You’re not talking about looks, but he has all that. You’re talking about who he is. His brains, his heart, his smarts.

His charisma.

Damn, his charisma.

He has that by the gallon.

But you made a deal. You have a plan. There is a road map. He’s your friend, he’s simply your gentleman friend.

And sometimes when you’re heading out to see your gentleman friend, you need a shot of courage.

No liquor this time, ladies.

You need to be in complete control.

If you want to make it through a night with your gentleman friend, you need something strong. We’re talking the stiffest, toughest drink possible to gird yourself.

Garlic juice.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Kidding! Garlic is like bacon. It’s a no-go.

But coffee? A strong pot of coffee? Yes. Come to mama. None of that French roast crap for the Gentleman Friend drink. The Gentleman Friend is single origin Ethiopian, natural wash, handcrafted, organic with a bright, juicy taste. Never more than 202 degrees. Keeps the brain on high alert. Keeps your attention on anything other than the way your gentleman friend looks when he walks down the street in those dark jeans and that pullover shirt that hugs his pecs, wearing that five-o’clock shadow you want to run your hands over. Coffee will hold your focus when he gets that twinkle in his amber eyes—damn that twinkle. Damn it to hell and back for the way it makes your stomach flip.

Coffee. God bless coffee.

Coffee keeps you strong.

16

She waits for me outside the pub in Tribeca she picked.

Dressed in dark jeans that hug her legs and a clingy top that slopes off one shoulder, she’s the woman in black. She hardly ever wears anything colorful, except her lipstick. It’s a wine red and shiny, like there’s a layer of gloss over it.

Somehow it’s fitting that she’s the color of night, because there’s a toughness to Truly. An edge. She’s no-nonsense, all business, and naturally, I want to take all those black clothes off her.

But I remind myself I need to maintain balance and exist peacefully in this state of wanting but not having. This is a normal feeling for me to have around her, and I’ve learned to live with it.

She waves, smiles, then when I reach her, she throws her arms around me. I’m taken aback, nearly knocked over by the unexpectedness of her embrace. But I’m not nimble for nothing. I seize the opportunity and sniff her hair. Fresh, clean, so very her—and do I detect the faintest scent of coffee beans? I do, and hell, now coffee reminds me of sex. “I’ll take this, and gladly. But I’m not sure what the returning hero greeting is for.”

She grasps me tighter, her arms looping around me, and yes, that’s quite nice too. “Thank you for spreading the gospel of no more manspreading.” She breaks the embrace and clasps my shoulder. “Manspreading is the bane of my existence, and you’re a superhero for doing your part to eliminate the virus that it is.”

“That’s what I’m here for. To make the world a little more civilized, one bloke at a time.”

“I see it all night long at the bar. Men have no idea how much it turns off women. I swear, I see groups of women walk away from packs of manspreaders.”

“Packs. Seems apropos for men with such wild and unruly behavior.”

“It’s almost as bad as mansplaining. That’s a touch worse, since it’s an insult to intelligence. Down with mansplainers, I say!”

“You’re on fire tonight.”

“I might have had a cup of coffee a few minutes ago.”

“So if you’re normally at a ten when it comes to energy, vim and vigor, you’re at about one hundred now?”

“Something like that. Also, coffee keeps me strong.”

“News flash—you’re already strong.”

She shoots me a look, one I can’t quite read, but it seems to fall squarely on the side of I-know-what-you-look-like-naked. “I need to be strong.”

“Okay, then.”

She gestures to the door. “Ready for pub lesson number one?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

We head inside and grab two stools at the bar, surveying the decor: leather chairs, round tables, high-backed booths, and the darkest of dark wood everywhere.

I nod appreciatively. “Looks pretty solid.” My gaze drifts to the bar itself. Beer tankards hang above it. “Very authentic.”

“Filing that tidbit away,” she says. “I picked this one because it was on my list as having promise. It has that local pub feel, right?”

“Yes, so you can check that off the list.” I peer toward the back room, cataloging the pool table, and the table football one too, then I make a note to stroll back there later for a proper survey.

“Good. Because I did a lot of research online. I don’t want you to think I’m simply going to expect you to do all the work.”

“Like when I fucked you from behind?”

Her jaw drops, and for the first time in my life, I think I might get slapped. I probably deserve it.

I definitely deserve it.