Page 95 of The Bartender Special

Maybe—

Jack's phone dinged as a new text message came in.

It was from Benny:

Sorry, we're in the middle of the movie, but good timing, I was about to text you. I hate to do this, but I forgot I had plans with Ethan tomorrow night already. I'll brainstorm with him about the party and the pageant. Don’t worry. I'll call you if I need you.

Jack reread the message twice.

He only cussed once more.

“Well, shit.”

SEVENTEEN

Benny was less hot now. His legs hurt less too.

Blushing? Didn’t need to do that in the privacy of his own bedroom, no matter how much stewing he’d been doing since the movie’s credits had started rolling.

The sunburn was, however, annoying.

Every time he thought he found a comfortable way to starfish on the bed, his quilt scraped, his skin radiated with heat, and the urge to fall asleep all but fled into the night.

He sighed once, twice, five times.

In between some of those he glanced at his cell phone next to his pillow.

It was flipped over and on silent.

The urge to check it had been a harder fight than letting go of the idea of sleeping.

Benny had once posted a blog about the time he’d clogged the toilet at a date’s house and, instead of handling it like an adult, he’d escaped through the bathroom window.

And yet one single picture uploaded to the internet, courtesy of Carol Robertson, had offended him more.

“He’s looking at his moon and stars. His boyfriend just happens to be there too.”

That specific comment left by a rando person on the internet of Jack smiling at Felicity had been cheesy.

And effective.

Benny continued to stew between his quilt and fitted sheet.

Not only had he canceled his and Jack’s non-date date and tried—ineffectively—to come up with a plan to calm down the online masses, Benny had had his feelings hurt.

It felt pathetic.

It was pathetic.

For the first time since coming to Arbor Bay, Benny wished he was back in his crappy little apartment in Nashville. It might have been small and had a weird smell that never seemed to leave no matter how many candles he lit or sprays he spritzed, but by God there was no Carol Robertson there.

No Felicity.

No Marcus.

No Ruby.

No hot bartender who said and did one thing but then looked like that at his ex.