“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I should probably just go home and call Tamara and apologize.”

“You’re going to run back through the rain?” he said in disbelief. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s slowed down,” she insisted.

But when they looked out at the front yard and the driveway, the wind was whipping torrents of rain down at an angle. “Or not. It’s a freaking monsoon out there. You won’t have anything dry on you to even clear off your glasses when you get to your car. Can you see to drive without your glasses?”

“No.” She sighed, staring toward her car with obvious longing.

“What’s under your sweater?”

“Excuse me?” She turned so fast to stare at him that she bumped shoulders with him.

“If you’re wearing a shirt underneath, it’s probably dry. Just take your sweater off.”

“I have a cami on,” she said, biting her lip.

Ty didn’t know what the hell a cami was, but it sounded promising. “Perfect.”

She seemed to debate for a second, then she took off her glasses and handed them to him. “Hold these, please.”

“Sure.”

Then he didn’t even try to look away when she peeled off her sweater to reveal a little white tank top, small breasts clinging to the fabric, her nipples taut. Yeah, he was just full of brilliant ideas. Nothing like telling the woman to strip off clothing when he was standing on his buddy’s front porch in full view of a dinner party.

“That’s better, right, Emma Jean?” he said as she dropped her sopping wet sweater over the top of the porch railing.

She held her hand out for her glasses and smiled at him. “You do know my name’s not Emma Jean, don’t you?”

He did know that. He just didn’t know what her name really was. He suspected that, aside from the fact he had never heard that particular name prior to meeting her, it was his dyslexia making it difficult for him to retain her name. She had spelled it out loud for him on a previous occasion, but the letters had just jumbled in his head. Which pissed him off severely. But he would cover, make it look intentional. “Yep. But I think Emma Jean suits you.”

Laughing, she put her glasses back on. “It does not. As much as I hate to admit it, I am much more of an Imogen than I am an Emma Jean.”

Ty had almost caught it that time. The end sounded more like gin, like the alcohol. “Why do you say that?”

“Dark hair, glasses.” She pointed to each as she listed them. “Flat chest. Shy. Definitely not an Emma Jean.”