William pays for lunch, checks his watch, then tells us he has to take off. “I have an earnings call I need to be on.”

“Wall Street,” Roxy says, rolling her pretty hazel eyes. “Give it up, bro, give it up.”

“Should I join you at the dog salon? Maybe I can set up a pet hotel next door.”

Roxy makes a sound of approval. “That would be a fabulous idea.”

He bends to kiss her forehead. “Don’t lift any Great Danes, okay?”

She shoots him a narrow-eyed look. “I can totally handle lifting Great Danes.”

“Oh,” William says, straightening and smoothing a hand over his tie. “Of course. I meant none of those English mastiffs. Those are too big for anyone to lift without . . .” He pauses like he’s searching for a word. “Pulling a muscle.”

“Have you done that before?” I ask as William leaves.

She answers quickly, waving a dismissive hand. “I once pulled a muscle lifting a Saint Bernard. It was nothing, but you know how he is.”

“Protective?” I ask.

“Overprotective,” she says, practically singing it, reminding me once more that overprotective brothers are precisely the type of dudes I want to avoid when it comes to dirty dreams about sisters.

“But you can lift Chihuahuas, right?” Ben asks.

“Absolutely. I can lift them, cuddle them, and kiss them all over,” she says then pretends to pepper his cheeks with little kisses, adding in a few tickles of his waist that make him laugh insanely hard.

“That tickles! Do it again!”

We both crack up. The kid loves to be tickled even though he hates it.

She grabs her purse. “I should head back.”

“Great Danes wait for no one.” But I don’t entirely want to let her go, protective brother or not. “What time is the appointment?”

“In an hour.”

I sense an opportunity. “We’re stopping by the playground a few blocks up. Want to come with us?”

Maybe that’s not the most enticing offer for a smart, sexy single woman, but she agrees instantly.

“Sure, sounds fun.”

When we reach the park, Ben promptly takes off for the slide, and I stand at the edge of the playground with the gorgeous woman I’ve absolutely stopped thinking dirty thoughts about. “Tell me about the lucky Great Dane. Is he getting fluffed today?”

“Very funny, Mister Naughty.”

“Whoa. Do you have a one-track mind?” I ask, feigning innocence. “I meant, will his hair be fluffed?”

“Sure you did. And to answer the question, Sarge is scheduled for a standard mani-pedi.”

“Question: Why is it a mani-pedi for dogs?”

A warm breeze sneaks by, blowing some of her red hair across her cheek. She raises a hand to brush it away. “What do you think it should be called?”

But several auburn strands are fighting valiantly to stay on her face. I lean in and sweep them away. There’s a slight hitch in her breath that is borderline tempting.

Hell, it’s way more than borderline. It’s thoroughly tempting. But I don’t give in.

“Shouldn’t it be a pedi-pedi?”

She chides, “Don’t make fun of dogs for not being bipeds.”

Laughing, I shake my head. “Far be it from me to engage in any sort of quadruped discrimination.”

“But honestly, I think we call it a mani-pedi for a pooch because of how we anthropomorphize animals. Which is a big reason why I have such a successful business.”

“Anthropomorphism for the win.”

She nudges me, her eyes drifting to my feet. I’m in jeans and Chucks today. Which means I’m in my everyday outfit. “You should consider a mani-pedi for yourself someday.” She arches an eyebrow playfully. “I can even handle you myself if you’d like.”

Oh, man. I ought to stay far away from that. But I can’t. I fucking can’t. I meet her eyes, holding her gaze for a second before I say, a little huskily, “Why yes, Rox, you can handle me anytime.”

“One-track mind,” she says, laughing.

“Pot calling the kettle black.”

“Touché.” She clears her throat, glancing around the playground. It’s early afternoon, so we’re the only ones here, and I like it that way. “So, you’re going to play at your high school reunion. It’s pretty hilarious that you made that offer.”

I smack my forehead, groaning. “What was I thinking?”

“You wanted to stay grounded. To keep in touch with the people you grew up with,” she says with a sweet smile. “And you clearly had that desire to do anything for your dreams—that’s what it’s like when you’re young, don’t you think?”

I flash back to that night years ago, and I swear I can still taste my own ambition, my naked desire to play music for as many people as possible. “That’s true. That pretty much describes my younger self perfectly, and my older self is pretty damn happy I’ve achieved those dreams,” I say, with a shrug. “What about you? Are you willing to do anything for your dreams?”

She looks away briefly, swallowing, and I study her face, trying to read that small gesture. But when she looks back at me, she says, “Definitely. That’s why I left Wall Street to open Fluffy & Fabulous, and it’s been going so well, I’ve started looking into expanding it.”

“Yeah? Where to?”

“I’m considering adding a location in Brooklyn.”

I smile. “That’s fantastic, Roxy. Pets need to be pampered all over New York City.”

“They absolutely do. But back to you—you’re going to do it, right? Play at the reunion?”

“Ben and William made it clear it was a done deal. Seeing as I said I would.”

“I think it’s great that you’re keeping your promise from so long ago. A lot of people might try to wiggle out of it, but you’re sticking to it.”

“I’m not a wiggler, Rox. I’m a man of my word.”

“I like that. Men of their word are my favorite kind.”

“I take it that means the opposite are your least favorite kind?”

She heaves a sigh. “Exactly, and I’ve met far too many of that type in the online dating world.”

My skin crawls at the mention of her dating. Briefly, I think of the men who’ve broken promises to her, and I clench my fists. But I don’t like thinking of her and other dudes, so I bring it back to the topic at hand. “It should be a fun gig. Something different. I’ll rope my brothers into it, and in one week, we’ll play both the Beacon Theater and Northwell High.”

“And you do know you’re going to be mobbed at the reunion, right? There will be single women, divorced women, and so on. They’ll all want a piece of you.”

“You think so?”

She raises her fingers, ticking off her list. “Let’s see. Sexy rocker and hot single dad? Bring it on.”

I lift an eyebrow. “You think I’m hot and sexy?”

“Most of the female population does.”

And I’m going to walk right into this minefield too. My resistance is shit with this woman. “And does that include you?”

A splash of pink races over her cheeks. “I just said you were. It’s kind of a fact.”

Fact. That’s one of the least sexy words there is.

But at the same time, she makes a good point.

I flash back to earlier today with the waitress and then further to the “anytime, anywhere” offer from the Queen of the Nile. I do get hit on a lot. I’m not complaining—it’s part and parcel of the life I’ve chosen. But, yes, it is a fact.

When I glance at Ben, happily rocking on a seesaw horse, I realize I’ve enjoyed this small sliver of time when no one has come up to me and asked for an autograph or a number.

Why is that?

The answer to not getting mobbed at the reunion is right in front of me.

“Roxy, would you be my plus-one at the reunion next weekend?”