Even without a margarita glow, Bobby Tom Denton was easy to be with. They talked about Mexican food, whether sports teams should be named after Native Americans, and Bobby Tom’s resemblance to Christian Slater. She took more time with her second margarita, but even so, she was definitely feeling a buzz when he leaned over and brushed her mouth with his.

It was a light, friendly kiss. Respectful. A mark of comradeship and well-being. The kiss a twenty-five-year-old man gives to a thirty-three-year-old woman he’d like to go to bed with, but knows he won’t, and doesn’t want to spoil the friendship, but still wishes it could be more than a friendship.

Phoebe understood.

Unfortunately, Dan didn’t.

“Denton!” His voice shot through the quiet of the bar like a Confederate cannon over a smoldering battlefield. “Doesn’t that high-priced wristwatch of yours tell you you’ve got exactly three and half minutes to haul your butt up to your room or miss curfew?” He loomed over their table in his jeans and a denim shirt that was open at the throat.

“Howdy, Coach. You want to hear the funniest doggone thing? I was just explaining to Phoebe here how you’ve always been a little bit flexible about curfew. And then you show up. If that isn’t—”

“Two minutes, forty-five seconds! And I’m fining you five hundred dollars for every minute you’re not in your room.”

Looking hurt, Bobby Tom got to his feet. “Dang, Coach, what’s got you so riled?”

“You ran three bad patterns on Friday. How ’bout that for starters?”

Bobby Tom peeled some bills from a wad in his pocket and slapped them on the table. Then he gave Dan a long, shrewd gaze. “I don’t think this has anything to do with bad patterns.” He tipped the brim of his Stetson toward Phoebe. “See you on the sidelines tomorrow, Miss Somerville.”

“See you, Bobby Tom.”

As he disappeared, Dan barked at her like a drill sergeant “My room! Now.”

“Uh—I don’t think so.”

“When you start playing games with the best wide-out in the AFC, you’ve stepped clean over the line. Now unless you want our dirty linen aired in public, I suggest you start moving.”

Phoebe reluctantly followed him out of the bar and into the lobby. She knew she should remind him that she was the boss, but as they stepped inside the elevator and began to travel in weighted silence up to the seventh floor, she found that she couldn’t work up any steam.

He’d certainly worked up a full head, however, and the heat from it was burning right through her short, turquoise knit shift. Luckily for her, she didn’t care. The two margaritas had left her with a cozy sense of well-being that made her want to puff out her lower lip and tell him not to be such an old fuddy-duddy.