But I didn’t corroborate it, either, since it’s not truly an option. I roll my eyes. “I simply moved on to the other part of the convo.”
“Because you didn’t want to deny it,” Nolan puts in.
Spencer parks his elbows on the edge of the counter, and I swear the pair are caging me in. “Here’s my question. If Bellamy’s not your woman, what will you do when she comes to your party and meets Mister Right?”
A horror-movie shudder rolls through me. The prospect of Bellamy with Mister Right is all wrong. But I can’t stop her. She wants that kind of love—the neon-billboard-in-Times-Square kind. What’s more, she deserves it. “It’ll be fine,” I say as evenly as I can.
“Pants on fire,” Spencer says.
I ignore him and take a drink of the bubbly water. But when I set it down, Nolan levels me with bluntness. “You’re kind of a dumbass.”
I jerk my gaze to him. “And why is that?”
“You won’t be fine,” he says, then lifts his beer and tips some back.
“Is that so?”
He shrugs like he knows so. “Yup. A grand says you’ll be crying in your cereal when you let her walk away.”
“I’m in,” Spencer says smugly.
I roll my eyes. “We’re not a thing. There’s no walking away. We just have a bet and an understanding.”
“Understanding, my ass. And I will lay down this wager now,” Nolan says, stabbing the bar.
“You’re such an ostrich,” Spencer tells me.
I also can’t resist a bet. “You’re on. I can’t wait to say I was right.”
Spencer cackles. “Keep waiting. Nolan and I have this one locked up.” That’s his parting shot as he heads off to tend to customers at the other end of the bar.
I wrench control of the conversational wheel, turning it on Nolan. “What’s the latest on the moving front? You think you’ll relocate here?”
Nolan crosses his fingers. “If I can make it work, I’d love to. It’s getting old crashing on TJ’s couch. Don’t get me wrong—the dude has great taste in furniture and he’s a sport for letting me stay with him. But I need to figure out my next steps. I’ve got to make sure I can justify moving here from San Francisco.”
“Will you miss the fam?”
“So much. I talk to Jason all the time, though,” he says.
“Go Hawks.” His little brother is the quarterback for one of the NFL teams in San Francisco. “He’s having a good start to the season.”
“He sure is. I miss going to his games. And I’d definitely miss him if I moved here for good.”
“But I bet you’ll miss Emerson more,” I rib him, which also happens to deflect from my romantic situation.
Wait.
I don’t have a situation.
I have an understanding. That’s all.
“For the millionth time, we’re just friends,” Nolan says.
Our phones buzz in unison. I flip mine over, and he does the same.
* * *
TJ: I can feel inspiration dancing all around me. My next great romance will be about a brainy podcaster who meets a stripper with a heart of gold and falls in love. It’s practically writing itself before my eyes.
* * *
Seething a little, I draw a deep breath and tell myself I’m not jealous, I’m not jealous, I’m not jealous at all.
* * *
Easton: Newsflash: If that’s supposed to rile me up, it’s not working.
* * *
Nolan: Newsflash: His skin turned green with envy and his top is about to blow.
* * *
TJ: I thought so, Nolan. And you should really see this guy dancing with your woman, Easton. He’s packing some kind of turbo rocket launcher in his yellow thong. If I were you, I’d be breaking into a sweat.
* * *
Easton: And yet, I’m me. So I’m not worried.
* * *
Nolan arches a brow high above his glasses. “Your nose grew a few inches.”
I glare at him. “The guy is wearing yellow undies. I’ve got nothing to worry about.”
My phone buzzes again.
Bellamy: Come join me. It’d be fun to have you here.
* * *
That’s enough for me. I push away from the counter. “Gotta go,” I say.
“To see your woman?” Nolan asks.
My jaw ticks, and I want to deny it, but there’s no point. We made our bets, and now it’s time for them to play out. “I can’t wait to take your money,” I say, then I clap him on the back and head to Stallions and Studs in the Village.
A neon horse and a cowboy hat blink on the sign hanging above the door. An older man, maybe in his seventies and sporting a leather vest, jeans, and cowboy boots, tells me the cover charge is twenty-five bucks. This is Grandma’s guy, I’m guessing.
“It’s rowdy in there. Ladies’ night and all. But I’m Longjohn. Rod Longjohn,” he says, James Bond style. “And I hope you enjoy yourself.”
“I will, Rod.”
I pay the fee then head inside, adjusting to the sonic assault of Lil Wayne’s “Fireman.” Around the corner by the main stage, I find my grandmother with her iPad in hand, taking notes.