Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,3

the group; and then there’s Thomas. I met him when he married my cousin for a hot minute . . . or a hot month. After the divorce, which lasted longer than the marriage, I kept Thomas and haven’t spoken to the cousin since.

“I’m not cheating on Boring Brady,” I say, an unintended defensiveness to my tone. “There’s nothing really going on there. It’s just a casual thing.”

“Is that why we’ve never met him?” Thomas asks, swirling the cocktail around before taking a sip. Everyone’s attention turns toward me, their eyes asking the same question. I’m a guilty party in front of a table full of Judgy McJudgersons.

“Wait, who’s Brady?” Alex asks, running thumb and pointer finger down his strong chin.

“Exactly,” says Thomas, giving me a pointed look.

“Just a guy I work with,” I say to Alex.

Alex shakes his head. “Don’t you know you shouldn’t date coworkers? It’s a slippery slope. And nope,”—he holds out a hand to Thomas—“no jokes about slippery slopes.” Thomas’s downcast eyes indicate that’s exactly where he’d been headed.

I shake my head at Alex. “I’ve dated coworkers before and it was fine.”

“No it wasn’t,” Holly says. “That one guy at the ice cream shop? What was his name? Trevor?”

I huff a breath out my nose. Not Trevor—Trenton. Of course my best friend of half my life would use stupid high school romances against me. Trenton and I both got fired for making out in the back room when we were supposed to be in the front, serving people ice cream. Those were some fun times.

“That isn’t the same thing, and besides, the thing with Bor—I mean Brady—was never serious enough to bring him here,” I say defensively, my eyes moving from Thomas to Bree, then Alex, and finally Holly.

This is true. But it’s only sort of the reason I haven’t introduced my friends to Brady. In truth, Boring Brady is . . . well, boring. We’re only sort of coworkers. He’s a broadcast technician at the station. And it’s never been anything more than going out on dates over the last couple of months. Nothing has come from it other than that. I mean, we’ve made out a handful of times, and it was . . . also kind of boring. No, that’s mean. It was nice. No fireworks, but also not gross like too much tongue. Because, yuck.

“Besides, it’s pretty much fizzled out,” I say, dismissing their inquiring stares with a wave of my hand. “It’s been a while since we’ve even gone on a date.” Or made out in the audio booth . . .

“So then have you texted this Henry the Brit person?” Holly asks, smoothly moving the conversation away from Brady, and I give her a thankful smile.

“Oh, he’s British?” Bree asks, her brown eyes sparkling.

“Yes, I believe that was the only word Quinn used to describe him,” says Holly.

Thomas slaps a hand on the table in front of him. “Oh, right. ‘I’ve met a guy named Henry and he’s British,’” Thomas says, doing a terrible job of imitating me. I don’t actually sound like a southern grandma. I’m pretty sure.

Holly snorts. “I’m sure he has other qualities, right, Quinn? Like a face? Two arms? Or was his accent the only thing you noticed about him?” She angles her body toward me. She’s got a glass of red wine in her hand, her red hair in a low, perfectly coiffed side ponytail that hangs over her shoulder. She’s Logan-less tonight, which is an odd sight. She and her new beau have been together for nearly a month now and are practically joined at the hip. They’re a “we” now. As in: “We have dinner plans tonight” or “We are going to the grocery store” or “We need some alone time—can you not be a third wheel tonight, Quinn?” That last one was from Logan. He has very poor filtering skills, when he does talk—which isn’t often, thank goodness.

I smack my lips. “Yes, of course he has other qualities. He’s quite dashing.” I smile wistfully as I picture Henry with his dark-brown hair and those blue eyes of his. Our children would probably have blue eyes since they’d get them from both of us. Or not. I’m not exactly sure how genetics work. I’m also getting ahead of myself again . . .

“But have you texted him?” Thomas asks, leaning his elbow on the table, his chin resting on his hand. He’s got his lawyer face on.

I twist my lips to the side,