Speaking of Benji…
“I just don’t understand why he was there or why he moved back. Do you think he broke up with his ex?”
Skye groans loud enough for me to hear her from the studio. “Paige, I love you—you know I do—but unless that man comes crawling back to you on his hands and knees and begs for forgiveness, I promise you he isn’t worth a single second of your time or your breath.”
“I guess now is a bad time to mention the bet I made with him?”
Skye lets out a yelp and rushes out like a cartoon character. “Uh, ex-squeeze me? What kind of bet are we talking about? And tell me you won.”
“He apologized?—”
“Bare minimum.”
“And wanted to talk?—”
“I hope you told him to suck it.”
“And I said that even if I was interested, he’d be fourth on the list.”
“Nice.” Skye raises her hand, and we high-five. “What number is he really?”
One, but we both already know that.
“Anyway, whoever has the most matches from last night plans the date for the loser.”
“Okay, now I really need to know who won.”
“I don’t know yet. I haven’t checked the app.”
Truth is, I barely remembered the bet until just now, and I definitely can’t name any of my dates. As soon as Benji walked in, no one else came close.
I’d really thought I was over him.
“Come on. What are you waiting for?”
At the sound of the door opening, my heart stops, but it’s not Benji.
“I brought my own coffee, but you owe me tea,” Rhys says as he enters. He’s already in his apron, meaning that he came as soon as he clocked in and Marcie is holding down the fort next door. “So,” he presses, “how did last night go?”
There’s no point in pretending. “It was a disaster.”
“Benji showed up,” Skye adds.
“No!” Rhys doesn’t hold back his shock, and you know what? It feels better, knowing I’m not the only one rocked by last night. He sets his elbows on the counter, mirroring Skye, their metaphorical tails wagging.
I sigh. “Yes.”
“And?”
This time, when the door opens, my heart does stop. We all turn in unison as Benji walks in, and it’s immediately obvious we were talking about him. Not that he cares.
“Mornin’, all. Did I miss the broadcast, or were you just about to tell them about last night?”
“They know,” I admit.
Gone are the linen shirt and slacks from last night, replaced with dark jeans and a gray T-shirt that I know is ridiculously soft. I clench my fists on the counter.
“Great,” he says, hooking his sunglasses on his shirt. “So, there’s only one thing left to settle.”
