Everything was going fine until Gracie suddenly let out a very loud gasp and dropped her French fry.
“Oh shit,” she breathed.
“What?” I asked, looking up at her.
She was staring past Emmett and at the front doors. I followed the line of her gaze until my eyes fell upon a tall, dark haired man shrugging out of a winter jacket that was black and to his knees—much too classy for a place like Valdez. He pulled off his gloves and tucked them into the pockets of the jacket before hanging it on one of the hooks to his right.
Then he turned to face the bar while rubbing his hands together, and my heart leapt into my throat.
Brayden Hennie looked like sex wrapped in sex and then dipped in more sex.
I swallowed hard.
Emmett looked over his shoulder and threw his arm in the air, drawing Brayden’s attention to our table. He started walking toward us.
Oh shit. Holy fucking shit. Act normal. Act normal. Panic bloomed in my chest, and I swiped my napkin off the table to dab at my mouth, suddenly paranoid that there was sauce or grease on my lips.
Gracie shot a wide-eyed look in my direction and mouthed, “How did he get hotter?”
I shrugged, my heart pounding a mile a minute, and then turned just as Brayden drew up beside our table.
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