Author: Kristan Higgins

“Well, when Trevor heard I’d recommended this place, he thought it sounded great,” Angela murmurs. “How’s your dinner so far?” Her cheeks are flushed.

“We haven’t eaten yet. Would you like to join us?” Ryan offers politely. The maître d’ frowns ever so slightly.

No! My heart is pounding away at my ribs like a jackhammer.

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” Trevor answers smoothly, looking at me. “We just wanted to say hi.” We. “Enjoy your dinner. See you around, Chastity.”

“Yeah! Sure. Bye. Enjoy.” I roll my eyes at myself and take a deep breath.

“Is that one of your brothers?” Ryan asks as they walk away.

“Not exactly,” I say, then force myself to smile at my date. “Trevor’s an old friend. Friend of the family. And me. A friend of mine, too, since childhood.” Stop talking. Stop. Talking.

“Oh, I see,” Ryan says. He tilts his head to one side. “So, Chastity, do you read a lot?”

“I do, Ryan,” I answer, going on to describe the latest book I read, which, lucky for me, happens to be something cool and erudite and not one of my Lord of the Rings comic books. Trevor and Angela sit three tables away, just close enough for me to catch an occasional phrase.

Eavesdropping is a prized O’Neill talent. A survival skill, really, since all the important and fascinating things in life—sex, money, crime—were told in whispered voices away from Us Kids. Throw my journalist background in the mix, and I am a master, quite capable of carrying on one conversation while simultaneously tuning in and out of another. I ask Ryan what he likes to read (alas, the answer is “medical journals,” though that’s probably a plus for his patients), but I can’t help myself. I’m focusing on Trevor and Angela. They’re talking food, with a nice seg into Angela’s work as a food reviewer…Heck, I didn’t know she went to the Culinary Institute!

“Yes, I spent a year in Paris, actually. I loved it,” I say in answer to a Ryan question. And now Trev and Angela have moved on to family…kind mention of the O’Neill clan from Trevor, countered by Angela’s listing of two sisters…oh, and he’s telling her about Michelle, really, it’s such a personal and painful subject, I’m a little surprised.

“I never did learn to sail, no, but I do love water sports. I row every day, and I go kayaking once in a while. How about you, Ryan?”

Damn it. Trevor is laughing, and I missed the joke. Well. Almost with a vengeance, I turn my full attention to Ryan, who hasn’t noticed that it’s wavering. As I said, I’m good at this. Trevor is leaning forward to catch whatever Angela is saying, and I lean forward, too.

Just then, Ryan’s cell phone buzzes. He glances at it, then frowns. “Excuse me, Chastity. I’m so sorry. It’s the hospital. This will only take a minute.” He stands up, touches my shoulder and walks to the foyer.

The waiter brings the bruschetta we ordered, and, forcing myself not to look in the direction of Trevor and Angela and trying to turn off my eavesdropping skills, I pick up a piece. It’s fantastic, and I’m starving. The bread is warm but not too crisp, the tomatoes succulent, the basil fresh. I look at the ceiling, at the table, at my purse. Just not at Trev.

I pick up another piece of bruschetta, and just as I open my mouth for a bite, a chunk of the topping falls off the bread and lands right on my silky white blouse. Right on the left breast. I dash the tomato bit away—it leaves a streak of olive oil and a bit of chopped basil. I swish again, quickly, but the basil, which is about the size of one of those little round watch batteries, stays.

Directly over my nipple.

And the other thing is, it’s a little cold in here. You get the idea. I have a blob of green on my chilly nipple.

“Shit,” I mutter, dabbing with my napkin. The basil is stuck as if it’s been superglued on. Glancing back, I can see that Ryan is still talking on the phone. Good. Fine. At least he can’t see this. I dab again, but the basil fleck doesn’t come off.

My cheeks flush with embarrassment. If Trevor—or anyone else within fifty yards—is so inclined, he can have a perfect view of my faux pas. I sneak a glance. Trev is listening intently, his beautiful dark eyes smiling at Angela, but he seems to feel my gaze. As his eyes shift to me, I automatically jerk my arm awkwardly over the offending breast. He looks back at Angela, and I let out a sigh of relief.

“I’m so sorry.” Ryan sits back down.

“Excuse me,” I blurt. “I’ll be back in a flash.” Clearly, I can’t sit here across from Harvard/Yale with some basil on my nipple. Keeping my left arm angled awkwardly across my breast, I grab my purse and flee for the bathroom, racing past Trevor and Angela en route.

Safe in the loo, I hold my white blouse—of course, it had to be white—away from my chest and scratch at the tenacious basil. It doesn’t move, sitting there like an eye. “Come on!” I exclaim, scratching harder.

It’s a mistake.

Instead of flicking off as I had hoped, the basil has become pulverized. “Oh, crap,” I moan. Now, instead of a small green leaf fragment, I’ve got a green stain directly over my nipple, as if I’m lactating pesto.

Grabbing a couple of paper towels, I run them under hot water and dab at my breast. Big mistake. The green remains but is now spreading with help from the water. “Come on,” I mutter. The white blouse is wet, my bra is beige, it’s even chillier here in the bathroom. You get the picture. Looking in the mirror, I see what seems to be a bright green, anatomically correct nipple.

“Damn it,” I say through gritted teeth. Maybe dry, it will be less evident. Is there an air dryer in this bathroom? I look around desperately. No. Of course not. I’m stuck with the grainy brown paper towels. Why didn’t I buy that handy little bleach pen I’ve seen on commercials? I meant to! I really did.

I have two options. One is to cop to the stain and basically order Ryan and every other human in range to stare at my nipple. The other is to get help. I opt for help. Angela, who is organized, smart and thoughtful, will know what to do. Maybe she’ll even have the bleach pen. I’ll just flag her down and we’ll think of something.

Yanking open the bathroom door, I nearly crash into Trevor.

“Hey,” he says. “Were you trying to tell me something? You looked…” His voice trails off as he glances down. “Oops.”

“Shit, Trevor! I have a stain.”

“Yes, I can see that,” he murmurs, still staring at my breast.

“So? Do you have a bleach pen or something?”

“What’s a bleach pen?”

“Stop staring! How about a jacket? Do you have a jacket I can wear?”

“How about if I ask the maître d’ if they have something? You said a bleach pencil?” He drags his eyes up to mine and smiles reassuringly.

“Yes! Good idea, Trev. Bleach pen. God bless you. And stop smiling, okay? I’m dying here! Can you tell Ryan I had to take a call? An emergency call? Should we ask Angela to help us?”

Trevor puts his hands on my shoulders. “Calm down, Chas.” He grins. “I’ll be right back.”

I skulk back into the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. There’s my chilly green nipple. Hello, Eaton Falls!

A minute later, Trevor knocks. “Here. Is this what you were talking about?” He hands me a bottle of Clorox Clean-Up.

“This will do. Thanks, Trev. You’re a lifesaver.” I close the door again, then yank it open. “Did you tell Ryan that I had to take a call?”

“Yes,” Trevor says, his eyes wandering down to The Stain.

“Great.” I close the door again, aim the spray bottle at my breast and pull the trigger. Nothing comes out. “Goddamn it!” My voice echoes off the tile walls.

“You okay?” Trevor’s still on the other side of the door.

Twisting the nozzle around to the spray position, I try again. Nothing. “I can’t get it to work, Trev.”

“Here,” Trevor says, pushing open the door. “Let me try.”

He stands in front of me, takes the bottle from my hand and studies it. “You just have to turn this to unlock it,” he says. He slides his hand under my blouse. “Sorry,” he mutters as his knuckles brush against me. His glance flicks to mine, then back down. My mouth dries up. Every part of me buzzes with lust. My knees are pudding. I swallow. Oh, Trevor, do that again. He pulls the shirt away from me a little and tries the nozzle.

I can feel the warmth from his hand, which is just about an inch from my skin. From the chilly nipple. I lick my lips, wanting to ignore the fact that Trevor’s hand is under my shirt—it doesn’t mean anything, he’s just helping me—but damn it! Trevor’s hand is under my shirt!

“Okay. Close your eyes,” he says.

I obey, my eyes fluttering to a close. I can feel my cheeks burning.

Trevor pulls the trigger. Nothing.

“Huh,” Trevor says, frowning first at the nozzle, then the stain.

“You need to squeeze it harder,” I rasp, my knees shaking.

He looks up. “Squeeze what, exactly?” he asks, grinning.

“The nozzle, Trev!” My voice comes out louder than I expect, bouncing off the tile walls. “Come on! Squeeze harder!”

“I’m squeezing, Chas!”

“Maybe I should duck in a stall, take off my shirt and we can do it that way,” I suggest, running a hand through my hair.

There’s a little squeak from the doorway, which is partially open. An older woman is frozen in horror, staring at us with her mouth open.

“We’re a little busy here,” Trevor says. She flees, her pink jacket flapping behind her.

That’s it. I’m laughing so hard it just comes out as a breathy wheeze. I stagger back against the sink, clapping a hand over my breast. Trevor covers his eyes with his free hand, laughing too, a wonderful, unabashed, utterly happy sound that makes my heart swell.

“Shit, Trevor,” I choke out. “Maybe I should just leave through the back door.”

“No, no,” he manages, calming down. He wipes his eyes with his hand, smiling at me. “We can do this. You’re on a date with a nice guy, and we don’t want to blow it. Don’t worry, Chas. We’ll get it.” He unscrews the entire nozzle from the bottle, pours a little Clorox on a paper towel and bends over to dab at my blouse. “I had no idea stain removal could be so much fun,” he murmurs, his mouth pulling up at the corner.

My grin fades. I want him to say, Sure, let’s go. I’ll just tell Angela I had to run, and you and I can get a pizza and go back to my place. Instead, he wants my date with Ryan to work. Bastard. Jerk. Prince. Does he have to be such a Boy Scout?

“There,” Trevor says. “See? The green is just about gone. It looks pretty good. Just dry off a little, and you’ll be fine.” He straightens up and smiles. I can see into the depths of his eyes, those lovely warm hot-fudge eyes.

“Thanks,” I say, my voice a little strained.

“You’re welcome,” he answers, his voice lowering. He doesn’t say anything more for three full heartbeats. Then he steps back and the moment is gone.

I clear my throat. “You’re the best, Trevor. If the firefighting thing doesn’t work out, you could always open a laundromat or something.”

It’s lame, but he smiles. “Hey, Angela’s great, by the way. Really nice.”

“Oh, yeah, she’s so nice.”

“Okay. Have a good night.” He turns and leaves the women’s room.

I finish up. My breast is damp but no longer green, and after a minute scrubbing with paper towels, my anatomy is no longer quite so obvious. I wash my hands and sigh, looking at myself in the mirror. “Ryan Darling,” I murmur. “Ryan. My boyfriend’s a doctor, actually. Hello. This is my husband, Ryan. He’s great. So thoughtful. So smart. And have you ever seen such cheekbones? You’re telling me.”