The day you overhear your best friend say she’d like to have sex with you is a damn good day. But, hey, Cris always takes care of me at work. What’s wrong with me taking care of one of her needs? Besides, it’s only temporary.

One breathless encounter later, I learn two things: 1) We are compatible in ways that exceed our working relationship and 2) She’s chosen me to be her first. Most guys might balk at the responsibility. Not me. Put me in, coach.

But when it comes time to wrap up our sextra-curricular activities, my heart is doing its first ever free-fall. Now I’m scrambling to convince her she’s found her Prince Charming—spoiler alert: it’s me—and that forever isn’t a fairy tale.

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Book 2, Blue Collar Billionaires, featuring Benjamin Owen & Cristin Gilbert

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Nerves and fear give way to anger. Soon I’m fuming over several things. I’m upset with myself for being a coward and running away. I’m angry at Clark for being so good on text and so abysmal in person. And I have a bone to pick with Benji for planting a dozen poisoned seeds into my head before my first date in two and a half years.

I can’t do much about the other two, but Benji I can confront, which is probably why I drive to his house instead of my own. I slam my car door and stomp up his driveway to the front door, growing angrier along the way. I knock, wait for him to answer, and then knock again. The door swings aside and, instead of being momentarily stunned by his beauty the way I normally am, I throw my hands into the air and roar, “Everything is terrible and it’s your fault!”

He blinks, does a once-over of me and my dress and heels, and says, “It’s still daylight. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be on a date?”

I glare at him and he steps aside, sweeping his arm to invite me in. I tromp past him and into the kitchen where I plunk my purse onto an empty barstool. I hear the front door shut and then Benji is on the opposite side of the counter regarding me with raised eyebrows.

So, I continue.

“Your pointers were not helpful.” I briefly recap the dinner leading up to what brought me here. “It’s irresponsible to give advice that can cause this much destruction.”

“Sounds like I saved you from destruction, coach.”

I glare some more.

He slides a glass of wine across the counter. “Just poured. I haven’t taken a drink yet.”

I quirk my lips, dissatisfied with his response, but I take the wine anyway.

He pours another glass for himself, returns to the counter and opens a large paper bag. The scent wafting out is heaven. He ordered takeout from the Indian restaurant in Grand Marin. The one I love. He notices me salivating and offers, “I’m happy to share if you’re hungry. I ordered extra. In fact, you sound like you might qualify for hangry.”

“Entirely possible considering I’ve had nothing to eat since lunchtime.” And that was a few crackers slathered with peanut butter.

He gestures for me to go on as he begins dishing food from plastic containers onto plates.

“How can you tell if someone’s hands are small?” I ask. “Is it in reference to their head? The rest of them? What if they just have really big arms?” I was being serious but he laughs.

“He had small hands?”

“And he chose the restaurant.” I prop my chin up on my fists, elbows resting on the countertop. The scent of curry curls into my nostrils and my stomach growls.

“Which one?”

“The one on Berkley.”

He cringes. I’m oddly satisfied it’s not just me.

“I was willing to rough it for the sake of being agreeable.”

He shakes his head. “No good, coach. You choose. Letting you choose is the right thing to do. If he doesn’t know that, he’s a clown.” Benji sets a piece of naan bread on the edge of a plate piled high with rice, curry, and tender grilled chicken. Rather than offering up a plastic fork from the carryout, he digs a real one out of the silverware drawer and hands it to me.

“I didn’t want to be rude,” I explain, taking the fork.

He settles in next to me with his own plate of food and his own real fork. He takes a sip of his wine before asking, “And how did that work out for you?”

I sip my wine. It’s at least fifty times better than the half of a glass I sipped on my disastrous date. “This is delicious.”

“Archer ordered it for Club Nine. He bought an extra case and divvied it out between us. Us, meaning Nate and me. Mom’s wine cellar is stocked.”

He can say that again. Lainey Owen has a robust wine selection. She often lets me pick the bottle I want when I’m over there for dinner. I’ve always loved that about her.

I take a bite of my food and moan in ecstasy. “This is exactly what I wanted tonight.”

Around the bite of his own food, Benji says, “Like I said, you should always pick. Did he break any of my other rules?”

“No, but I did. I mentioned I hadn’t dated in a while. And then he said dating was tedious and included me in that generalization.”

Instead of laughing, he frowns, the corners of his mouth pulling down as his thick eyebrows slam together. “What a dick.”

Somewhat justified and a little bit proud of myself for not seeing through to the end what would have only gotten worse, I straighten my spine and pull my shoulders back. “I excused myself to the bathroom and then I ran out the front door.”

At that, Benji laughs, proving his jovial self wasn’t buried too deep beneath his previous reaction. “That’s my girl.”

There’s an awkward pause where we lock eyes for a truncated beat. I can’t remember a single time he referred to me as “his girl.” Or maybe it’s the intimacy of this moment—me being here, dressed nicely, sipping wine and eating Indian food like we’re on a real date.

As if he senses the awkward pause, he clears his throat. “You are a lot of things, Cristin, but tedious isn’t one of them.”

That was really nice to hear. “Thanks.”

“So, when’s the next date?”

“With Clark?” I ask, mildly alarmed. His answer pleases me.

“Hell no.” He gestures with his empty fork. “I mean the next date from your app.”

The his girl comment was clearly a throwaway if he’s so eager to share me with someone else. I try not to let that idea irk me. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe in another two years or so.” I offer a demure smile before eating another bite of my delicious dinner.

“You can’t let this stop you. Also, did you say his name was Clark? No wonder he was a dud.”

“Clark Kent wasn’t a dud. He was secretly Superman.”

“Wrong. Superman was secretly Clark Kent.”

“I don’t know how you can pick on anyone’s name, Benji. You are named after a dog.”

. . .

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