Full Package by Lauren Blakely Page A

parks her hands on her hips. She wears a white top with a scoop neck and a pair of slim jeans. Her date doesn’t deserve her. I don’t know who he is, what he does, or a thing about him, but I don’t need to. He doesn’t fucking deserve this amazing humor-producing, big-hearted, glorious-chested, kitchen-talented woman. “You asked a ridiculous question, Chase.”
    Sternly, I say, “You’re the one who wanted to tell me your last-known location.”
    â€œI’m just being cautious. Not paranoid.”
    I relent. “Sorry.”
    â€œBut, seriously. I have a favor to ask.” There’s no toying in her tone.
    â€œOf course. Ask me anything.” And I’ll do it.
    Her voice is innocent, hopeful even as she asks, “Can I call you if anything comes up?”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œI don’t know,” she says, fidgeting with a heart charm on her silver bracelet. “Just anything, I guess. I saw Henry once over the summer, and we had a nice time, then he had to leave town for an assignment. I don’t know much about him, and usually my friend Lily, who runs the flower shop down the street from me, is my backup. But she’s out with her boyfriend Rob tonight, so if anything happens, can you be my Bat-Signal?”
    When she puts it like that, how can I harbor a ball of frustration over her dating? I might think she’s a babe, but first and foremost she’s my friend. One of my best friends. I stride across the hardwood floor, drape an arm around her, and pull her in close to reassure her.
    Except . . . tactical error.
    I draw a deep inhale of her hair. That ball of frustration doesn’t unwind. It coils, because . . . he’ll smell her tonight. He’ll know her cherry scent.
    My fists clench. My chest pinches. My jaw tightens.
    But then, I’m just being territorial, I tell myself. I’m a lion protecting my pride.
    This isn’t personal. This isn’t a man looking out for his woman. This is just elemental. It’s basic male/female pack mentality, king-of-the-jungle shit. It’s a guy looking out for a girl he cares about. My job is to be her wingman on alert. To keep her safe. “You know I will, Josie, baby,” I say in her ear.
    Baby ?
    What the fuck? I don’t use terms of endearment. I don’t utter sweet little nothings.
    â€œThank you,” she says as we separate. “It’s just this whole online dating thing is . . .” She draws a deep breath. “It’s fraught with challenges. I went out with someone a few months ago, and, well, let’s just say it didn’t work out.”
    â€œRelationships have a way of doing that.”
    She nods and quirks up her lips. “But I’m glad to have you to lean on.”
    I tilt like the Tower of Pisa. “Lean on me.”
    She nudges her shoulder against mine, and my heart beats faster. Like, way speedier than the normal resting heart rate. That’s odd. But I tell myself the quickened pace comes from a simpler place—from the human desire to be needed. The best gal I know needs me to be her reliable, steady guy. That’s what I’ll be for her. I won’t be the dude who thinks about her chest, or her legs, or her intoxicating hair. Hell, I already know that kicking a friendship up a notch can fuck up all sorts of shit.
    It can ruin everything.
    Including the heart.
    When Josie steps away from me, the beating in my chest returns to normal. I point at her. “For you, I make house calls. The doctor is always in.”
    She thanks me again, and I leave to meet my buddies at Joe’s Sticks, a pool hall in the east Fifties. Max, Spencer, Nick, and Wyatt are at a table, racking up. Max claps me on the back when I arrive. “How’s life on a sitcom working out for you?”
    â€œHar, har, har.”
    He thrusts a beer at me. “Three’s company yet?”
    I take the bottle. “Except