Ben Bradford sat with his back to the wall in a swivel chair made out of a whiskey barrel, his six-foot-seven frame fitting comfortably within it. The Double Wide wasn’t jam-packed yet, but neither was it empty. The trailer-themed Dallas bar was one of his favorites. It had been a good while since he’d been there, though.

Taking a swallow of beer, he checked the doorway for the hundredth time. He’d promised himself he was through with online dating—which he was—then he went and let a friend of a friend of a friend set him up on a blind date.

So much worse.

A curvy woman with a side braid and a tight red dress sauntered through the door. His eyes skimmed the snug fit of the clingy fabric which stopped just short of her butt cheeks. Three of her friends crowded in behind her.

None, unfortunately, were his date. His—if she even showed—was supposed to have short blond hair, cutoffs, and a taupe jacket. Three years ago he wouldn’t have even known what taupe was. But his brother had married an interior designer.

She’d become a principal in their renovation company and had opened up a whole new market for them. As such he now knew the difference between ivory, cream, beige, and taupe. It was downright embarrassing.

He glanced at his watch. He’d give her fifteen more minutes, then he was going to buy red-dress a drink.

Eight minutes later a woman with short blond hair and a soft, loose fitting taupe blazer entered the bar. Her back was to him, though, so he couldn’t tell if she wore cutoffs or not. The only thing he could see from this angle was the hem of her jacket grazing the backs of her shapely thighs.

Thighs which led to well-formed legs accentuated by pumps with clunky four-inch heels. All righty, then. He could work with this.

She removed her sunglasses and looked around, her oversized blazer falling open. He confirmed the cutoffs and a filmy white tank a millisecond before he saw her face.

No way. No freakin’ way. Kizzy Jane Armstrong.

He couldn’t decide whether he was disappointed or relieved he’d be spending the evening with a woman he’d known since kindergarten. Standing, he raised a hand and gave a sharp whistle.

Her eyes connected with his, widened a fraction, then her entire face filled with red.

He smiled. She hadn’t put two and two together yet. She thought some other guy in the bar was her blind date and Ben would be witness to it.

Weaving her way to him, she crammed her sunglasses into a super-sized purse while scanning the bar. “What are you doing here?”

He pulled out the whiskey barrel chair beside him. “Claire Johnson, I presume?”

Her face registered shock. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t until just now. I’m Benedict—your date.”

Her mouth fell open, then morphed into a smile. “Get out.”

He made a crossing motion over his heart. “Would I lie to you, sugar plum?”

“Yes.”

He laughed. “Sit down. I had to slay some serious dragons to keep your chair from being nabbed.”

Collapsing into the chair, she plopped her purse into her lap and crossed those long legs. “I can’t even believe this. I drove all the way to Dallas for this date.”

“So did I. What can I get you to drink?”

“A YooHoo YeeHaw, please.”

“Be right back.” He pointed a finger at her. “Do not let anybody sit in my chair.”

She tossed her purse into it. “I’ll guard it with my life.”

When he returned with her frozen drink and another beer for him, he lifted his bottle.

They clinked glasses.

“To blind dates,” he said.

“To blind dates,” she echoed. “May this one be my last.”