Enemies With Benefits (Loveless Brothers 1)

I’m panicking. My insides are tied in knots, and my hands are trembling with the adrenaline that’s shot through my veins as I think this can’t be happening again and again.

No wallet means asking Todd to cover the whole bill. No wallet means I’m not the self-sufficient go-getter I like to think I am. No wallet means relying on someone else’s kindness, and I already know that the price tag for Todd’s kindness isn’t one I’m willing to pay.

I paw through everything on the table. I pat down the lining of my purse and run my hands over the straps, just in case my wallet has wormed itself into a strip of leather one inch wide.

It’s not there. My whole body is hot with embarrassment. I ignore the sidelong glances from the couple at the next table over as I shove everything back into my purse and wait, trying to slow my heart.

I look my phone to text Adeline again about my hilarious date mishap and realize it’s been ten minutes since Todd went to the bathroom.

Well, he’s either dead or gone.

Or playing Candy Crush on the toilet because he’s a rude jerk.

I flag the waitress down. Politely.

“I’m so sorry,” I start, meaning I’m sorry for what I’m about to ask, and also, I’m sorry in general about Todd. “My date went to the bathroom about ten minutes ago and hasn’t come back, and I’m starting to worry he’s had some sort of emergency. Could you ask someone to go check?”

I’m talking way, way too fast, my words coming out in a frantic rush. Her eyebrows knit together in a look of waiterly concern, and she glances back at the bathrooms, like maybe we’ll both get lucky and he’ll waltz out at this exact moment, looking only slightly worse for the wear.

Todd does not waltz.

“I’ll find someone,” she says. “Be right back, okay?”

“Thank you!” I call after her, my heart thumping too loud in my chest.

Please be playing Candy Crush like a jerk.

Please.

A minute later the kitchen door swings open, almost smacking into a busboy.

A tall, dark-haired, annoyed-looking man comes out and strides toward the bathrooms.

I stare.

I forget about Todd.

I forget that I’m on a date.

In fact, I forget everything I’ve ever learned about how to act in public because I unabashedly ogle this man as he crosses the room.

Did I mention tall? Dark hair and light eyes? Handsome as the devil himself, with sharp cheekbones and a hard jawline, wearing a white chef’s jacket over broad shoulders?

It takes him about three seconds to disappear into the men’s room, but it’s a very good three seconds. My heart flutters. It flutters enough to make me feel guilty for looking at this man while on a date with Todd. It even flutters hard enough to distract me from my current situation.

Then he’s gone. I turn around and try to act like I wasn’t ogling.

Except there’s something else. Something scratching at the back of my mind, a sneaking suspicion that I know the handsome man currently finding out whether my date is pooping and playing games on his phone.

I don’t know how. I’m not even sure whether I really know him, or whether my processing centers have been scrambled by this disaster.

You know how it’s hard to recognize someone out of context? Like when you were a kid and you saw a teacher in the grocery store or something, and it would take you a minute to figure out who they were because they weren’t at school?

It’s like that. He looks vaguely familiar, but in this tiny town, everyone looks vaguely familiar.

Thirty seconds later he comes back out of the bathroom, shaking his head at my waitress as he crosses the room.

I get another great three seconds, and then Hotface McChefsalot is gone. My waitress is frowning.

Shit. Shit.

“Nobody’s in there,” she says, and my stomach clenches anew.

“He’s not in a stall playing Candy Crush?” I ask, just to be sure. My voice is high-pitched, strangled.

“Um…” she says, glancing toward the kitchen door, where the man I just ogled disappeared. “I don’t really…”

“I’ll check!” I say brightly, and jump out of my seat in a burst of oh-God-I-have-to-do-something energy, and charge for the bathrooms.

Several people watch me as I hustle across the dining room and into the hallway with the bathrooms, where I knock on the door to the men’s.

No answer. I shove it open, bracing myself for someone to shout at me, but no one does.

That’s because there’s no one in there. The bathroom only has one urinal and two stalls, and the moment I open the door it’s clear that they’re all unoccupied.

I back out. My mind is racing. There’s a trickle of panic-sweat running down the back of my neck.

Can I barter a dog collar and some paperbacks for dinner and some overpriced wine? Maybe my phone? It’s a year or two old, but I’ve treated it well.