The Hot Girl's Friend (2 page)

I pressed my eyes closed before launching into my theory on men. “I just mean its hardwired into your brain, or chemistry, or whatever, to look for the most attractive female mate. Haven’t you ever read those studies about men preferring a certain hip-to-waist ratio, which happens to be the most fertile ratio? Then there’s the clear skin and shiny hair that suggest good, healthy genes. You can’t help it. It’s in your nature to want the most attractive mate who will best allow you to spread your seed.” I took a long drink. “And for that reason, no man would ever pick me over Miranda. She is reproductive perfection.” A little drama always helped sell it, so I spread my arms wide. “It’s not your fault.”

By this time, Brady was pinching the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “You are so wrong.”

“And you must be drunk. I thought bartenders weren’t allowed to drink on the job.” I stood up and leaned over the bar, pretending to search for a contraband beverage.

A giggling brunette wearing too much dark eye shadow sidled up next to me and waved to get Brady’s attention. “Excuse me, my friend over there was wondering if you’re single?” She pointed to a girl covering her face with both hands; but there was no question whether or not the short, chubby girl with frizzy red hair was a looker. Being a non-goddess myself, I was allowed to make such judgment calls.

The brunette giggled a bit more. “She thinks you’re hot. If you want, she’ll give you her bra for your collection.” She pointed to the lingerie and slapped her hand over her mouth, totally overwhelmed with how audacious she was being.

I tried to suppress my grin, watching how Brady would handle this one.

He tilted his head and shrugged. “Man, sometimes it really sucks having a girlfriend.” He reached for a wine glass, and poured some Chardonnay. “But give her this and tell her thanks for the compliment; and that she should keep her bra for some other lucky fellow.”

The girl pouted, but she took the wine and dashed over to her friend.

“Very nicely done,” I said.

He smiled and bowed, when someone tapped my shoulder. I turned around “Yes?”

“Ah, ‘allo love. I was wondering if you knew that lovely blond girl tearing about on the dance floor?” He had an accent that sounded British, but wasn’t exactly. Could it be the elusive Australian?

Now this is an interesting development
. “I do know her. Say, you aren’t Australian, are you?” Maybe I’d be getting out of here earlier than I expected.

He frowned at me. “No. If I were Australian I’d sound like an ass.” He shuddered a bit as he said it. “I’m South African.”

“Oh.” I scrunched my eyebrows, trying to remember Miranda’s status with the African nations. “Let me get back to you. You don’t have a yacht, do you?”

He shook his head.

“A dinghy?”

He just looked at me and walked away.

“What the hell?” I mumbled. “I was going to ask her if she was interested. She’s got a tour-of-the-nations thing going on.”

Brady refilled my Coke and dropped in a handful of cherries. “Back to your
totally
plausible theory on men and our shallow evolutionary desires. If that’s all we Neanderthals want is a beautiful woman—never mind smarts, or humor, or loyalty, or any of that business—what about you women? What do you want?”

“Simple.” I shrugged. “Power and money to help raise all your children.”

He laughed. “Then I’m in big trouble because I’ve got neither.”

“Well, not all women want that. I suppose those of us who aren’t evolutionary goddesses know we have to settle.” I wasn’t about to tell him that he was a Ryan Reynolds’ look-alike and could get any woman in the bar. “As we just saw, you don’t have a hard time with the ladies. How do you fend them off?”

“I tell them all I’ve got a girlfriend.”

I tucked my hair behind my ears and prayed it wasn’t frizzing. “Is that the truth or an excuse?”

He folded his arms and his expression turned serious. “I’ll be honest with you to balance out your lying. It’s an excuse, because I typically don’t like to swim in the dating pool that shows up here.”

I set my hand in my chin and leaned forward, intrigued. “Oh, and where do you go trolling for women?”

“I don’t make it a point to look. I figure I’ll find her when the time is right.”

“And if Miranda came over and said she was interested in you? Would the time be right then?” I toyed with the zipper pull on my purse so I didn’t have to see the truth in his eyes.

He shrugged. “I don’t even know her.”

With a wave of my hand, I dismissed that ridiculousness. “Stop it. Of course you’d go out with her.”

“Not necessarily. I might decide she was self-absorbed after a few minutes. And I’m not the only one.” He refilled a beer and slid it to the man next to me, waiting.

“I think my results so far here tonight would prove otherwise.”

“You’re polling the wrong crowd. If you and Miranda went somewhere besides a bar, I bet there’d be plenty of guys asking her about you. Here at a bar, a six-foot-tall blond woman is like a bug light. She totally stands out, attracting all the creatures buzzing about at night. And they have no idea they’re about to be zapped by you.” He pointed at me and I thought about biting his finger.

I rolled my eyes instead. “She stands out everywhere.”

He tipped his head and stared at me for a moment. I wondered if I’d forgotten to pluck my right eyebrow again. I fluffed my bangs and did a quick swipe for eye stubble. Phew. All clear.

“Do you always go out with her?” he asked. “Everywhere?”

“Usually.”

“Maybe Miranda’s your excuse to keep guys away.” He smiled, like he’d just come up with a great new As-Seen-On-TV invention.

I opened my mouth then snapped it shut. “I need a minute to think about that warped logic.”

“You’re not going to meet a nice guy at a bar. And certainly not with her in tow.”

“Then good thing I have a cat at home who loves me, because most of the men I meet are at bars.”

He planted both hands on the counter top. “Okay. You need to meet an entirely new population of men. You’ve been corrupted by losers. I’ve got a proposition. Come with me to my baseball game tomorrow—without Miranda—and we’ll see how many guys are interested in you.”

I tried to look incredibly offended. “Good Lord, you make me feel like chattel. Are you going to sell me to the highest bidder?”

“I’m just intent on proving your theory wrong. I’ll bet you have a date in three weeks.”

“Three weeks? You think it’s going to take that long? Thanks.”

He forced a great big smile for me. “No, I just imagine you’re going to be very difficult about this.”

“That’s very true. But let’s place the stakes on this bet.” I narrowed my eyes, thinking, and then snapped my fingers. “A t-shirt that says, “She’s Taken.” I can flash it at guys when they come up to ask about Miranda.”

He frowned. “Now, what good will that be for me when
I
win it? Because I will.”

“I’ll have it printed to say “I’m Taken” so you can use it when girls itching to lose their bras come up to you.”

He reached over the bar to shake my hand. “Deal. And I wear a Large. Meet me at this address tomorrow at one.” He scrawled directions to his baseball game on the back of a bar napkin as Miranda wandered over.

I picked up the glass of scotch. “Want some?” I asked her. “You helped me get it.”

She smoothed her hand along her swan-like neck, which looked like it belonged in a classy erotic photo display. “Can I have a glass of water?” She tucked her hair over one shoulder and smiled at Brady.

And he got her some water pretty damn fast.

“Who’s your friend, Jane?” she asked, lowering her lashes.

No, not the coy voice! Not the lust lashes!
“This is Brady. Brady, this is my friend Miranda.”

She reached over to squeeze the tips of his fingers. “Very nice to meet you.”

“Bad news, he’s not Australian and he doesn’t have a yacht. I checked.”

He laughed, and wiped the bar with his rag. “Plus, I have a girlfriend.”

And didn’t that make my heart sing?

She stuck out her bottom lip and turned to me. “In that case, I’m ready to go home. How about you?”

I hopped off the barstool. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

She headed for the door, and I swiped the napkin from the bar.

“The medication making her sleepy?” Brady asked.

“Nah, it’s a parole curfew.”

Out came the dimples. “See you tomorrow.”

“Only to prove you wrong.” I smiled at him over my shoulder as we left.

“Damn,” Miranda said, climbing into the cab. “He was cute. He would have been fun.”

I said nothing, annoyed for the first time that she could have whoever she wanted.
But Brady told her he was taken
. That made me squeal inside. “He’s a bartender. Not your type.” Normally, I supported any fling she was considering. She had very good reason to pack in as much fun as possible. I did my best to make sure she didn’t get hurt in the process. It’s a role I’d been playing for a while.

She leaned her head back against the seat while I tried to touch as little of the foul, plastic, peeling material on the seats as possible.

“So, what was your best excuse of the night?” she asked.

I tapped my fingers on my thigh, thinking, as the cab lurched through the city, the pine tree air-freshener swinging on the rear view mirror. “Actually, Brady helped me out with a good one.”

“The bartender knew what you were doing?”

“He overheard me. And I used one on him when he asked me if you’d want a drink. Told him it didn’t mix with your meds.”

She pretended to slug me. “Don’t scare away the cute ones.”

I threw up my hands. “What? I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“I could be interested for a night or two.”

“He’s too nice for that.”

She gave me a look. “Did someone finally catch your eye?”

I shook my head too hard. “No, he was just fun, helping me come up with excuses. We told one guy your boyfriend was in the bar—fresh out of jail.”

She rested her head on my shoulder. “Oh, Janey, I do love you.”

The cab pulled in front our apartment building. She lived across the hall from me in downtown Springfield. Which was like a zebra living in Idaho, really. Why she wasn’t a model living in Boston or some other big city was beyond me. But she was quite content working as a kindergarten teacher with her summers off. Those poor little boys in her class would never find a woman who could live up to their first teacher crush. I’m sure there were a few smitten daddies, too, scheduling extra parent-teacher conferences.

“I’ll be up around noon. Want to do lunch?” she asked.

I opened the door to the building. “Some of us have to work,” I whispered.

“Oh, you’re no fun.”

“And you’re all fun. We balance out.”

“Add Brady to my list. If he’s ever available, I’m in. We’ll have to check back in a few weeks. Nighty-night, Janey. Love you.” She blew me a kiss and let herself into her apartment.

Glad someone does
. “Back at ya,” I said.

The only reason I tried on seven different outfits the next day was because of the flaky weather report. Sun, rain, hail—make up your mind, weather people. Plus, purple and blue both played up my eyes, but which to choose?

Mr. Mew just looked at me with his big yellow eyes, so he was no help. I went with blue and hoped for the best.

Not that it mattered what I was wearing, I decided, driving to the baseball field. Brady would be a good friend to have. Yep, just what a girl like me needed, another good-looking guy friend. But I left my loose, brown curls down, because sometimes they looked cute bouncing on my shoulders. Or so Miranda told me. And as much as I liked running around without makeup, I put on pale lipstick, eyeliner and mascara. I looked as good I could without appearing as though I’d tried. It’s a hard balance to strike.

I was hoping Brady wouldn’t be as hot in the daylight, so that maybe I could shake these feelings, but his tight white pants and McGinty’s Bar t-shirt only made his assets more visible. I nodded in approval. Hopefully, he was friends with equally gorgeous men. The mythical ones, who valued personality and humor in a girl over looks. He was so losing this bet.

I waved to him when he spotted me leaning against the chain link fence surrounding the field. He was practicing with his teammates and tossed the ball to the guy on third base, then ran over, leaving a trail of red dust in his wake. I tried to remember the last time I’d made it to third base and I was coming up blank.

“You came,” he said with a smile.

And that hasn’t happened in a while either
, I thought to myself. “Only to prove you wrong.” I wrapped my fingers around the metal links.

“Nope, I think I’m going to have a new T-shirt to keep the ladies in line.”

I tried to swat his arm but he ducked out of the way. “Go sit down and cheer for me. But don’t get too hoarse. I’m awesome; you’ll have lots of cheering to do.”

“Clearly you’re awesome. You have to be, to make it to the bar league, right?”

“Try not to cut yourself with that sharp tongue. I don’t have any band-aids on me.” He shook his head, laughing, and ran onto the field.

Brady was good. He scored three runs, made a couple of key catches, and had a gaggle of girls waiting for him when it was all over. Shocker. But after some casual chitchat, he pushed his way past them and came over to me.

Yes, me—the only girl there wearing sneakers instead of high-heeled sandals, zero jewelry, and a “Wanna Smurf Around” t-shirt.

“Impressive, as promised,” I told him as he sat down next to me on the bleachers.

He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “We’re heading to a pub down the street to celebrate our crushing victory.”

He didn’t have to say so, but I knew this is where he was going to put his theory to the test. I should have been nervous realizing I’d soon be trying to charm his friends with my wit and personality. But I knew it was going to lead nowhere, and being right was so much fun. Plus that “She’s Taken” t-shirt would come in handy.