The Friends We Keep by Holly Chamberlin Page A

wall and took his hands from his pockets. “In a way,” he said. “I’m here to see you.”
    Oh, boy. This kid was good.
    â€œYou’re cheeky,” I pointed out.
    Jake grinned. “It’s one of my best qualities. Want to go for a drink?”
    â€œYes,” I said, and then, “No.”
    â€œIs that a maybe?”
    I looked again at his clothes: jeans, a T-shirt, and a relaxed, cotton blazerlike jacket. On his feet he wore a pair of Vans. Other than the shoes, the entire outfit probably came from Old Navy. “Where?” I asked.
    â€œWherever you’d like.”
    â€œYou’re a bit underdressed for the Oak Room,” I said.
    â€œMy money,” he said easily, “is as good as the stuff a guy in a suit carries.”
    â€œMoney is the great equalizer,” I agreed. Still, I thought, someone might see us at the Oak Room, someone I know, and then what? What would he, or she, think?
    â€œHow about J. P. Moran’s?” I suggested.
    Jake looked me up and down. Slowly. Damn. “I’d say you’re a bit too well dressed for a pub,” he said finally.
    â€œI’m always the best-dressed woman in the room. I’m used to the attention.”
    â€œI’m sure you are.”
    There was nothing else to say. Together we left the building and mostly in silence—with an occasional glance and enigmatic smile—we made our way to J. P. Moran’s.
    â€œThe bar okay?” Jake asked when we stepped into the cozy dimness of the traditional-style Irish pub.
    â€œYes,” I said. “Down at the end.” I led us to stools at the farthest, darkest end of the bar. Better, I thought, to play it safe. As far as I knew this place wasn’t a hangout for any of the Caldwell staff, but habits have been known to change.
    The bartender was a burly guy with Victorian muttonchops. “Got some ID?” he rumbled to Jake, after taking my order of a martini.
    â€œSure.” Jake reached into his back pocket for his wallet.
    I cringed. I’m sure the bartender assumed Jake was out with his mother or his aunt or maybe even his boss. Certainly not—what was I? Not a friend. Not a lover. Not yet.
    â€œI’m thinking of growing a beard. I think it will make me look my age.”
    When was the last time anyone had mistaken me for being underage? My parents and teachers used to say that I looked “mature” for my age. For a long time, I took that as a compliment.
    â€œSo, what do you think?”
    â€œAbout what?” I asked.
    â€œAbout my growing a beard.”
    â€œOh, that.” Had he mentioned growing a beard? “I’m not partial to facial hair. Of course,” I said, with a nervous, flapping gesture of my hand, “it’s your face. You can do what you want with it. Why should I care?”
    When the bartender had placed our drinks before us, Jake looked at me intently and asked: “Are you uncomfortable? Being here with me?”
    I took a bracing sip of the martini before replying. “I hate to admit this,” I said, “in fact, I loathe myself for confessing—but, yes, I am a bit uncomfortable. Why are you here, Jake? Why are we here?”
    â€œYou chose to join me for a drink,” Jake said matter-of-factly.
    â€œAnd you chose to show up uninvited in the lobby of my office building. That’s the burning question. Why? Why did you hunt me down?”
    Jake turned to face me more completely. His knee touched mine. My body quivered. “I’d prefer to say that I sought you out. Hunting isn’t a sport I can get into.”
    Oh, boy. “So,” I said carefully, “you sought me out like a prize. Is that it?”
    Jake nodded. His knee was still touching mine. “Well put,” he said.
    That’s when I realized I was going to have to employ every ounce of my energy in order to resist getting involved with this sexy, impertinent, man/boy. I