I don’t have a plan going into this. I need to see how it unfolds. Hear what Jaxon has to say for himself before I make my move. My stomach twists in anticipation.

Jaxon avoided me at work. He can’t bring himself to look me in the eye after our phone sex. I bet the guilt of pretending to be someone else is eating him alive.

“You look nervous,” Becca says. “Maybe you should get there early and have a drink before the showdown.”

In a poker match, the final round is referred to as the showdown. It’s when two players reveal their cards to see who’s holding the stronger hand.

The analogy is fitting, because tonight, I’m going all in.

I text “Josh” to let him know I’ve arrived. Then I order a shot of whiskey and down it.

I’m sitting at the bar, waiting. I have the perfect view of the front door from the reflection in the mirror behind the bar. At five-to-seven, Jaxon waltzes in.

My stomach clenches. He’s in an olive-green V-neck sweater. The color compliments his skin tone, making him look all the more tall, dark, and handsome. His hair is messier than it usually is at work, more like it was when he kissed me at Shoprite.

Don’t think about that kiss. Not now.

It’s showtime.

I watch as he talks to the hostess. She gestures toward the bar, and his eyes sweep over to me. He hesitates before taking the first step, wiping his hands on his slacks and squaring his shoulders. He’s nervous.

Good. He should be.

Jaxon takes the stool to my left and clears his throat. “Hi, Raegan.”

I turn my head and do my best to look surprised. “Jaxon? What are you doing here?”

He fiddles with his watch, eyes bouncing around the room. “I, uh … I’m here on a date.”

I smile. “That’s nice. Where is she?”

His dark eyes lock with mine. “Right here, actually.”

My eyebrows pinch together. “What do you mean?”

He opens his mouth but the bartender stops in front of him and asks, “What can I get you?”

“Just a water, please.”

We wait in silence while the bartender fills Jaxon’s glass. He slides it over, and Jaxon gulps it down.

“Jaxon, what’s going on?” I ask.

“I know you’re here on a date,” he says. “You’re expecting a man named Josh.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I … I’m Josh.”

I sit back against the stool and cross my arms, making him wait for my reaction. “Explain.”