“Hard, but not impossible.” A flicker of seriousness crosses his face. “But is that really all that’s holding you back from dating right now?”

  No. But I don’t want to dampen his mood. “Can we talk about something else please? I know I’ll only have you for another few minutes before your lover demands you feed him those scrambled eggs,” I tease.

  “It’s an omelet. I can cook an omelet,” he corrects in the tone of the long-suffering. “What’s on today? Many people booked in at The Magpie?”

  “A few,” I reply. “But that tasting event’s this afternoon, so I’m leaving Billy and Cat to man the fort.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course it is,” he says. “You look amazing, lady. Maybe you’ll meet someone there.”

  I push away the thought of Sam. He’s a friend—nothing more, nothing less. “While a fellow bar owner might be the only person I could sustain a relationship with, I doubt I’ll meet Mr. Right.”

  “How about Mr. Right Now?” he asks.

  “I don’t have the energy for a one-night stand.”

  “Maeve, all I want is for you to keep an open mind,” he says.

  “Open mind, closed legs.” I snap my fingers. “Sounds like a good slogan. We should put it on a T-shirt. But will you please let my lack-of-love life be?”

  He stops moving the spatula to lean closer to the camera. His eyes shine with concern. “I just feel a little guilty for leaving you alone.”

  “Don’t you worry,” I say, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m a badass bar owner who can handle herself. But I appreciate you looking out for me. Though . . . I do think something’s burning behind you.”

  A bit of steam comes off the mushrooms.

  “Shite, I think you’ve cursed me,” he says with a laugh. “Text me later and tell me how it went?”

  “Will do. Bye for now.”

  I turn off the video and apply my final swipe of mascara. A quick glance in the mirror to check that my leggings and crop top are still in place, and yep. I’m ready to shift some crates.

  Just one more thing. I snap a pic and send it to my friend Sierra. She’s a bartender in San Francisco, and a kindred spirit.

  Maeve: Do I look ready to rule the world?

  Sierra: Leggings are the uniform for world domination, so I’d say yes. Tasting event today?

  Maeve: You know me so well!

  Sierra: Knock ‘em dead, badass babe. And tell me if you meet any sexy Americans. Oh wait, you already met one .

  Maeve: Troublemaker!

  She’s not wrong, but once again, I force thoughts of Sam from my mind.

  I grab some face powder for touch-ups and the box of decorations and posters, then head downstairs, where I call a Lyft to jet over to the event hotel. I’m one of the first to arrive, which doesn’t surprise me. I’ve always been punctual. Better to be too early than too late. It settles my nerves, knowing I’ll have all the time I need.

  At my booth, the courier has delivered. I pull out my glassware from the boxes and set it and my ingredients up first. I work up a sweat, organizing rocks glasses, setting up the ice machine, and shifting the bar back around.

  Next, I open my box of decorations and pull out the gold tassels, my eyes on the booth behind me. I think I’ll string them from the top, but the event starts soon—which means I’ll need to find a ladder, pronto. I place the tassels down, ready to start my search.

  “It’s fate.”

  I spin around, searching for the familiar deep, baritone voice.

  Sam stands in the booth next to mine, his dark eyes glinting. “Seems like not only are we both attending today, but our booths are next to each other.”

  “Why, so they are, makes it more fun.”

  “Lucky us,” he says and he draws me into a hug. He feels so solid pressed against me, and he smells like clean sandalwood. I catch myself breathing him in and step back.

  Something about Sam feels like home. We might not have the whole gang on one continent anymore, but Sam’s still here, so it’s best for me to keep the naughty thoughts all locked up

  “So tell me—how did the oranges go?” I ask, looking over his shoulder at the already set up booth.

  He walks to the bar and grabs a perfectly candied piece of fruit. “Would you like to try?”

  “No. Thank you,” I blurt, then look away. When did it get so hot in here?

  I need a change in topic, and I need it fast. “How’s Sticks and Stones doing?” I ask, inquiring about his bar.

  “No complaints. Nice and busy. That’s how we like it, right? Tourist season’s winding down, but you know that.”

  “I’ll miss them. I love the tourists and their big American tips.”

  “Hey, now, didn’t you and Dean always say that they had the worst taste in drinks?”

  “That is not true!” I say. “The occasional American will try to order a Long Island iced tea, but I can usually convince them to try our specialty drinks.”

  “I bet you can be very persuasive,” he says, and is that flirtation in his voice?

  “I can,” I reply, flirting right back, because why the heck not? “If I steer them away from vodka slushies, I figure I am doing them a great service indeed.”

  Sam shudders. “Just yesterday, I had a guy trying to order a strawberry daiquiri.”

  “And I trust you refused.”

  “As one does.”

  I gesture to his booth. “What drink are you plying the crowds with here? The Buck’s Fizz, I presume.”

  “Since you saved me with the oranges, yes. Our specialty. And I’m guessing you’re doing your old-fashioned? You make magic with that one, Maeve.”

  I smile. “Dean and I worked together to give it our own twist.”

  “It’s been a few months since he left now. Do you miss him?”

  “Yes, I miss him, especially when I need someone to lift heavy things or reach high shelves. Speaking of, I have to go find a ladder to get these tassels hung up.” I gesture to the shiny decorations on the top of my box.

  “He’s not the only tall guy around, you know. I can give you a hand.”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” I say. I’ve gotten used to going it alone. “I’m sure the hotel staff will have one handy.”

  Sam laughs, low and hearty. “They looked a little busy when I walked past. And what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t step in to help?”

  I glance behind me at the booth. Once I get these tassels up, the rest of the work is pretty much done, but the clock is ticking toward opening time. “I do need to get changed. Would you be willing to hang this up while I run to the loo?”

  Sam frowns. “Wait a minute. You’re not going to wear those fine leggings?”

  He’s looking at my legs?

  I like that. I like that he’s looking a lot.

  “Sadly, no. I need to look like a professional. Ergo, no yoga pants.”

  Sam sighs. “Such a shame. But I guess I’ll help you anyway.”

  I laugh and grab my bag of clothes. A rush of heat runs down the back of my neck at feeling Sam’s eyes on me.

  I tell myself not to read too much into Sam and his flirtations and head for the restroom, where I check that my makeup and blow-out have survived, then swap gym clothes for the red dress I picked for the occasion. It’s the kind of dress that can go from the office to drinks at, say, a bar like The Magpie. The classic red color and not-quite-mini length are eye-catching, but I still look like a woman who owns a business.

  I slip on my heels and head back to the booth. My mouth falls open when I see that Sam not only has finished hanging the tassels but also has set out my flyers for The Magpie.

  “Sam, you are an angel,” I gush.

  “It was no trouble,” he says, and when he turns around, his eyes take an obvious detour up my body.

  The look he gives me is far from angelic.

  It’s fiery. Flirty. And a little bit dirty.

  That heat zips right back up my neck again. Sam does something to me. Something I didn’t entirely expect from someone who’s been off-limits, and who kind of still is, thanks to his recent divorce.

  “With that dress, I don’t know that I’ll be able to pay attention to my booth,” he says.

  “Please. It’ll be easy. You’ll have so many ladies flocking to you,” I say, trying to cover this unexpected rush of feelings running riot in my body.

  Sam’s eyes twinkle with laughter. “Do they flock to me? I hadn’t noticed.”

  I laugh. “Oh no, you’re not trapping me into admitting that.”

  It is true though. At events or out socially, Sam’s always been a magnet for women. But he always had eyes exclusively for his ex. Does he still feel that way?

  “Either way, good luck today,” Sam says. “I’m sure you’ll clean up.”

  “You too,” I say, and then I turn to prep a few drinks, ready for the doors to open.

  Still, it’s hard to tear my eyes away from the handsome man as he walks to his booth beside mine.

  Uh-oh.

  I know this feeling.

  This feeling can only lead to trouble.

  It’s the same feeling that led me to think that Jeremy was a good guy. A gentleman. Someone who would never hurt me.

  In other words, the kind of feeling that lies.

  If anything, liking Sam would be even riskier than dating a random man. The inevitable crash and burn would hurt more because he wouldn’t be some random guy. I would lose a friend.

  So, I need to pull it together and ignore the remnants of heat skating along the back of my neck.

  Even though it feels so good.

  3

  Maeve

  By the time the event’s over, I’ve made more small talk than I ever thought possible—which, as an experienced bartender, is saying something—and have run out of ways to describe The Magpie’s “modern, inventive energy.” I’ve also served hundreds of old-fashioneds, and I’m sure I smell like orange and whiskey.

  I’m packing up the glassware and the decorations when Sam stops by, drumming his fingers on the booth.

  “So, what’s the report?” he asks.

  I grin. “Got the word out, that’s for sure. You?”

  “I think I’ve got some people interested,” he says. “We’ll see if it translates to foot traffic. At the very least, I think there’s a guy from the City Times who’s going to do a piece on Sticks and Stones.”

  “Love that paper. That’s great.”

  Sam shrugs, but I can tell he’s excited. “They liked what I told them about the pool competitions I’ve been running. So we’ll see.”

  He glances around my booth and then, without a word, starts taking down my higher decorations. I can’t help but smile.

  “Thanks,” I say, setting a hand briefly on his shoulder. His strong, firm shoulder. “Dean used to help me with stuff like that. Too bad the prat had to go and fall in love.”

  Sam laughs. “From what I hear, someone did push him along the way.”

  I shrug, grabbing some of the flyers and tucking them in a box. “Who am I to stand in the way of true love?”

  “You really knew right away that they’d be good for each other?”

  Did I? I’d sensed that Fitz was Dean’s type, and Dean had needed someone to shake up his life and get him out of the bar. And that spark between them?

  Undeniable.

  So I’d made sure he and Fitz reconnected the night after Fitz strolled into the bar.

  I grin, nodding. “With those two? Absolutely. Or at least I knew they had incredibly hot chemistry.”

  “And that translates to love?”

  “I think you could argue that true love needs true chemistry.”

  “Now you’re philosophizing, Maeve.”

  “It needs more than that, obviously,” I say. “You need trust and commitment and honesty. But to get off the ground, maybe, love needs chemistry. You need to be with someone who gets you.”

  Someone like you.

  I push the thought away. Just because we share the same job doesn’t make Sam right for me.

  “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” Sam says thoughtfully.

  “Maybe,” I reply. “Only because it feels like everyone I know is falling in love these days.”

  “Tell me about it,” Sam says in a beleaguered voice. “I’ve got my friend Tom’s engagement party to go to next weekend. I already know I’m going to have to field tons of ‘Where’s Emily?’ questions from people who don’t know about the divorce.”

  “Yikes,” I say, but I study his face, tracking it to see if there are any hidden traces of pain there. “That’s gotta be rough.”

  “It is what it is. People will talk.” He runs a hand along his jaw. “The thing is, Emily and I may have only formally split a few months ago, but we’d grown apart long before that. It was a mutual decision.”

  A little spark of something flickers inside me. Sounds like he’s definitely moved on.

  “But that doesn’t mean I want to talk about it with every Tom, Dick, and Harry at this party. And God forbid I should show up with a date. Then I’m the jackass who moved on too fast, you know?”

  Now we’re not just dancing near the topic of broken hearts. We’ve landed on it.

  “So . . . have you dated?” I ask. “Since . . .”

  He shrugs. “I sort of took a break. I’m in no hurry to go through all that again.”

  “I know what you mean,” I say. And because I do understand, and because he’s a friend, it only seems right to offer to help.

  A friend.

  He is just a friend, I remind myself.

  “Would it help to go to the party with someone you’re just mates with?” I ask.

  Sam tilts his head, intrigued. “Are you offering your services?”

  “That makes it sound so improper,” I say.

  “Sometimes improper is a very good thing.”

  “Indeed it is,” I add.

  “But proper or improper, it would be nice to go with a friend. Especially a friend who’s a certified master small-talker.”

  “You know that just comes with the territory.”

  “I still wouldn’t take it for granted. And, of course, I could return the favor at any time. Proper or improper. Unless you have someone else up to the task?”

  I resist the urge to lament just how single I am.

  But I do like the idea of going with him. Plus, I could use the return favor.

  “I do have a charity event I have to go to in a few weeks,” I say. “Dean always went with me, but since he’s gone, it’d be great to have a friend there.”

  “I’d be happy to volunteer my services.”

  “All the proper and improper ones?” I ask, a little flirty.

  Fine, a lot flirty.

  “We’ll start with proper, and a proper kiss.” He takes my hand and brushes a kiss over my knuckle in a Victorian-style kiss. Tingles buzz from the connection, spiraling through my body in a rush. “I am ridiculously ready to be your partner in obligatory-event crime. For two dates with you.”

  That’s all it is—just two pretend dates.

  And as we say goodbye, I try to tamp those tiny tingles that felt nothing like pretend. They were all too real.

  * * *

  I text Sierra that night and tell her about the event and Sam, and she responds with a series of fire emojis.

  Maeve: It’s just friendly stuff.

  Sierra: As if I believe that.

  Maeve: You should believe it.

  Sierra: As if you believe it!

  Maeve: I swear I do.

  Sierra: Of course you do. Wink, wink, wink.

  In the time leading up to Sam’s friend’s engagement party, he and I start texting each other during the day at work. Mostly it’s little jokes about our patrons. Sam takes our inside joke about bad drink orders and runs with it, sending me pictures of the worst drinks that people order at his bar. He also takes selfies of himself making exaggerated crying or gagging faces at the particularly terrible ones.

  The notes give me a little dose of energy, and I love it. I love, too, that the tasting event worked to drive more traffic into The Magpie. And it turns out that Sam’s bar isn’t the only one to snag some media attention. We land write-ups in three different blogs, and one in particular calls us the “makers of the best old-fashioned in London.”

  I screenshot it and send it to Dean the moment it’s live. He sends back the thumbs-up emoji.

  Dean: Well deserved! You don’t need me, Maeve.

  I’m laughing when my phone buzzes again.

  Dean: How’s the flirty texting going with a certain fellow bar owner?

  Maeve: I should never have told you about that.

  Dean: And yet I’m so glad you did.

  Maeve: Just friends, and you know it.

  Dean: It’s funny that you think I’d believe that. Maybe you’ve finally met your match.

  Maeve: Don’t you have a wedding to plan?

  Dean: Just saying, it would save us a seat if Sam was your plus- one . . . Think about it.

  Maeve: You are evil.

  Dean: As best mates are.

  * * *

  On the day of the engagement party, Sam texts that he’ll pick me up at my flat. Since it’s a daytime party, I choose a fit-and-flare dress, light pink with a simple tulip pattern on the flared skirt, and I fashion my hair into a French twist.

  When I open the door, Sam’s eyes slowly widen. He swallows a little roughly and clears his throat. “Wow. You look . . . stunning.”