Without exchanging a word with me, I know what they’re thinking. Needing.

I glance sideways at Tobias and find him grinding ice in his cheek, his gaze pinned to my neck, and I cross my ankles tightly, a long, winding ribbon of lust unfurling down to my toes. It’s almost impossible to keep my expression schooled as I transfer my attention to Banks, watching him circle the tip of his middle finger on the bar in a mini pool of condensation, his throat moving in a rough swallow. My heartbeat reaches my ears and thickens, nipples swelling against the front of my pink dress.

By the time the bartender approaches and asks me what I’d like to drink, I’ve pretty much forgotten my name, but manage to order something called a French Kiss. I would blame the sudden pulsing weight between my thighs on the sexy atmosphere, but they also did this to me in my sandwich preparation station at work, so sorry, girl, that isn’t going to track.

On my left, Banks chances a step closer to me, resting his forearms on top of the bar.

Tobias follows suit from the right. Actually, he takes two cocky, sauntering steps in my direction, a martini raised to his lips. Banks’s ego must give him no choice but to rise to the challenge, because he closes in another two feet or so.

“Stop,” I whisper, pinning each of them with a look. “I’m here with Gabe.”

“Then why are you over here in between us when you’re supposed to be playing his supportive new love interest?” Tobias asks.

“Tobias,” I return smoothly. “Please tell me more about how a love interest is supposed to behave, so I can do the exact opposite.”

He huffs a laugh. “You don’t think I have any experience with relationships, cheeky girl?”

A snort from Banks. “With your mirror, maybe.”

Banks and I fist bump without looking at each other. It’s just…automatic.

So much that we shoot each other a startled glance.

That simple, odd connection I share with Banks visibly annoys Tobias. It appears to push him into what he says next. “I attempted to have romantic relationships at the start of my career.” He picks up his drink and salutes us. “I’m sure you can imagine what the arguments were about.”

I’m so busy trying to picture Tobias as a boyfriend that I forget to thank the bartender when he sets down my drink and walks away to fill the next order.

“They were smart women to walk away,” Tobias continues. “I could have learned a thing or two from them about the stupidity of blind trust. The kind I had for my manager.”

“What happened with your manager?” I ask, sliding my purple martini toward me, using the tip of my index finger to spin clockwise the flower sitting on the surface.

Tobias shakes his head. “I hate talking about it, mainly because it’s such a fucking cliché. The lack of creativity is completely beneath me.”