His Forbidden Love (Manhattan Billionaires #2) - Ava Ryan Page 0,22

only concern is that—”

“Oh my God,” I say, letting my exasperation run free. “Here you go again.”

“—I thought you were planning to stay away from him. Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Isn’t that the million-dollar question?

Keeping my expression neutral feels like standing on the sidewalk and hoisting a grand piano to a third-floor apartment all by myself. Let’s just say that it takes an unnatural feat of strength.

“It’s fine,” I say as airily as I can manage.

“Yeah, but how fine could it be? You used to be obsessed with the guy. I feel like you’re playing with fire.”

Like I need a reminder. Especially when the conversation he and I had after surgery the other day is still so fresh in my mind. I’ve been replaying it in my mind, with the relentless focus of a tween binge-watching every episode of Pretty Little Liars.

I’ve always wondered about his wife. Ex-wife now. Her looks. Her personality. Whether they were a good fit or not. Now I know.

They were not.

Not that this fascinating information has anything to do with me and my life. That’s the thing I need to keep in mind.

“Would you kindly give it a rest?” I say. “Can’t I just enjoy my good news for ten minutes without your doomsday predictions?”

“No. As your best friend, it’s my job to tell you the truth. No matter what.”

“Fine,” I say, snatching up the menu and flipping it open. “Consider yourself demoted for the night. We’re…friendly acquaintances. Now can I enjoy my drink in peace? And what about nachos? I feel like we need some nachos.”

“Oh, we definitely need nachos,” she says, also opening her menu. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Whatever. Do we want standard chips with guac or do we want to go all in?”

“I’m all in, baby.”

“Music to my ears,” I say, shutting my menu with a decisive snap and looking around for the server. No sign of him or her, alas. “So how are things going with you this week? How’d your date go with—”

My phone lights up and buzzes. I give it a passing glance—it’s Bruce; I can always call him back later—and refocus on Kelly.

“Sorry,” I say. “Tell me everything about your date with the guy you met in the bagel shop.”

“It’s okay,” she says quickly, flapping a hand. “It’s Bruce. Answer it.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“What is wrong with you?” Shooting me one of those scathing looks that the hostess always gives you when you try to sneak into the latest hot restaurant without a reservation, she snatches the phone up and hits the button. “Hey, Bruce. How are you? We’re just grabbing drinks. Hang on.”

I watch her with a vague feeling of annoyance as she props the phone against the wall so we can both see the screen. Bruce and I text each other throughout the day, and we’ll have our standard bedtime video chat later. I just don’t see any need to speak to him again now, in the middle of our girls’ night.

“Okay, Bruce,” she says. “Can you hear us okay?”

“I can. Hey, babe,” he says with a warm smile just for me as I ease within camera range. I see that he’s lounging in his D.C. apartment and deep into his post-work routine, which includes his sofa, a white T-shirt, an open bottle of craft beer with several empties on the coffee table and, probably, ESPN. Let’s just say he’s a creature of habit. “How’s your day been?”

“I can’t complain. Especially now that I have a margarita,” I say.

“What’s this I hear about you moving to the city, Bruce?” Kelly says. “That’s exciting news.”

“I think so. It’s not a done deal. I still need to interview for the position. But fingers crossed it works out. This long-distance thing isn’t working for me. Too many lonely nights.”

“Aww,” Kelly says, dividing a dewy-eyed look between us as though she’s the bride’s mother watching her baby glide down the aisle toward the altar. “I’m so happy for you two. You’re such a sweetie, Bruce. Note to self: find someone who looks at me the way Bruce looks at Ally.”

Bruce laughs, but I shift uncomfortably. “Knock it off,” I tell Kelly. “You’re going to drive Bruce off with all your sappy talk.”

“Not a chance,” Bruce says.

Something about his open adoration makes me feel flushed, irritable and vaguely out of sorts. Like I’ve spent too much time out on the beach with the sun beating down on my head and need to make my