Page 19 of Ruthless Edge

I remind myself of this while standing on the sidewalk outside watching a line of people my age funnel through the front door of the bar/restaurant. I'm here for the auction. I'm here because Hacksack Blues is the best option for gala entertainment and a cold email from a student activities account is a terrible way to open that conversation. I'm here for professional reasons and only professional reasons, and I've had this conversation with myself three separate times on the walk over, which I'm choosing to believe is normal.

Knox is already there.

Of course he is. He's standing at the side of the entrance with his hands in his jacket pockets, scanning the street, and the second he spots me he smiles. Open, bright, the kind of expression that makes you feel like you just did something right by existing.

Three years and it still does something I wish it wouldn't.

"You're late," he says, falling into step beside me.

"Am I?"

He holds the door open, handing the bouncer our tickets. "By an entire minute."

I roll my eyes. "And how long have you been here?"

"Forty minutes."

I give him a look. “The guy who is never on time was forty minutes early? You expect me to believe that?”

His smile widens. “I was excited.”

I try to ignore the way my heart does a little flip. He’s good at this. He’s good at making women feel like this.

Inside, the Anchor is already packed and loud, and I take a beat at the entrance to adjust before I can move. Knox doesn't comment. He falls into step beside me and navigates us toward the bar with the easy confidence he always has.

"First round," he says. "What are you having?"

"Apple martini."

He turns to look at me.

"What?"

"Nothing." The corner of his mouth moves. "Absolutely nothing."

"Say it."

"I'm not saying anything."

"Knox."

"It's just that there's a full bar—" he gestures at the bottles and taps, "—and you went directly to the most pink drink on the menu."

"It's green, actually."

"The vibe is pink."

"The vibe is that my drink will taste good, which is more than I can say for whatever you're about to order."

He grins and orders a beer. I accept my martini and take a deliberate sip while he watches.

"Well?" he says.

"Delicious. You should try it."

"I'm good."

"You're drinking something that tastes gross."