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“Miranda.” My fingers twitch at my sides with the urge to touch her.
When she’s got her lipstick off my cheek, her eyes move to mine, and she rubs her lips together before she falls flat to her feet. “Sorry,” she whispers.
“About?” I whisper back, and she lets out a breath, shaking her head.
“Nothing.” She does another head shake, dropping her eyes from mine before looking around. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“Divorce party.” She lifts a bright-pink sash between us, and I glance down, reading it quickly.
“So it’s official?”
“As of a couple of days ago.” She gives me an awkward smile.
“Hey, you can only chat her up if you’re buying her a drink,” the dark-haired woman that was hugging April informs me as she joins us, and I drag my eyes off Miranda to look at her.
“Emma, this is Tucker,” Miranda says softly, and Emma’s eyes widen to the size of saucers.
“Shut the fuck up. You’re Tucker?” She looks from me to Miranda. “You didn’t tell me he was h—”
“Emma,” Miranda cuts her off, pink traveling up her cheeks and down her chest.
“Fine. Nice to meet you, Tucker.” Emma holds out her hand, and I take it in mine. “Sorry about… well, you know, the whole douchebag-cheating-ex thing.”
“Kill me now.” Miranda closes her eyes, and I rub my fingers over my mouth to hide my smile.
“No problem.”
“So, are you officially single too?” she asks, and Miranda glares daggers at her. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m just curious.”
“You can’t just ask someone something like that, Emma,” Miranda scolds her. “It’s rude.”
“Do you think it’s rude?” Emma asks me, and I look between the two women, and seeing how uncomfortable Miranda is with the whole thing, I look at her friend.
“It’s rude when you know asking those questions is making your friend uncomfortable.”
“Touché.” She looks at Miranda, not fazed at all. “I’m gonna go out and try to get Eli to join us, since this is our last stop of the night.”
“All right,” Miranda says, and Emma squeezes her hand before she walks off.
Focusing on Miranda, I dip my head toward the bar. “Do you want a drink?”
Her eyes scan my face for a moment like she’s trying to figure out if she should take me up on my offer. When she nods, my muscles relax, and I hover my hand over her lower back but don’t touch her as we walk to the bar.
“How many drinks did you get tonight?” I ask, watching her stuff the sash that says Just Divorced back into her bag, and her nose scrunches as she looks at me.
“Since Emma has been wearing it almost the whole night and asked everyone she came in contact with to donate, I’m guessing a lot.”
Laughing, I lean into the bar and watch her smile, then her head tips to the side. “Are you here with friends?”
“My brothers.” I dip my chin toward the opposite end of the bar, where Clay and Dalton are. “The dark-haired one is Clay, the one with the glasses is Dalton, and my brother Miles is around here somewhere.” I point to the dance floor. “The woman in the white dress is Clay’s fiancée. Tonight is their bachelor/bachelorette party, and the day after tomorrow, we’re all flying to Vegas to watch the two of them get married.”
“What can I get you guys?” the bartender interrupts as Miranda opens her mouth, and we both look at him.
“I’ll have a Vodka soda with lime please.”
He nods, then looks at me.
“Just another beer.”
“You got it.” He pulls out a bottle from the under-counter fridge, popping off the top before walking off to make her drink.
“So, your brother is getting married in Vegas?” She looks up at me.
“He is.”
“I thought that was something you did on accident when you were drunk, then you woke up the next day searching for the nearest lawyer to get an annulment.”
“Are you speaking from experience?”
“No.” She snorts, and I grin at the sound, watching her cheeks get pink.
“They wanted to get married on the West Coast, since they’re flying to Fiji for their honeymoon. The wedding is more for Willow’s parents than them, so they thought, why not Vegas?”
“That makes sense.” She turns to smile at the bartender when he sets her drink in front of her. “Wait,” she calls when he starts to walk off, and he stops. “I need to pay.” She opens her bag, and I cover her hand with mine when she starts to pull out cash.
“He’s adding it to my tab,” I tell her, and her eyes move from my hand to my face.
“You don’t have to pay for my drink.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I remove my hand from hers and jerk up my chin at the bartender, who takes that as his cue to leave us alone once more.
