In Her Best Friend's Bed. J. Margot Critch

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      Three months later...

      “WHAT CAN I get you?” Abby leaned over the bar to hear the order of a heavily made-up woman over the pounding music. Swerve was packed that night and the music was loud and driving. Wednesday nights were never usually so busy. But semester break had started and the college students were out en masse.

      The woman, definitely past college age by a number of years, pursed her red lips. “Can I get two screaming orgasm shots?”

      Abby had no idea what the woman was talking about.

      She racked her brain for whatever a screaming orgasm shot could be, and she pulled out her phone to look up the recipe, but when she looked over at Trevor, who was busy filling his own orders, and realized that she had the opportunity to have a little fun with him.

      “Hey, Trev,” she called across the bar. “Think you can give this lady a couple of screaming orgasms?”

      Trevor smirked and finished his own drinks before sauntering over to her. “I think I can handle that.” He grinned. “Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.”

      Abby rolled her eyes and walked away. Of course the blonde wearing all that makeup was most definitely Trevor’s type. And even though she basically served the woman up to Trevor, Abby couldn’t help but feel a small wrench of something—hurt? Jealousy?—in the pit of her stomach as she watched Trevor flirt with her. It was a feeling she hadn’t experienced since Vegas, seeing Trevor with that other woman at the bar, just after they’d kissed. Abby had never told him that she’d come back to the bar three months ago and seen him with that woman.

      And now it was too late. Their relationship had long transcended potentially romantic to become strictly platonic. Sure, they were flirty and frequently peppered their conversation with naughty double entendres, but they were friends, and, with Maya living in Las Vegas, Abby greatly appreciated having a good friend, even if he was definitely not the type of guy she was going to date...if she was ever going to date anyone again.

      Which she wasn’t.

      But being friends hadn’t stopped her from still feeling his lips on hers, and the promise of more that flowed from just a simple graze of their lips, the heat of his hand on her bare back...

      Abby looked up. She was still in Swerve. Still in Montreal, not on top of the roof of Swerve’s Las Vegas location; meanwhile, dozens of thirsty patrons lined her bar. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by some guy, hunky sexpot, or not. She had to regain her focus. She had to concentrate on herself, getting her career back on track and not let herself get distracted by men, the ones who wanted a commitment or guys like Trevor. Bad boys. Players. She shook her head and got back to work.

      Abby reached into the cooler and took out a couple of beer bottles. She popped off the tops and passed them to a man who was trying to catch her eye. She ignored his advances and continued on to the next customer. She cast another quick glance at Trevor, just as he turned his head and caught her looking at him. He pulled away from the woman, moving to fill other drink orders. But the woman called out to him again and reached out, grabbing his forearm, her long red nails grazing the dark ink that covered it. She handed him her card and Abby was surprised that the woman didn’t kiss it first, to leave a print of her red lipstick on it. Trevor smiled and pocketed it.

      And another notch on the bedpost...

      Why did she care?

      When Trevor continued his work, Abby watched the woman walk away, carrying her shot glasses to a friend at a nearby table. Trevor passed behind Abby, the hard muscles of his chest grazing her back as he side-stepped around her in the tight space. She could feel his heat through the material of both their shirts. He mumbled a soft, awkward apology near her ear, his warm breath rippling over her, the deep timbre of his murmur rattling around in her brain. She had to force herself to shake away the wave of desire that passed through her body. There was nothing remotely romantic about the contact. They were sharing limited space behind the bar, and they bumped together or brushed past each other on a nightly basis. This time should have been no different.

      But tell that to her now-moist panties...

      Abby went about her work, making drinks for thirsty patrons. A customer ordered two margaritas on the rocks, with salt. Abby nodded her approval, looking for the ingredients. She picked up a bottle of tequila and grabbed the lime juice. She wet the rims of the glasses with a lime wedge and dunked them in a dish of coarse salt. Abby loved a good margarita and wished that she was on the other side of the bar ordering it, instead of the person making it. She looked at the bottles in front of her and realized one was missing. She went to the backup bottles of liqueur to find another, but found none.

      “Trevor, where’s the extra Cointreau?” she called without looking at him.

      “Try the cupboard below the glassware,” he suggested.

      Abby bent at the waist and checked the shelves. Trevor was right—it was exactly where he’d said it would be. She stood and turned to face him and he quickly looked away, as if she’d caught him checking her out. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

      She glanced around the crowded bar. Bartending wasn’t exactly what she’d envisioned her career would be after graduation. Thankfully, Trevor had offered her a job at Swerve. But as her feet ached in the heels she insisted on wearing—they make my legs look great with this skirt—she thought about the dozens of applications for marketing positions she’d submitted around the city and hoped that she would hear something promising soon. She had an interview the next morning. Maybe it would be the one that got her out from behind the bar, where Trevor distracted her at every turn with accidental physical contact, the smell of his cologne, his dark chuckle when he laughed...

      She paused for a moment and watched Trevor at work, his masterful, strong hands as he made drinks. He tossed a vodka bottle behind his back with one hand and then, with the other, he reached for a cocktail shaker and twirled it, as well, before catching it. The man was good. He was in complete control. He was built for that type of work, and the awards and accolades he’d won were well earned.

      Abby’s focus returned to those hands, though—his long fingers, the soft, dark hair covering corded wrists that flexed with every movement, the collage of black ink that snaked up his forearms, starting at his wrists and disappearing under the material of his black shirt that he’d rolled up to his elbows. She imagined him doing other things with those hands. Hot things. Sexy things. To her. Running them up and down her body until she cried out...

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