I’d like to say I’m looking at the boots, but I’m not. I’m staring at her legs—pale skin, long muscles. The curve of her calf, her flexing thigh muscle that disappears beneath a fluttery black dress covered in tiny flowers.

“Don’t worry,” Bea says, misreading my speechlessness. “I’m wearing shorts underneath. Your fake girlfriend won’t be flashing anyone tonight.”

“Right,” I croak.

Bea doesn’t notice. She’s grumbling around her food, still stomping her foot.

“Here.” Closing the space between us, I kneel and pat my thigh. When she does nothing, I glance up at her. “Bea?”

Ripping from her teeth what I now recognize as half of an everything bagel—judging by the sesame and poppy seeds raining down on me—Bea blinks slowly. “I, uh . . . don’t want to get your jeans dirty. Are you wearing jeans? For real? Or are these jean-look-alike chinos?”

My eyes narrow to a glare. “Very funny.”

“I’m serious! Whoa.” She squeaks as I lift her foot and plop it on my thigh. “I couldn’t even picture you in jeans until now. Jamie in jeans is like Bea in polyester. It doesn’t exist.”

“I wear jeans, Beatrice,” I mutter, undoing the laces. “These are a mess. How did you expect to actually get your foot past them?”

“Sheer determination,” she says around the bagel.

“Mm-hmm. Clearly that was working well.”

“Ah, there he is. Señor Sanctimony.”

I tug on the laces harder than strictly necessary, making Bea wobble and slap a hand on my shoulder to steady herself. Suddenly she’s closer, splayed wide as her foot rests on my leg. My face is level with the juncture of her thighs, and it’s much too easy to imagine it. Hiking her dress past her hips, wrapping one of those long legs over my shoulder, then burying my face in her—

“You okay down there?” she asks.

Averting my gaze, I pray my cheeks haven’t turned red-hot as I loosen the laces. “Just shocked you didn’t break something, jamming your foot like this,” I tell her as the boot now slips on easily. “Some things shouldn’t be forced.” Setting one foot down, I pick up the other, repeating the process. “For example, combat boots with as much give as my dress shirts.”

“Well, at least you know yourself,” she says. “Were you rushing to get here? You’re breathing heavily.”

I’m breathing heavily, I almost tell her, because I’m on my knees in front of you and not nearly uncomfortable enough about it.

“I worked late,” I tell her. “So I had to rush a little. But it’s fine.”

“Don’t doctor offices close at dinnertime?”

When I hesitate, Bea tries to pull her foot away. Stopping her progress, I grip her ankle and fail to ignore the warmth of her skin beneath my touch.