Stacy Halligan slouched in a corner of her couch, feet propped up on the coffee table. A half-finished glass of wine—her third—rested on the side table by her hand. Somehow, the smooth flavor of the merlot hadn’t eased the sharp edge of pain she rode. Instead, it tasted more like vinegar. “I assume present company excepted?” Max Sullivan, stretched out in her big armchair, grinned at her, and took a swallow of beer. “You’re just a man in the generic meaning of the word,” she grumped. His smile disappeared. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” “Don’t get your shorts in a twist.” Stacy levered herself up and took a sip of the wine, making a face. “I mean, you have all the right equipment.” She ran her gaze over his tall, muscular body. “At least, I assume you do, since I haven’t seen it firsthand. But I never think of you as a man. Exactly.” He frowned. “And exactly how do you think of me?” “You’re my best friend. My bud. My comfort zone.”
