“So, Emery,” I say, after forcing down another bite of my own meal. “Tell me about this bad breakup you alluded to when we first met.” I haven’t pried about her past, but now feels like the right time to dive into a deeper conversation. We’re full and happy—or least, she is—and we have two fresh beers in front of us, thanks to our server. I lean back in my chair as she fiddles with the label on her bottle.

“Ugh, seriously? You want to know about Asshat McFuckstick?”

I choke on a swig of beer. The poor guy doesn’t even deserve a name . . . he must have done something really bad. “Hit me with it.”

“Well, the first thing you need to understand is that I’m not coming off of one bad breakup. I’m coming off a trifecta. Three asshole douchebags, each one worse than the last. Apparently I suck at picking guys.”

“Lay it on me. It’ll be like therapy.” I have no idea how to help her, but maybe talking about it will prove to be therapeutic.

She takes a deep swig from her bottle. “I might need something stronger than this.”

“Not a problem. My place is fully stocked. We can head back there.”

She narrows her eyes. “Nice try, playboy.”

Holding up my hands in mock innocence, I smile. “Or we can stay here.”

She smiles and leans back in her seat.

“So, what happened with McFuckstick?”

Rolling her eyes, Emery then turns her gaze to the sidewalk and the passing pedestrian traffic. It’s a nice evening, and couples and small groups are beginning to venture out to restaurants and bars in the area.

“Well, you’re getting ahead of yourself there, Mr. Oliver.”

She’s still looking away, and I sense she’s deflecting the question. Whether it’s because she wants to keep the mood lighter, or simply because she’s not ready to answer it, I’m not sure, so I wait until she decides to continue.

She sighs. “Before all that mess, first there was Whit and Dana.”

I can’t help chuckling. “You dated some guys with some pretty feminine names.”

Her gaze snaps back to mine, her expression mocking. “Right, because Hayden is the epitome of masculinity.”

“Shut it.” It’s something my own sisters made fun of. I think she’s going to elaborate about exes one and two, but instead, her gaze stays out on the street while she takes a long sip of her drink. When Emery leans forward in her chair, gathering up her purse in her lap, I ask, “Are you ready to go?” I figured we’d chill here for a while, so I’m surprised when she seems ready to leave.

She nods. “I’d better. I might try to squeeze in a little more work tonight. Thanks for bringing me here, though, it’s a great place.”

“Anytime,” I say, rising to my feet and helping her from her chair. I’m now regretting my grand idea to pry into her personal life.

As we walk toward the parking garage two blocks away, Emery’s quiet and contemplative. I doubt she’s thinking about work like she said.

“McFuckstick . . . ,” she starts, capturing my attention. “At first it was just the little things, you know? He never wanted to hold my hand because he said it made his hand sweaty.” She’s quiet when she says this.

I expect her to say something more, but she stares straight ahead with a silent intensity, and I get that this was a big thing to her. A seemingly small thing that reflected on his inability to connect with her, and ended up being a deal-breaker in the end.

Needing to lighten the mood, I decide to humor her. “If I was your boyfriend, I’d hold your hand.”

Her gaze cuts over to mine, and a pretty smile adorns her lips. “Well, aren’t you sweet. But you’d never be my boyfriend, right?”

“Never ever,” I confirm, lacing my fingers between hers.

“Mmm, this feels nice.” She gives my hand a squeeze and we continue walking, more in step with each other now that we’re linked up.

I find that holding her hand doesn’t make mine sweaty at all. It’s nice, in fact, and I quickly decide her ex really was a fuckstick.

When we reach my car, I reluctantly let her go, and as she slips into the passenger seat, I immediately miss touching her.

On the ride home, Emery continues her story, and I quickly learn that she has a long list of complaints about her exes. But rightly so. These guys sound like total douches. I’m actually getting a little pissed off as I listen to her talk.

“It was a lot of me, myself, and I back then.” She giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh God, did I just tell you that I used to masturbate a lot?”

“That visual image isn’t helping our friendship ,” I say with a sideways glance in her direction. I’m hoping she doesn’t notice the erection that’s forming in my pants.

“Sorry, but that’s the damn truth. Whit couldn’t have found the clitoris if I’d drawn him a map.”

“That’s another thing I can help with.” The idea of touching her sweet body makes my cock ache. Even though we’re dancing around it, sexual tension burns hotly under the surface, and I can tell from the glances she gives me that she finds me every bit as desirable as I do her.

“Don’t be silly,” she says, chastising me. “That’s what battery-operated boyfriends are for. And they don’t cheat or lie.”

It pisses me off to know she’s had to deal with some unsavory situations. I know she can fend for herself, she’s tough and smart and outspoken, but I don’t like that she’s had that responsibility resting on her shoulders. Men can be scum, and it makes me want to prove to her I’m not just another dipshit from her past.