Ugh.

You know that annoying feeling when you find out your friends were right and you were wrong?

Yeah, that. Doug Porter is . . . kind of a douchebag.

I’d like to think that maybe he wasn’t this way when we dated back in the day, but I have the sneaking suspicion that maybe he was. That maybe I was so numb following my breakup with Colin that I was blind to the fact that I was dating a jerk.

It’s not that he’s mean or cruel. He’s just self-absorbed as all heck.

That, and although the fact that we didn’t specifically deem tonight a date so much as a “catch-up,” it’s a little rude that he’s checking out every single female that walks by, right?

And we’re not talking a subtle once-over with his eyes. He actually turns away from our conversation so that he can stare over his shoulder at anything female.

He’s currently in the middle of story 909 about his fantasy football team, and I can’t stop glancing at the doorway where the mistletoe hangs threateningly.

When I first came in, full of hope and misplaced excitement that I might feel butterflies, I was delighted to see that the manager had hung it, and even more delighted to see surprised patrons making use of it. Over the course of the awful evening, there’ve been goofy, playful kisses among friends, sweet and flirty kisses among couples who look like they’re on a first or second date, and a couple of get-a-room kisses.

It took me all of five minutes to figure out that tonight’s dilemma isn’t finding a way for Doug and me to get beneath that mistletoe, but ensuring that we don’t.

I don’t need a mistletoe test for this guy.

He’s not the one.

I mean, he’s good-looking. I’ll give him that. Of all my exes, he’s the most, well, beautiful. He’s got bright blue eyes, thick blond hair, and great dimples he shows off to perfection with a Hollywood-worthy smile.

It’s his soul that stinks.

So far I’ve heard him whine about his Christmas Day skiing plans falling through, so now he has to go to his parents’ for the holiday. Which is apparently “a downer” now that his dad’s been diagnosed with cancer.

Yeah. I know.

Oh, and his sister-in-law’s pregnant, and he doesn’t like watching her eat.

I just . . . I mean, there are no words. It’s like he’s a cartoon villain or something.

And to think I’ve wasted my best outfit on this guy. I’ve got on a pair of dark skinny jeans that do slimming things for my thighs while managing to make my butt look perky. My red sweater is off the shoulder and deceptively demure, but it fits nicely in the boobs and is somehow cut to give me a waist that I don’t normally have.

I’m even having a good hair day, and my smoky makeup? Totally on point.

Like I said, wasted on this guy.

Don’t get me wrong—Doug noticed. I got the same degrading once-over that every other woman in the bar’s been subjected to, but it didn’t make me feel beautiful. It made me feel like a piece of meat.

“Another?” the bartender asks, coming to stop in front of us as he polishes a wineglass.

I’m grateful both for the interruption and for the escape route.

“Oh gosh, no, I think I need to get going,” I say with a bright smile, hands going for my purse. I’ll gladly pay for our drinks if it’ll get me out of here.

Doug’s hand closes on my arm. “Not yet. It’s way too early.”

My smile stiffens a bit, because the way he says it is more command than request. “I really should be getting home.”

“For what? You said you have two weeks off.” Doug gives a derisive snort. “Must be nice to be a teacher. Some of us actually work full-time.”

I take a long, deep breath. Oh, goodie. His attitude’s not unfamiliar. Most people aren’t quite so derisive, but I’m no stranger to the “teachers barely work” mantra. Never mind that our summer “breaks” are spent making lesson plans, and that we get paid beans to care for other people’s darlings. Most of the time I’m more than willing to go to bat in defense of myself and all the hardworking teachers out there, but some people just aren’t worth it. And the guy next to me is one of them.

I turn to ask the bartender for the check, but he’s already shifted his attention to a group of women.

“So anyway,” Doug says, letting his hand slide away as though it’s decided that we’re extending the evening, “what’s been going on with you?”

I glance at the time on my phone. Not bad. It’s only taken him an hour and twelve minutes to ask anything about me.

It’s too little way too late, but since the bartender’s still not looking my way and I’m not quite rude enough to just walk out and stick Doug with the bill, I take a deep breath for patience.

“Not much. I’m on my own for Christmas this year, since my parents are on an Alaskan cruise for their anniversary.”

Doug rests his chin on his shoulder, ogling one of the waitresses as she walks by with a tray full of beers. Nice.

“And I’ve decided to quit my job, shave my head, and move to the South Pacific and collect turtles,” I say, to test if he’s listening even a little bit.

He merely nods distractedly and reaches for his beer. “Cool. Well, I can tell you this, you look good. If anyone gives you shit for gaining weight, send ’em my way. I’ll happily let them know that some women look better with a little padding.”

For a second I don’t think I’ve heard him right. The jab is so offhand and casual, as though it’s his right to tell a woman when she’s attractive and when she’s not. As though it’s okay to tell a woman he hasn’t spoken to in years that she’s gained weight.

It’s not very often I’m speechless—I like to consider myself a think-on-my-feet kind of girl—but right now my mind is blank with rage and hurt. Maybe a little humiliation.

Unfortunately, it’s the latter two that are winning out, because instead of giving him the blistering tirade he deserves, I’m horrified to feel my eyes watering.

I’m so busy trying to blink back the tears while Doug sips his beer, oblivious to my reaction, that I don’t register that we’re no longer alone.

“How’s it going here?” says the newcomer.

My humiliation fades a little, replaced by surprise.

I turn. Mark?

My best friend shifts his irritated gaze from Doug’s profile to my face, his searching eyes missing nothing. You okay?

I swallow. No.

It’s a silent exchange, but a telling one. Mark’s protective, but he’s always been careful not to cross the line into possessive rescue-the-little-woman territory.

I appreciate that he doesn’t think I need to be treated differently because I’m a woman. But tonight isn’t about me being a woman, it’s about being a person, with feelings that just got hurt. Mark’s not the type of guy to let a friend be hurt, male or female.

“Apologize,” Mark grinds out.

“Great,” Doug murmurs, dragging out the word derisively. “I see you’ve still got your guard dog.”

“Apologize,” Mark snaps again.

Doug gives us both an incredulous look. “For what?”

Mark doesn’t reply, and I realize he didn’t hear Doug’s cruel words; he only knows that they upset me. I feel an intense stab of gratitude for his unflinching loyalty.

I give Doug an angry look of my own. “For implying I was fat.”

Mark lets out a low growl, and Doug holds up his hands innocently with a laugh. “Whoa, what? I don’t think you’re fat, babe, I just said you look good with a few extra pounds. That’s all I meant.”

“Regardless, it was insulting,” I say, reaching for my purse. I drop a couple of twenties on the bar. It’s more than enough to cover my two wines and Doug’s beers plus tip, but I don’t want to wait around to get change.

I stand, and though I appreciate Mark holding out a hand to steady me on my high heels, I don’t need it. My friend’s presence is enough to remind me that there are good guys in this world, and that I don’t need to waste another thought on the lame ones.

“I wish I could say it’s been nice seeing you again,” I tell Doug, “but . . .” I shrug, because I’m literally incapable of forcing any niceties.

Doug’s gaze is somewhere between incredulous and bored as it flicks between me and Mark. Then he shakes his head and reaches for his beer. “Unbelievable. Some things never change.”

I’m totally over the conversation, and touch Mark’s sleeve. Time to go.

He doesn’t move. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks Doug.

Oh no. Oh no no no.

“You know what it means,” Doug snaps.

I rub my forehead. Here we go.

“Enlighten me.”

Doug slowly sets down his beer and stands. “It means that this whole town is sick of you hovering around Kelly like a damned guard dog.”

“Keeping her away from assholes like you is hardly hovering.”

“I’m the asshole?” Doug says, crossing his arms. “You’re seriously going to act like you didn’t do everything possible to ensure she and I broke up?”

Mark steps closer. “That was all you. You’re the one who cheated on her.”

Allegedly, I silently add. Mark told me he thought Doug was cheating, but Doug was adamant he hadn’t. In the end, we broke up not because I was convinced he’d cheated but because I wasn’t willing to take Doug’s word over Mark’s.

You see why this whole situation is awkward? I trust my best friend, but he never would tell me why he was so sure about Doug’s cheating.

“Kelly and I were never exclusive,” Doug says.

My gaze flies to him. Wait, what? That’s news to me.

“You and Erika were though, right? Oh, wait . . .”

I’m so startled when Doug goes flying backward that I let out a yelp, but it gets lost beneath the cacophony of breaking glass as Doug’s beer glass shatters on the ground.

Doug catches himself on the barstool, a hand to his mouth, as he gives Mark an incredulous look. “Seriously, dude?”

I too look at Mark, watching as his right hand returns to his side, still in a fist. He’s breathing hard, and he looks as angry as I’ve ever seen him.

Time to go. Way past time to go.

“Come on,” I say quietly, wrapping my fingers around Mark’s arm. “He’s not worth it.”

I glance warily at Doug, but he seems more interested in keeping the blood from his lip from dripping on his blue sweater than he does in fighting back. Although I’m guessing that’s more from the fact that he knows he can’t win than from any “bigger man” sensibilities.

Doug’s relatively fit, but slim to the point of being lanky. There’s exactly zero chance he’d win in a fight against Mark. Especially when my best friend has hot murder in his eyes.

About what? I wonder. I’m sure a little bit of it was over Doug making me cry, but I’m also pretty sure there’s more to it.

One of the waitresses shoos us out of the way to clean up the spilled beer and broken glass. Mark runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath.

Then he adds another twenty to the cash I already left on the bar, and gives a nod of apology toward the bartender. Another twenty he hands to the waitress, bending down and murmuring to her.

She gives him a smile and a wink before nodding subtly toward Doug.

When Mark stands and meets my eyes, he’s still tense, but his gaze is steady. “Ready?”

Um, yeah.

Mark holds out his hand, and it doesn’t even occur to me not to take it as we walk out of the bar. Hardly anyone looks at us, their interest level having dropped when they realized there was no fight to be had.

I let my gaze flick upward right before I step out the door, almost smiling at the mistletoe and how very, very differently my night has gone than I planned.