Page 31 of Stupid Matchmaking Love

“I don’t know. I mean, I did tell Rhett that one day he’d see my Bitty Beings everywhere, but I was fibbing.”

Totally.

Not really. So what if I spend every morning envisioning Bitty Beings in every Hallmark store this side of the Mississippi?

Soon as I mention the word Rhett, wouldn’t you know it, but the door opens and in walk Pane and Stone Maddox, followed by their third-wheel cousin.

Rhett must have some kind of sixth sense, because as soon as he steps inside, his gaze swivels until it finds me.

Dark. Penetrating. Lusty.

I may have made that last one up.

And here I thought this was a safe space.

I quickly hide my face in my wineglass like any sane woman would do.

Pane glances over and Rowe waves to him. He and Stone approach and greet their ladies with cheek kisses.

“I didn’t know you’d be here tonight,” Stone says to Coco.

She playfully bats her lashes at him. “You don’t get to know everything about me until we’re married.”

He chuckles. “Fair enough. We’re just here to grab some food and drinks. Don’t mind us.” He squeezes her shoulder affectionately as Pane asks Rowe if she needs anything. She says she’s good.

I, however, have suddenly found my wineglass empty. This won’t do. “I’m gonna grab another. Coco, you need anything?”

“Nah,” she says, flashing her engagement ring again.

I head to the bar, where my friend Isaac is slinging drinks like a pro. He shoots me a thousand-watt smile. “Well, if it isn’t Cristina Palmer. How’ve you been?”

“Fantastic.”

His brow furrows. “You look a bit tired.”

“Do I? I don’t feel tired.”

As soon as the lie is out of my mouth, my chest tightens, reminding me that even if my mouth is saying one thing, my body knows the truth.

“Maybe I’m projecting my tired onto you,” he says lightly. “What can I get you?”

“Just a glass of red.”

“I’ll pay for the lady’s drink.”

My spine goes ramrod straight.

Why? Just why?

I slowly turn toward Rhett Maddox as he orders bourbon. Of course. Why couldn’t he have ordered a girlie drink like a Midori sour or something? Why’d he have to order a big-boy masculine drink?

It just makes me like him more.

Wait. That thought needs to crawl under whatever rock it came out of, because I do not like Rhett Maddox.

“Thank you,” I murmur, not looking at him.

He raps his knuckles on the bar absently as Isaac steps away to make our drinks. “You haven’t been dropping boxes in the lobby lately.”