“Oh, you already ordered.” I notice the two beers. I grab the one he’s clearly taken a sip of. The glass is chilly in my hand, but the rim is warm, and I wonder if my mouth found the exact place his lips left.

I sort of expect Fitz to freeze, to stumble, but his hard, warm body below mine remains relaxed and unfazed. “Yeah. Super Bowl was a busy time.“ Fitz takes my left hand. “But this pretty thing is who really keeps me on my toes.

I look up at the blonde, who, going by her name tag, is Nellie.

Her eyes only meet mine for a second before they return to my ring, seemingly magnetized. I can’t blame the poor girl for that.

“Right, the girls mentioned they saw something on the news. Um, congratulations.”

It would’ve been better for Nellie-with-the-name-tag to at least act shocked over engagement considering she was putting the move on my fiancé. “I know it’s easy to fawn over the man who’s about to be my husband, but I’d love a menu if you’re done.” I put down the glass and extend my hand. “Oh, how rude of me. I’m Parker Montgomery.”

Fitz’s chin lands on my shoulder. “Soon to be Rhodes.”

He’s better at this than me, I think to myself, I’ll give him that.

“Poor thing,” I say when Nellie-with-the-name-tag moves away. “It’s tough having your heartbroken mid-shift.”

“I’d hardly call it heartbreak.”

I shrug. “She seemed pretty happy to see you back here.”

“I told you, I like to come here to unwind.”

“Well, maybe one of those times you got wrapped right back up again. For all I know, she’s your type.”

Fitz takes his glass, the same one I just drank out of, from the table. “For all you know, you’re my type.”

“So you’re into brunettes?”

I twist to face him, expecting to find a hint of playfulness to his expression, but it’s anything but. In fact, the seriousness written in the creases of his eyes and the firmness of his jaw makes me reach out for the beer Fitz is holding. Again, I find the rim warm beneath my lips. I jut with it against my mouth when Fitz moves, pulling off his backward baseball cap.

“Your hair color is the least interesting thing about you,” he says, placing the hat on my head, running his fingers down to the ends of my hair. But his hand doesn’t drop.

“What?” I ask when his fingers close in on my face.