TUESDAY EVENING

“Georgie. I appreciate you inviting me.”

Ugh. Gross. I shove the corners of my mouth upward, hoping it resembles a smile, as the dark-haired charmer bends to kiss my cheek.

His lips land maybe just a little too close to mine.

Meet Brody Nash.

I know what you’re thinking: name sounds like he might be a player, right? Ding ding ding. Correct.

Brody Nash has a gift for making you think he gets you, that you’re special to him, maybe the one.

And it doesn’t hurt that all those soulful vibes come from a very attractive package. He’s gorgeous. Warm hazel eyes, short black hair, really good features.

Really good everything, honestly.

Now, I haven’t slept with Brody Nash.

But not too long ago . . . I’d wanted to.

We dated. Or at least, I thought we were dating.

He’d singled me out, or so I thought. Drinks, just the two of us, before meeting up with the group. Then it progressed to dinner. Brunch. Walks in the freaking park.

Then he’d invited me to his parents’ house in the Hamptons—just the two of us.

I mean, what was I supposed to think?!

My bags had been half packed when, the night before, I went out to Lisa’s bachelorette party.

During one of those dumb drinking games that leads to things being confessed that shouldn’t, I’d learned that not only had the bride-to-be slept with Brody, but so had five of my other friends.

And that he apparently kept a list. That he showed people.

Eyes wide open, I’d canceled my trip with Brody and kept him at arm’s length ever since, even though he somehow remains a part of our group, like a really bad rash that everyone’s given up on getting rid of.

And since Marley was in charge of the guest list, and since I’d successfully convinced her that being around Brody didn’t bother me . . .

Well, here he is.

“We should hang out soon. I miss you,” Brody says quietly, giving me a forlorn smile.

I reach around him to pluck my glass of pinot grigio off the counter. “Uh-huh.”

Brody touches my arm, then moves his hand to my hip. “Hey.”

His voice is soft and compelling, and I look away so that I’m not even tempted to be lured into that dangerous place where I’d let him make me feel special—important.

Only, as my gaze is swinging around wildly looking for something besides Brody to fixate on, I see something way, way worse than Brody.

My best friend is strolling through the door of the community event room I reserved, her arm entwined with that of Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.

No friggin’ way. I blink. Blink again.

Yup. Definitely him.

As I’ve said before, I do occasionally see Andrew outside our five o’clock meetings, but not all that often.

And the sight of him in a three-piece gray suit with a skinny black tie does something funny to my belly.

His copper-brown hair’s a little more tidy than it is first thing in the mornings, so I’m guessing that after he showers at the gym, he puts some sort of product in it to keep the waves under control.

Right now I’d be hard-pressed to say which style I like better.

Not that it matters. I meet his eyes, and shocker of all shockers, he’s glaring at me.

Well, not really glaring. That would require emotion, and Ice Man’s got none. But if I’d been maybe holding out hope that him being semi-decent to drunk Georgie yesterday morning would be a step forward . . . nope.

“George, you’ll never guess who I ran into in your elevator lobby,” Marley gushes, patting Andrew’s arm. “This is Andrew Mulroney. We met him briefly last week when he was at dinner with Liv?”

Oh, that? You mean that time when the jerk pretended he didn’t even know me?

I remember I never got revenge for that, and decide it’s time for payback.

I rearrange my features in a polite, slightly embarrassed expression, as though I’ve just been caught in the awkward social faux pas of having to be reintroduced to someone I’ve already met.

“Of course,” I say with false sincerity. “Mr. Mulroney, nice to see you again.”

As I extend my hand, I see something unexpected flicker across Andrew’s face. I can’t tell what exactly. It’s not the indifference I’m expecting, but not quite annoyance either.

He hesitates just a fraction of a second, setting his gym bag aside before shifting his briefcase from his right hand to his left and shaking mine.

Andrew doesn’t meet my eyes, and it bothers me, because he doesn’t seem to be ignoring me so much as hiding something.

I have this weird sense that I’ve hurt his feelings with my impersonal greeting.

Which is blatantly unfair. He’s the very definition of impersonal.

But I feel a sting of regret all the same.

Making everything way worse, Brody appears by my side, his hand slipping around my waist as though it has a right to be there, and he too extends a hand to Andrew. “Hey, man. Brody Nash. Nice to meet you.”

Andrew’s gaze shifts briefly to Brody’s hand on my waist, but he still refuses to meet my eyes as he shakes Brody’s hand.

“So, you’re staying, obviously,” Marley says to Andrew in the bossy, self-assured tone that’s earned her the reputation as the mom of our group.

“No, thank you,” Andrew says a little gruffly.

“Unless you have other plans, I’m going to have to insist,” Marley says, pressing against his arm. “Although I should warn you, if you tell me you have a date, I’m going to be very disappointed.”

My stomach twists at Marley’s flirting, and I feel a sudden stab of regret that I haven’t told her about Andrew’s and my . . . thing.

Not that we’re involved, and not that he’s off-limits. So what do I care if my best friend has terrible taste in men and can’t tell that Andrew Mulroney is . . .

I look up, see him watching me. “I don’t want to impose,” he says.

“Oh, poo, you’re not,” Marley says, waving her hand. “Right, Georgie?”

“Of course not,” I hear myself say. “There’s plenty of food, wine, booze, whatever you want.”

I would have said it to anybody—our friend circle is an open, chatty group. We’re always welcoming strangers, our group ever expanding. But I’m not sure it’s autopilot manners that have me urging Andrew to stay so much as the unexpectedly vulnerable look on his face.

“All right, then,” he says with a slightly stiff nod. “I’ll just run up to my place, drop my stuff off.”

Marley slides her hand out of his arm to let him go. “Okay, but hurry back.”

She walks backward away from him, blowing him a playful kiss before turning to fetch her drink.

Brody’s fingers are firm on my waist, pulling me back toward my friends, but before I can think better of it, I slip away, following after Andrew’s retreating back.

“Hey,” I say, touching his sleeve just before he can leave the room.

Andrew glances down, first at my fingers, then at my face. “What?”

I nearly smile at the irritability he manages to stuff into that one word.

“You’re not planning to come back down, are you? After you ‘put your bag down’?”

He looks away and I know I’m right.

“Marley will be disappointed,” I say.

He blinks. “Who’s Marley?”

Oh boy.

I tilt my head back toward the group. “Pretty blonde? The one who found you in the elevator, dragged you up here?”

“Oh. Right. Ms. Hamlen.”

I can’t stop the little laugh. “Where are you from? I’m pretty sure Buckingham Palace has less formality than you.”

He stares down at me. “I’m merely polite. Try it sometime.”

“Hey!” I say, stung. “I have plenty of flaws, but impoliteness isn’t one of them. I invited you to stay!”

“After you pretended not to know me.”

“That was just payback!” I say, raising my voice and then quickly lowering it. “For the restaurant last week, when you pretended not to know me.”

He takes a small step forward, his eyes flashing. “Not the same thing. I was working. I needed to retain a certain level of anonymity. I can’t have a would-be client thinking I’d go gabbing about her case with the annoying girl who lives in my building.”

I can’t help the smile. “Have you ever gabbed in your life? I’d kill to see it.”

He sighs and runs a hand over the back of his neck.

I smile wider. “Okay, I forgive you for the dinner snub the other night. So you can forgive me for the snub just now.”

Andrew looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “It doesn’t work like that. You don’t get to just exchange one apology for another.”

“You do when they’re the same offense.”

“Yes, but mine was done out of professional necessity, yours was just petty—”

“I ate a banana,” I interrupt.

He opens his mouth, then shuts it, at a loss for words. “What?”

“Yesterday. I was hungover, as you probably expected, and I didn’t have a banana, but I ordered one for dinner.”

He’s silent for a full thirty seconds. “You ordered a banana for dinner.”

“I did.”

Andrew closes his eyes for a moment. “You really are ridiculous, Georgiana.”

“So does that mean you’ll stay for dinner?”

“What? No. I swear, the lack of logic in your thought process never fails to astound—”

I reach out, snatch the briefcase from his hand, and take a step back.

His face is menacing. “Georgiana . . .”

I hold it up. “I’m holding it hostage. Until after dinner.”

He takes a step nearer. “Stop acting like a child.”

“Stop acting like an asshole,” I fire back. “Have a drink. Eat some food. Make some friends.”

Like me.

He glares. “They’re your friends, and—”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m good at sharing,” I interrupt before he can make some disparaging comment about the types of people that would lower themselves to hanging out with the likes of me.

Brody comes up behind me and, for the first time in months, I’m semi-glad to see him, because now Andrew won’t tackle me to get the briefcase back.

Although would that be such a bad thing? He does work out a lot, all that lean, sculpted weight on top of me . . .

“Babe, I refilled your wine.”

I look up at Brody and smile in thanks as I accept the glass. “Perfect. Now we need to get something for Andrew here.”

“Sure,” Brody says with an easy smile. “What are you having?”

I watch as Andrew swallows, his gaze flicking briefly from the briefcase in my hand to the crowd of people behind us and finally back to Brody. Clearly he realizes he’s trapped. “Red wine’s fine.”

“There are already a bunch of bottles open—come take your pick,” Brody says, gesturing in the direction of the drinks table someone’s set up.

Andrew follows Brady, pausing as he passes me and reaching for the briefcase.

I step back before he can reach it. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t trust you not to run away without some incentive to stay.”

“Yeah, well, that’s my problem,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “It would seem that my incentive to leave and my incentive to stay are one and the same.”

Wait, what? What does that mean?

“Hey, Mulroney. Barolo or Bordeaux?” Brody calls.

Andrew walks away to inspect his wine choices, leaving me to stare after him, a little uncomfortable with just how glad I am that he’s staying.