Brandt was right, they all three did fit in the cab of the pickup. Jack drove, and Lori sat pleasantly squished between the two men. At the nearby sports bar where Jack took them, Lori was again in the middle—they sat at a corner booth, Jack on her right with an arm spread across the back of the seat behind her, Brandt on her left. Jack’s hand brushed Brandt’s shoulder, rubbing it with a lover’s tender touch.
Mixed signals, Lori thought, ordering a Killian’s Irish Red. The guys exchanged a look of approval and ordered the same.
They made small talk as they waited for the drinks to arrive. Brandt wanted to know all about her—that was how he put it, “Tell us all about yourself,” which made her giggle girlishly and duck her head, embarrassed.
“Oh, there isn’t much to tell,” she admitted.
