“Skylar!”
I cringe as I spot the man sauntering across the bar to us with his arms wide open. This must be Skylar’s AI dealer, Eamon, because who else would be this gregarious and just-a-minute-shy-of-sleazy. His mane of dark hair is swooped up on top of his head, and his white button-down shirt is open, not one, not two, but three whole buttons, showing off his chest hair and tanned skin. I’m about to ask Skylar what she sees in the guy when my eyes take in his tight pants that leave almost nothing to the imagination.