Nick’s smile fades. “That’s not how I meant that at all. And trust me, Jack’s problem isn’t not wanting to be around you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Ho-ly fuck.” Gemma’s mouth drops open, her eyes locked on the door.

Her declaration is loud enough that we all swivel our heads toward the front of the bar.

And holy fuck.

It becomes immediately clear why Jack is running late. Because Jack has been to the barber. And some kind of fine establishment that sells clothes without video game logos on them.

His unruly dark brown hair has been trimmed, not enough to take away the curl, but just enough so his face is now visible. His black plastic glasses still rest on the bridge of his nose, but without the cloud of hair around him, they seem to enhance rather than detract. Because now I can see his jawline. It’s chiseled and defined. As are his forearms, which are neatly framed by the rolled-up sleeves of his white button-down shirt. He’s still wearing jeans, but they are darker than usual, and more fitted, and tonight’s Converse look suspiciously clean.

“Did you have something to do with this?” I ask Nick, my mouth suddenly dry as the desert.

His smirk back in full force, Nick ignores my question and waves Jack over to our table.

Jack’s eyes meet mine as he pushes through the crowd to make his way to us, a shy smile tugging on the corner of his lips. Lips that suddenly look fuller and just short of kissable.

When he reaches us, he gives me a rigid side hug and I get a whiff of him. At home he smells like coffee and fresh paper. But tonight he’s put on some kind of cologne, and a woodsy musk fills my nose.

I completely stiffen—as do my nipples—at the weight of his arm around me. My cheeks flame, likely the color of Barbie’s Dream House.

Gemma hops down off her stool and tugs Jack away, wrapping him in a hug, and I don’t know if I want to punch her or kiss her. “You look amazing!”

Punch her.

She shoots me a look over Jack’s shoulder, one that says, Get your shit together, girl. She motions for me to wipe the drool from my chin.

Kiss her. Definitely kiss her.

I beat a hasty retreat back behind the bar without speaking a word to Jack. I’m 99 percent sure I’ve lost the power of speech anyway.

For the next two hours, I do everything I can to avoid serving my friends, going so far as to send the other bartender over to their table when they need additional rounds. And they have quite a few additional rounds.