Page 3 of The Best Friend Problem
Me.
Yes, her bestie was hot, and a hero, but they’d been friends too long for her to throw everything away for one night of sex. And it would be one night. Much like he’d given her a nickname, she’d given him one: First Date Finn. Because the women who did make it to a first date rarely saw a second.
Finn liked to keep it light and fun. And no way would Pru risk their years of solid friendship just for fun. She’d lost too much in her life. She refused to lose Finn, too.
“I’m leaving before you make me vomit.”
She grabbed her jacket and headed out the apartment door to the sound of Mo laughing. The elevator was notorious for taking forever, so Pru skipped it and made her way down the stairs. She needed the cardio anyway. A healthy body was important for the plans she had.
The sharp chill of night air smacked her in the face as she pushed open the exit door and headed outside. Being mid-October, the days were still pretty warm, but the city cooled at night. Not cold enough to warrant hopping in her car, though—the bar was only a few blocks away, and parking in Denver was a bitch.
It took less than ten minutes to get there. Once she showed her ID to the bouncer, she headed inside. Loud cracks and the smack of hard plastic billiard balls assaulted her ears, and the low din of conversation followed close behind. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light of the room. Strikers was located just off the 16th Street Mall, where large buildings with bright lights and businesses with flashy signs lined the street.
After a few blinks, she could see the room clearly. The bar along the far wall was packed, as always, with people clamoring for the bartender’s attention. Twelve large pool tables took up the center of the room, all occupied but none of them sporting a six-foot-tall tatted firefighter desperately trying to escape a date.
She moved farther into the room, ignoring the catcalls and disgusting propositions from a table of drunk men, one of whom appeared to be a future groom, if the Last Night of Freedom T-shirt was anything to go by.
Ugh.
In her years planning weddings, she’d seen everything, from solid relationships to disasters waiting to happen. She tried to believe in love—it was a part of her job, after all—but people made it so hard sometimes. Didn’t matter. She handled the finances. Lilly and Mo dealt with the clients, and they believed, Mo especially, in all that mushy crap enough for all of them.
At the back of the pool hall was a sparse collection of small high-top tables, where she finally spotted the object of her quest. Finn sat at one of the tables with a woman who was chatting away, vibrantly waving her hand in the air as she spoke. She didn’t look like a serial killer. Light blond hair, cute black dress, spiky red shoes Pru knew Lilly would kill for. A pleasant smile lit her face as she continued speaking, barely pausing to take a breath. Pru didn’t see what was so wrong with this woman that Finn needed to text her for backup.
But he had. So here she was. Duty called.
“Hey, Finn. I’m so glad I found you.” She hurried over to the table, making sure she sounded breathless, as if she’d run the five blocks from her apartment. Must have worked because Chatterbox immediately closed her mouth. “You have to come home right away.”
Blondie glared at Finn, a murderous rage suddenly lighting her eyes. “Oh shit, not again!”
Huh, maybe she was a serial killer.
“You’re married, aren’t you, you bastard!”
“What?” Finn held up his hands. “No, I’m not. This is my friend Pru.”
She’d say one thing for her bestie: He may not know how to break off a date well, but he sure as hell would never use a cruel lie to do it.
“Oh, sorry.” Blondie winced. “I don’t mean to jump to conclusions but I’ve had a few bad experiences with guys saying they’re single when they’re not.”
Pru nodded. Preaching to the choir, sister.
“So, what’s wrong?”
She glanced over at Finn. Oh right, she was supposed to be rescuing him.
Usually they used the “personal emergency” excuse. Vague, urgent, but nothing horrible. Tonight, though, Pru found herself in a mood. Finn had dragged her away from important donor research. Not that he knew that, because she hadn’t shared her plan with him yet—or anyone else, for that matter. And here he was with a woman who seemed perfectly nice, if a little chatty, and he couldn’t work up a single “I don’t think this is working”?
Trying her best to hide her smile, she shook her head sadly. “It’s Bruiser.”
“Bruiser?”
“His dog,” she said, answering the confused woman’s question.
Finn’s chair scraped loudly, threatening to tip over with the force as he stood. “Bru Baby? What happened? Is she okay?”
She felt slightly guilty for the look of panic in her best friend’s gaze. Slightly. He deserved some panic for being such a wuss that he needed a rescue from an easily escapable date.
“I think she got into your fungus cream again.”
