They’re busy; I think it’s rude to interrupt, like so many other people seem to be doing. Every few seconds, men and women approach, intruding into their conversations, and I think it’s super impolite.

And yet…here we are.

Noah is ten feet away and hasn’t spotted me; then again, why would he? It’s freaking dark in this place, the only lighting for atmosphere, even the lights on the dance floor are dimmed. Above the bar, navy blue bulbs glow, the ceiling surrounding them covered in mirrors.

Sleek.

Urbane.

One thumb hooked into the waistband of my jeans, I feel my palms getting sweaty, anxious butterflies awakening in the pit of my stomach, wings spreading and kicking every organ in my body. Ugh. I hate this.

Take one for the team.

This is for the girls, this is for the girls, this is…

Shit. He’s noticed me now, though I can’t tell if he actually recognizes me, giving me a once-over then dismissing me.

Shit. It’s the jeans—I knew it!

We sidle up in a clump, Emily knocking into the back of me clumsily and I want to spin around and demand more space, but not with this pack of men gazing at us like we’re a flock of wild geese about to shit on their front lawns.

Get it together Miranda—they’re staring.

“Hey Noah. Hi.” I give him a tiny wave. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Do I know you?” He looks down at me, a placating smile pasted on his face, teeth bright white under the blue lights above. “Did I fuck you?”

The guys nearby laugh, as if he’s just said something hilarious.

“You couldn’t even get me to blow you,” I counter. “There’s no way you could get me to fuck you.”

Shock.

Complete and utter shock on the faces of each and every one of them until the stunned silence is broken by one laugh. Then another.

Until they’re all choking and slapping him on the back.

“Dang, Wallace, she told you!”

Noah Wallace.

Huh.

“Anyway, I saw you from over there”—I turn and point to the booth where our friends still sit—“and thought I’d pop over to say hello.”

“Buzz, aren’t you going to introduce us to your little friend?” A giant black dude wearing a pinstripe suit pushes his hand in my direction. “Hi, I’m Leo.”

I take it and shake, letting him pump my delicate palm up and down a few times before taking it back. “I’m Miranda, your buddy and I here aren’t really friends—more like business acquaintances.”

“Guys, this is…” He cocks his head. “What did you say your name was?”

Oh my god, seriously? “Miranda.” I roll my eyes, because that’s the only appropriate thing to do. “I sold you that baseball card?”

“Buzz, buddy, I don’t think she likes you very much.”

Not at all and less and less by the second.

Wait—did he just call him Buzz?

Wallace. Baseman. Noah. Buzz. My head is spinning. How many nicknames does this guy have?

Men, I swear…

“The baseball card?” He thinks hard for a second, probably hurting his brain. “The card.” Then, his eyes light up as recognition dawns on him. “Oh, the carddd.” His keen eyes give me another once over, this time more appreciative. “You looked frumpier Wednesday.”

“Gee, thanks.” I feel an elbow jam into my back. “Oh! Guys, these are my friends.” I turn a bit, so Emily and Claire can weasel their way through for introductions. “Emily and Claire, this is the guy I was telling you about.”

My friends, bless their little hearts, stumble over their words as the guys begin flirting, the big guy, Leo, taking an instant liking to Claire—I can see interest in his eyes.

“Hey Miranda, this is my buddy, N—uh, my friend.” Noah has his hand on the back of the tall blond guy I caught sight of when we were still at the booth, giving him a gentle push forward, the way my friends did with me. Nudging unhelpfully.

Our eyes connect and I’m able to get a good, long look at him, in much better light.

He is Noah’s polar opposite in almost every way.

Where Noah is dark, this guy is light.

Where Noah is bulky and buff, this guy is toned but doesn’t look like a bodybuilder. Not as hot, but not many of them are. Comparing them would be like juxtaposing an apple and a cucumber—they’re not even remotely similar.

He’s tall and dirty blond with a nose fit only for a Roman god. Wide shoulders. Shaggy hair that keeps falling in his eyes. Wide, unsmiling mouth.

He avoids my curious gaze, looking over my head, eyes shifting to the dance floor.

My shoulders slouch; another conceited asshole who thinks his shit smells like roses.

Well, I have news for this guy: I am not going to fawn all over him like Emily and Claire are doing next to me, giggling and batting their eyelash extensions as if their lives depend on it—so if that’s what he’s expecting, he’s about to be real disappointed.