could do it.” Kayla turns and faces me. Her expression changes so subtly it’s like watching a question mark form over her head. “You seem awfully invested in how this goes. What gives?”

“She’s my friend.” I sound defensive, which is no good. The last thing I need is for our coworker to suspect something is up. “Butler’s my friend. Guys are jerks.”

“Not all guys,” she tells me.

“No, Kayla. Not Kevin.” I mean it. Her husband is a hell of a guy. “You caught a good one.”

“Yeah.” Her smile turns wistful for a moment before she says, “The Runner might surprise you and be The One for Jacqueline.”

I nod, but I don’t trust myself to say anything nice, so I turn and exit Kayla’s office. Jackie steps back inside but I don’t wait for her to spot me. Instead I angle for my own office and pick up the pace.

“I don’t get it,” Davis says from his seat at my right elbow. We’re at McGreevy’s at the bar per our usual, except he’s ignoring the TV for a change.

“Don’t get what?”

“If she doesn’t trust this guy, why did she go out with him?” He turns his attention to the mirror with a beer brand etched in the middle, eyeing our reflections.

“She trusts him, but it’s a first date and she needs backup.”

I look over my shoulder to where Jackie and J.T. sit, coincidentally at the table where Jackie and I sat the other day and practiced her asking him out. Except she’s in the seat I was in, and J.T. is in the seat she was in. She asked me to hang out in the “background” while they have their drinks in case he’s a complete creep. I agreed, and Davis practically lives here, so I knew I wouldn’t be alone.

Jackie looks happy.

J.T. looks like a tool.

“Are you crazy?” Davis asks. I rip my glare away from the happy couple.

“On occasion. Like whenever I wonder why I’m friends with you.” I lift my beer and drink. Davis lets the insult glance off him.

He shakes his head. “You set up the girl you like with another guy.”

I sputter into my mug and do a good job of getting beer on the bar and on my shirtsleeve.

“Gracie Lou!” Davis shouts.

Grace gives him the stink eye.

“Bar towel, darlin’.” He snaps his fingers.

Grace flips him off.

I’m not sure what is going on with those two, but I’m not getting into it now. I have enough girl trouble of my own.

Grace delivers a towel and tells me, “Your friend is a horse’s ass.”

“She loves me,” Davis says when she walks away.

I dab the foam off my shirt and from the bar top. Thankfully I didn’t go full-on Old Faithful. No one other than Davis seems to have noticed.

“And you love Jackie-O.”

“The first lady?” Grace quips as she sweeps by.

Davis opens his mouth and I interrupt with, “Yes. She’s a classic.”

Grace winks like she knows more than she lets on, and given a woman’s superpower of always knowing what’s going on, I figure she does.

“Carson.” Davis says my last name with such low command, I give up and look him in the eye. “What’s going on with you, man?”

It’s rare to see him concerned, but he has that layer. When Leslie left me, he was more to me than “let’s go get drunk” guy. He knows what heartache feels like. Right down to its ugly core. We didn’t have many heart-to-hearts, but there was a time or two when we talked about the suckage of being the dumpee.

I keep my voice down but answer his question truthfully. “Jackie doesn’t date. If I can get her over that hump with someone harmless, once it’s over, she’ll consider going out with me.”

“Or you could just ask.” His mouth twists with disappointment. But I’m right. He doesn’t know Jackie the way I do.

“I have one shot at this, Davis. She has to see me differently than a formerly married guy she works with.”

We both look over our shoulders at the horror unfolding. Jackie leans heavily on one fist, batting her lashes the way she did with me. Her focus is locked on J.T. and he hasn’t broken eye contact with her yet.

“You better formulate a plan to split them up soon.” Davis turns back to the television and lifts his beer. “Before your girl runs off and marries him.”

Jacqueline

“Married?” J.T. asks.

“Once. We divorced three years ago,” I answer. “You?”

“Never.” He shakes his head.

“Engaged,” I guess.

J.T.’s smile turns schoolboy charming and he cocks his head. Some of his blond hair slides over his forehead and I take a moment to admire his ocean blue polo shirt and the way it Vs over what I know is a gorgeous chest. No hair, but that’s okay. Though I wonder what Vince’s chest looks like by comparison.

I blink a few times to reroute my brain. Where did that thought come from?

“How’d you know?” J.T. asks.

“Know what?”

His smile slips. “That I used to be engaged?”

“Oh! It was the way you said ‘never,’ like maybe you had a close call.”

He nods but offers no further intel. That’s okay. It’s the first date and there’s no reason to divulge all of our secrets. Especially if we aren’t going to last any longer than a few encounters.

“Last question,” I say. We’ve been peppering each other with the get-to-know-you stuff to get it out of the way.

“Shoot.”

“What’s your name?”

He laughs a throaty, full, gentle laugh. It’s nice.

“J.T. isn’t good enough for you?” He licks his lips and fiddles with the cocktail napkin under his beer. “Guess.”

Vince’s voice tramples through my head. Judson Taylor. Jaundice Toejam. Jeremiah the Bullfrog.

“Jerry?” I say before I blurt out one of those options.

“No.”

“Judson?”

My date shakes his head.

“Jeremiah?” I squeak.

“No.” His laugh eases my nerves. “Jack. My middle name is Taylor.”

“Oh, my God!” Vince was right about Taylor! At Jack’s confused look, I cover with “I was totally going to guess Taylor.” I lift my wineglass and take a gulp.

“I apologize for not giving you the opportunity to shine.”

We hum to ourselves and the conversation goes limp. I tune in to my surroundings, the TVs over the bar flashing, the din of voices and glassware clinking around us. Davis. And Vince—who sends me a wink and a casual thumbs-up.

J.T. notices. “Friend of yours?”

“Oh, yeah. Yes. He uh, he’s the vice president of the firm where I work.”

“I thought you were VP.”

“We both are. We share the title.”

“That’s weird.”

My defenses rise. “Not really.”

“The boss couldn’t choose, or did they not think one of you could handle it alone?”

“The position changed when the former VP left. The workload would have been too much for either of us to handle solo.”

J.T. shrugs. I’m being oversensitive.

“We work well together,” I mumble.

“That’s what matters.” His affable charm returns. I’m being too critical of him, of us. My expectations for this date have run the gamut. I’ve considered everything from his leaving directly after this drink to his leaning forward and saying something along the lines of “Let’s get outta here.” Both sound appealing for different reasons.

He drains his beer and I glance over at the scant half inch of wine in my glass. This was the only commitment we made. One drink at McGreevy’s to see how things go. We’re at the end, and I’m still not sure how they went.

“Jacqueline Butler,” he says, smiling his white-toothed smile.

“Jack Taylor.” I smile back and wait. For what I don’t know.

“Would you like to have dinner with me Friday night?”

A zing of excitement lights my veins right before I remember that Vince and I have plans that night. We’re supposed to watch Predator and eat sushi. I can’t decide if he’d be upset if I blew off our movie night to go on the date he prodded me to go on, but it seems rude to bail. He is my friend.

“I have plans with a friend, but I’d love to have dinner with you another night?” My tone slips into questioning, and I hope I don’t appear too vulnerable—or worse, desperate.

“No can do.” J.T. shakes his head and my heart sinks. “I’m out of town this weekend and the building project I’m working on keeps me late most nights.”

He’s an architect designing a huge shopping center downtown.

“What about a late dinner that night? Any chance your plans will be over by nine o’clock?” J.T. asks.

I hadn’t considered that option. I do a quick calculation. If we’re off work by five, and Vince arrives at my place with sushi by six thirty, then we can watch the movie, eat, and wrap up by eight thirty. Which would give me thirty minutes to get ready for my date.

“Yes, they will.” I brighten. It’s going to work! And J.T. wants to see me again. It’s nice to feel wanted. Even better, it’s by a guy I want.

“Pick you up at your place. Which is fairly close to my place, so the commute will be easy enough.”

“That’s true.” Today we met at McGreevy’s after work rather than do the whole pickup thing. I wonder if J.T. has had some bad dates and has been forced to bail. I sure have. No way was I letting him pick me up for drinks, then drive me home—which was across the street from his place—and drop me off. Now, though, I’ve changed my mind. Him picking me up for dinner sounds lovely.

“I’ve never been here before.” J.T. leans in. “Do I pay the bartender or…?”

“It’s on me.”

I turn my head to see Vince, beer in hand. Unlike my date, who is wearing a polo and pressed khakis, Vince wears the stylish combo of a vest over an open-collar button-down, jeans, and lace-up boots. I flick my eyes down to the tassels on J.T.’s loafers and bite my lip in indecision.

“Vince Carson.” Vince shoots an arm out. “Butler and I work together.”

“Jack Taylor,” J.T. says, shaking hands with Vince.

Vince’s smile turns puckish as he considers claiming a victory for guessing the “Taylor” part. I give him a subtle head shake and, blessedly, he lets it go. I swear I’ll never hear the end of it.

“That’s nice of you to offer,” J.T. tells Vince, “but I prefer to pay.”

Vince shrugs. “Be my guest.”

Before J.T. goes to the bar, he rounds the table and leans to whisper in my ear. “See you soon, Jacqueline.”

A kiss feathers over my temple and my blood warms at the pleasantness and newness of that simple contact. J.T. is unfamiliar, which makes him exciting. I watch him strut to the bar and unknowingly stand close to Davis, who sizes him up but keeps his big mouth shut. Once my date is out the door, I take a moment to admire his confident, broad-shouldered stride. He looks as good walking as running.

“Drinks only.” Vince clucks his tongue and collapses into the chair nearest me. “Better luck next time, Butler.”

“He asked me to dinner too.”

“When?” Vince’s face scrunches.

I don’t want him to know it’s Friday, our movie night, so I tell a little white lie. “We didn’t get into specifics.”

“That means it’s over, sweets.” Davis takes the chair next to me.

“Why do I keep finding myself flanked by you two?”

Davis opens his mouth to offer what is likely a sexual explanation, and I hold up a finger to shush him. He grins, charming and boyish with his hair rumpled and his supremely pressed suit. He’s a walking conundrum.

“I’ll bite, Jackie-O. How’d it go?” Davis leans his elbows on the table and eyes me sincerely.

“It went well. He was nice.”

Davis makes a face like he just tasted sour milk. “ ‘Well’ and ‘nice.’ ” He pegs Vince with a look. “Your girl didn’t seal the deal. Maybe she needs a new teacher.”

“You know what?” I stand, snatching my purse. “I don’t have to explain my date to either of you knuckleheads. I had one, and I have another one. And you two are hopelessly single.”

On my parting zinger, I swivel on one stiletto and march out of McGreevy’s, head held high. I shake off their comments on the trip to my car, arriving feeling downright victorious. I have another date with my sexy fantasy man.

I freaking did it.

Vince is cheering on my sofa because Arnold just Hasta la vista, baby’d the Predator. The movie is finally, finally about to end and I’m on pins and needles for a few reasons. First, I never told Vince that Jack was picking me up here. I know, I know. Cowardly of me. Second, I failed at talking him into relocating our movie night to his place because he argued that the sushi joint was closer to mine. It is. That’s fair. And third—

“That’s how it’s done. There are no real men anymore. Arnold is an original,” Vince says, sock-clad feet on my coffee table (no shoes per my request), then downs the contents of his beer bottle.

“What about Jason Momoa?” I cross the room to collect the remnants of our dinner. “He’s a man’s man.”

“He’s a caveman. Hey, wait. You’re not throwing out that dragon roll, are you?”

I offer the plastic container and he snags the last piece of sushi and pops it into his mouth. Then he frowns while chewing and licks his thumb as I scuttle to the kitchen.

“Butler.”

“Yeah?” I pause in the doorway.

Vince narrows his eyes at my wardrobe. “You weren’t wearing that earlier.”

I wasn’t. I changed from my work clothes—a skirt and blouse—into a pair of black pants, a sparkly top, and sandals. Wedge ones. Definitely not loungewear.

The clock by my front door reads 8:55. I texted J.T. to tell him I needed five extra minutes, but that doesn’t give me much time to hustle. I should have told Vince before now.

“I—”

A knock comes at the door and Vince’s eyebrows crash down as my head swivels to the front window. Through the sheer curtains, I can see my date standing on my stoop, flowers in hand.

Vince is off the couch and I chase after him, empty sushi container in hand. But not before the door pops open and my coworker and my date face each other over a bouquet of pink roses.

“Jack!” I say over Vince’s shoulder. “Hi! You’re a few minutes early. Give me a second.”

He frowns at me, frowns at Vince, and then frowns at his flowers. I hightail it to the kitchen, toss the container in the trash, and return to the living room.

“She doesn’t like roses,” Vince is saying.

“Vince!” I snag my purse from the closet and give J.T. an apologetic smile. “He’s kidding. They’re beautiful.”

“Generic,” Vince mutters.

“Let me put these in some water. Vince was just leaving.”

“I have to put my shoes on,” he argues.

“Excuse us.” I grab Vince’s arm and for a second he doesn’t move. I widen my eyes and finally he allows me to drag him to the kitchen. In hushed tones under the sound of the Predator DVD rebooting and playing the title-screen music again, I let my friend have it in the harshest whisper I can manage. “What is wrong with you?”

Vince crosses his arms like a petulant child. I thrust the roses at him. “Put these in a vase and lock up for me. I’ll see you Monday.”

He takes the flowers but utters a protesting “Jackie.”

“I mean it, Vince.” I don’t wait for his reply. I dart to the living room and greet Jack Taylor with a big smile. Jack and Jackie.

Hmm.

I didn’t realize how odd our names sound side by side until now.

“If you’re busy…” J.T. flicks a glance over my head, where I hope Vince isn’t making lewd gestures.

“I’ll explain at dinner.” I loop my arm in his and we leave, but not before I shoot daggers over my shoulder at Vince. He’s not making lewd gestures. He’s standing forlornly in my kitchen, shoulders sagging, a dozen pink roses in his hands.