Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

Lauren Blakely

Little Dog Press

Contents

Also by Lauren Blakely

About

Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

Prologue

1. Summer

2. Summer

3. Oliver

4. Summer

5. Summer

6. Oliver

7. Summer

8. Summer

9. Oliver

10. Summer

11. Summer

12. Summer

13. Oliver

14. Summer

15. Summer

16. Summer

17. Oliver

18. Oliver

19. Oliver

20. Summer

21. Oliver

22. Summer

23. Oliver

24. Oliver

25. Summer

26. Oliver

27. Summer

28. Summer

29. Summer

30. Oliver

31. Summer

32. Oliver

33. Summer

34. Oliver

35. Oliver

36. Summer

37. Oliver

38. Summer

39. Oliver

40. Summer

41. Oliver

42. Oliver

43. Oliver

Epilogue

Also by Lauren Blakely

Contact

Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Blakely

Cover Design by Helen Williams.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

Also by Lauren Blakely

Big Rock Series

Big Rock

Mister O

Well Hung

Full Package

Joy Ride

Hard Wood

The Guys Who Got Away Series

Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

The What If Guy

Thanks for Last Night

Standalone MM Spinoff

A Guy Walks Into My Bar

The Gift Series

The Engagement Gift

The Virgin Gift

The Decadent Gift

The Heartbreakers Series

Once Upon a Real Good Time

Once Upon a Sure Thing

Once Upon a Wild Fling

Boyfriend Material

Asking For a Friend

Sex and Other Shiny Objects

One Night Stand-In

Lucky In Love Series

Best Laid Plans

The Feel Good Factor

Nobody Does It Better

Unzipped

Always Satisfied Series

Satisfaction Guaranteed

Instant Gratification

Overnight Service

Never Have I Ever

Special Delivery

The Sexy Suit Series

Lucky Suit

Birthday Suit

From Paris With Love

Wanderlust

Part-Time Lover

One Love Series

The Sexy One

The Only One

The Hot One

The Knocked Up Plan

Come As You Are

Sports Romance

Most Valuable Playboy

Most Likely to Score

Standalones

Stud Finder

The V Card

The Real Deal

Unbreak My Heart

The Break-Up Album

21 Stolen Kisses

Out of Bounds

The Caught Up in Love Series:

The Swoony New Reboot of the Contemporary Romance Series

The Pretending Plot (previously called Pretending He’s Mine)

The Dating Proposal

The Second Chance Plan (previously called Caught Up In Us)

The Private Rehearsal (previously called Playing With Her Heart)

Stars In Their Eyes Duet

My Charming Rival

My Sexy Rival

The No Regrets Series

The Start of Us

The Thrill of It

Every Second With You

The Seductive Nights Series

First Night (Julia and Clay, prequel novella)

Night After Night (Julia and Clay, book one)

After This Night (Julia and Clay, book two)

One More Night (Julia and Clay, book three)

A Wildly Seductive Night (Julia and Clay novella, book 3.5)

The Joy Delivered Duet

Nights With Him (A standalone novel about Michelle and Jack)

Forbidden Nights (A standalone novel about Nate and Casey)

The Sinful Nights Series

Sweet Sinful Nights

Sinful Desire

Sinful Longing

Sinful Love

The Fighting Fire Series

Burn For Me (Smith and Jamie)

Melt for Him (Megan and Becker)

Consumed By You (Travis and Cara)

The Jewel Series

A two-book sexy contemporary romance series

The Sapphire Affair

The Sapphire Heist

About

Let me just say -- none of this was supposed to happen.

I didn't expect the letter to go viral. I didn't think anyone would figure out who Dear Sexy Ex was. And I especially never thought he would find out about it.

Yeah, bit of a miscalculation there.

But see, I need the money to fund my brand new venture. And Dear Sexy Ex, well, it turns out he needs me to save his business.

By becoming his fake fiancée.

Yup, that's the pickle I find myself in -- pretending to be madly in love with the charming, brilliant, and utterly infuriating man known as Dear Sexy Ex.

Only, it's not an act. And he can never know.

Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend is a standalone romance you can escape into! The other standalone romances in The Guys Who Got Away series include The What If Guy!

Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

By Lauren Blakely

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Prologue

Summer

Dear Past Me,

In about twenty-four hours, you’re going to have a spectacularly brilliant idea.

One that will make all the sense in the world at the time because it’ll solve a big, hairy problem. And you love ideas that solve big, hairy problems. Like in sixth grade when you decided to sell origami door-to-door to raise money for the soccer team’s travel. (Who knew there was such a big demand for folded frogs in suburban New York when you were in middle school? You did!)

Or in eighth grade when you ran for Chief Fun Officer on a platform of two junior proms, the second one including a carnival, because who doesn’t love a carnival?

But this idea? This outstanding, fantastic idea that’ll make your dreams come true?

Watch out, Summer.

You’re going to end up with a soaking wet bridesmaid’s dress, a swan boat incident you’ll never live down, the disappointment of your entire family, plus the crushing heartbreak you’ve sought to avoid for decades, and also . . . a pole.

Yes, that kind of pole. The kind of pole everybody whispers about when they see it in someone’s basement. A “Do they really do that with that?” pole.

I wish I could tell you it’ll all work out.

But, as I stand here now, clutching the wet remains of the dress while figuring out what to do with this pole, I don’t have an earthly clue how any of this will resolve.

Because of all the harebrained schemes you’ve whipped up, this one doesn’t just take the cake. It bakes it, frosts it, and serves it up in all its three-tiered, royal-icing glory.

You’ll look back on other cringeworthy moments in your life—like that time you boldly updated your Twitter feed after four martinis, or your shame over the wrong placement of the apostrophe in ladies’ night—and they will pale in comparison.

It’s worse, even, than when Mom found you practicing volleyball indoors when you were fourteen.

In the living room.

And you had to give up all your allowance to pay for the chandelier.

And the vase.

And the picture frames too.

Of all the things that seemed like good ideas at the time, this letter, this contest, this ruse wins the prize.

So it’s up to you, Past Me, to avoid this jam we’re in now. Because I don’t have a clue what to do from here.

Sincerely,

Future You

1

Summer

Ten days ago

I am about to be busted.

Embarrassingly so. And—I hang my head in shame—deservedly so.

But, for the record, I don’t regularly check out guys’ packages.

That’s not my thing. I don’t really think that’s any woman’s thing. I’m pretty sure gawking at the goods doesn’t rank alongside knitting and candle-making in my female friends’ hobbies. Or, at least, not that they’d admit in public.

Except . . . I am doing it, and I can’t stop.

It’s just that . . . seriously? Tiny little bathing suits?

They’re impossible to look away from.

I literally have no idea how anyone is not supposed to notice a guy’s, ahem, outline when he gets out of a pool wearing only a Speedo.

How do Olympic diving judges focus on their job, or women across the beaches of Europe focus on anything else? Clearly, that’s why truly sophisticated European women always wear huge designer sunglasses.

Since you’re supposed to avert your gaze.

That’s what I’ve tried to do for the last minute.

I 100 percent averted my gaze as Oliver reached his sinewy arms for the metal ladder. As he rose out of the water. As he stepped away from the pool.

Because that’s the proper social protocol.

But it’s really hard to keep your gaze averted the entire time when you’re having a conversation with a guy while he’s wearing nothing but a Speedo.

And when he’s dripping wet.

I mean, all those droplets of water are taking their sweet time sliding down his tanned skin. Along his pecs, over the grooves of his abs, and just a little farther.

This is resist-tasting-the-cookie-batter hard. This is don’t-sing-along-to-“Bohemian Rhapsody” hard.

Just. Can’t. Do. It.

Also, there are extenuating circumstances here in the form of Oliver Harris. His form is an extenuating circumstance.

Six foot one. Built like the statue of David. Face carved by a sculptor too.

Did anyone look away when Daniel Craig got out of the water in his first James Bond film?

I rest my gaze.

I mean, I rest my case.

I snap my gaze up, meeting Oliver’s eyes. Those damn green eyes that are twinkling with mischief.

“So, does that work for you?” I ask, adopting the most casual tone I can. The kind of tone that says, I was so not looking at you as I totally focus on scheduling a get-together to discuss my new business venture.

His grin twitches.

Then, my longtime friend, in all his wet, toned, nearly naked glory, simply arches a brow, points to his irises, and dryly says, “You do know my eyes are up here?”

Dammit.

Caught red-handed.

I improvise, pointing to the pool behind him. “I was just looking in the shallow end. I was sure I saw Mrs. Wilson’s rose-gold bracelet at the bottom. She thought she lost it during the water aerobics class I just taught.”

So plausible. I could invent excuses for a living, surely.

He nods slowly, an I call bullshit nod. “Right. Did you want to go have a look? Pop into the water? Organize a search party?”

I tap my chin as if considering all three, then shake my head. “It was just wishful thinking. I looked pretty closely after class.” I sigh forlornly over the missing jewelry.

Magnanimously, he offers the goggles in his hand. “I insist. It’s Mrs. Wilson’s prized bracelet after all. Let’s have another go, shall we? I’ll help you. We’ll be like scuba divers searching for buried treasure.”

I’d give him points for holding his ground if he wasn’t holding it against me.

But I maintain the oh-so-innocent facade as I gesture to my jeans and sky-blue blouse. “No. I’m already dressed for work. Busy day at the residence. Thank you though. I’ll just let Lost and Found know to keep an eye out.”

He hooks his thumb toward the glistening water. A few solo swimmers power up and down the freestyle lanes. “Want me to jump in? Have a quick check?”

I wave him off. “No worries. I’ll find it later.”

“Are you sure? Might give you a better view of my arse. I’d appreciate an appraisal.”

And the sexy Brit wins the battle of wills.

I have no choice but to give him the all-the-way-to-Jupiter eye roll. “No need. I made my assessment that time you streaked naked across my backyard when we were sixteen. It’s a five, maybe a six on a good day.”

He peers over his shoulder at the backside in question, then parks his hands on his hips. “I beg your pardon. This is a top-notch arse here.”

I cross my arms and chuckle at the way he set up my victory shot. “Yes, indeed. I am definitely checking out a top-notch arse.”

Like a cartoon character muttering curses, he says under his breath, “Touché, woman. Touché.”

He steps toward me, shrugs a muscled shoulder, and gives me a smile from his cache of them—this one I’ve dubbed the disarming one. “Truth be told, I don’t mind if you gawk at the crown jewels. I wouldn’t tell you to look away from the works of art if you were at the Louvre.”

“Less like masterpieces and more like Velvet Elvises and paintings of dogs playing poker.”

The corner of his lips curves up. Why is it that infuriatingly good-looking men all have lopsided grins? Is it a standard feature when they’re assembled in the too-hot-for-words factory? Is it a custom order, or part of the Unfairly Handsome Package?

“Summer,” he chides gently. “You’ve been doing it since we were fourteen.”

Back then, I might have given in to the urge to swat him, but I don’t now. Instead, I grit my teeth, dig my heels in, and remind myself that even though he is the living, breathing embodiment of cocky male in the city, he is also the guy who has saved me many times.

And I’ve saved him more than once too.

But at the moment, I need to save face. I march to the nearby bench and grab one of the pieces of white cardboard they call gym towels here. Returning, I hand it to Oliver, raising my chin. “There. Now no one can admire the goods, such as they are.”

With an I’m about to give it right back to you chuckle, he takes the towel and pointedly refrains from wrapping it around his waist.

The cheeky fucker.

He drapes it over his shoulders then saunters to the side of the pool and leans against the wall, beckoning me. I follow, of course, because I need something from him.

Desperately.

“Tell me exactly what it is you need me to do this time,” he says. “Escort you to the wedding of a jackass you once dated? Train with you for a 10K to benefit Alzheimer’s? Or just look absolutely fantastic when I get out of the water?”

I huff. How can he be so endearing and such an ass at the same time? “Do you practice that, Oliver?”

He arches a brow. “You mean being the knight in shining armor? Or the way I always manage to get your goat?”

“Both,” I say with a laugh.

He scratches his jaw. “It’s a unique talent, I suppose. Being devilishly charming at all hours, no matter the circumstances.” Then he tugs me in close, roping an arm around me. A very wet arm, soaking my work shirt. “You know I’m just teasing you. You are literally the most delightful person to tease because I never know what you’ll do. Either you look like you want to clobber me, or you laugh and go along with it. Keeps me on my toes.”

I wriggle away from him, eyeing the wet splotches on my blouse. “Devil is indeed the appropriate word.”

“And you’re such an angel?” His green eyes flash me a pointed look.

“You know I’m not.” I shift gears and gesture toward the women’s locker room. “But I need to get to work. I have to complete some of the final paperwork for the new fitness center, and I’m hoping I might be able to borrow your brain tonight. Pretty please?”

He rolls with the topic change. That’s the thing about Oliver and me—we’ve worn so many hats with each other that we exchange them with ease. “My brain is always available for the borrowing. See you after work. Can we go to the Melt My Heart place?” He puts his palms together in a plea, adopting a doe-eyed look that makes me laugh.

“Since when do you like specialty shop franchises you’d normally mock?”

He affects a serious expression. “I’m considering it for my last-meal list.”

“You’re back to that?”

“I was off it for a while, but it amuses me, so I’ve returned to it. Don’t you have things you do that amuse you?”

I tap his nose. “Yes. Talking to you. See you later.”

As I head to the women’s locker room, he says my name. “Summer?”

I turn around.

He raises an arm, leans to the side, and stretches, his muscles glistening as he moves, his abs looking lickable, his torso gleaming, toned and smooth. “Let me know when you find that missing bracelet. I’m sure Mrs. Wilson is terribly worked up over it.”

I rein in a revealing smirk, holding tight to my lie. “Of course.”

He heads to the men’s locker room, and I do not stare at his butt until he leaves my line of sight.

I do not stare at his butt.

I do not . . . oh hell, the man just has a great ass.

Like, Louvre quality.

It’s only exceeded by his commitment to besting me, since he calls out, “Oh, hello there, Mrs. Wilson. Can I help you find your bracelet? What’s that? You left it in my locker? You naughty bird, you.”

2

Summer

I’m about to leave work that evening when I hear the click of a pair of Mary Janes on the hardwood floors.

The clearing of the most aggrieved throat comes next.

Then the voice, brimming with consternation at all that she finds wrong in the world—in a nutshell, everything. Literally, everything.

Look, it’s not like I disagree. The planet has a lot of knocks against it these days. But, glass half full—a lot is right in the world too.

“Excuse me, Miss Life Enrichment Director.” Roxanne says my title precisely the way such a title should be said—dripping with mockery.

Because seriously?

Couldn’t I simply be the Activities Director? Or, if we need to be cutesy, perhaps Lifestyle Leader?

Nope.

Sunshine Living has gone over-the-top twenty-first-century workplace in dubbing me Life Enrichment Director. The title is almost as mockable as my friend Bethany’s—she’s the Chief Flavor Officer for a small-batch ice cream shop in the Village. I’m as ripe for ribbing as the guy in my building who is a Sales Ninja at an electronics store.

I turn around in the hallway of the assisted living home, flashing Roxanne an I’m ready to listen smile.

I swear the woman gets better with age. Every day she looks more glamorous. Her hair isn’t gray. It’s platinum.

Her face isn’t wrinkled. It’s wise.

And I swear her spine is straighter than her gold-tipped cane with the puma head top.

She stabs her cane against the floor, banging it petulantly. “Summer, I’m bored. Simply, utterly bored.”

I gesture to the activity room fifty feet away, pasting on my cheeriest grin. “Bingo!” I declare, like I’m announcing a room full of puppies to cuddle. “It starts in ten minutes. It’s going to be a rollicking good time,” I say, even as I wish I could strangle the game of bingo.

Bingo is an affront to the very idea of fun and games. I wish I could make a bonfire of every bingo card in existence as an atonement for ever offering it as a pastime.

But bingo is what the boss wants in the Sunshine Living facilities throughout the tristate region, including here on the Upper West Side. “Everyone loves bingo, and no one gets hurt doing it, Summer. Get it going around the clock. Safety first!” he barked when he hired me a year ago.

It’s hard to enrich the lifestyles of residents when you work for the Stickler in Chief, who refuses to implement anything close to fun. Not since a septuagenarian suffered a Siamese-inflicted injury during a field trip to a local cat shelter. In the cat’s defense, everyone knows petting cats is just asking for a scratch.

Roxanne fires laser beams from her eyes. “Let me ask you a question, Summer. Are you trying to kill me? No, I’m serious. Do you actually want me to die today? Because bingo is murder.”

I laugh. “No. Of course not.” Then I glance around, and once I’m certain Travis is nowhere around, I step closer, dropping my voice to a whisper. “But you should know death by bingo sets in after twenty-four hours, so it’s good to avoid it.”

She chuckles the slightest bit, the sort of inviting laugh that says we’re on the same page. Sort of. “My point exactly. Who in their right mind actually likes bingo? Nobody here wants to play bingo. We only do it because we’re bored. In fact, I’ve already lined up cohorts to protest the never-ending bingo offerings in this place.”

“The bingo revolt is upon us?”

She narrows her eyes. “Consider yourself warned.”

I nod solemnly, then speak from the heart. “Roxanne, I’m trying. I swear, I’m trying.” I don’t add that there’s so much red tape at Sunshine Living that I need a machete to cut my way through the overgrown jungle of bureaucracy here. You don’t go around dumping your work woes on your customers. So I put on my best Happiness Hero hat, and say, “I submitted a number of proposals for new activities. I have some great ideas I want to implement, like Zumba classes, macaron tasting, and Riverside Park walks. I’ve put them in front of the board, and I’m really hoping they approve my plans.”

My plans rock. They are compelling and well-written, and they spell out all the bennies. Only a total fun-slayer like Travis would shoot them down. But I’m hopeful that the other board members put more stock in common sense and, oh, say, data and research.

A sliver of a smile seems to tug at Roxanne’s lips. “Zumba, you say?”

I execute a few zippy Zumba steps. I think my body must be programmed for motion, the way joy whips through me as I demonstrate. “Yes. Have you ever tried it? It’s great for mental and physical health. I outlined some of the key health benefits for the over-fifty set in my proposal. There are so many studies about how good it is for your core.”

One perfectly groomed silver eyebrow lifts, and mischief flares in Roxanne’s eyes. “And for the libido, I hear.”

I tuck a strand of blonde hair behind my ear, pausing to consider whether I’d be breaking the rules if I discussed libidos with the residents. Since I don’t know the answer, I respond in an offhand way. “That’s possible too.”

She raises a make-a-point finger. “Along those lines, you might consider a game of Would You Rather for the residents. Or a Would You Rather bar hop. This hood has some very hip drinking establishments, as you may know.”

A cough bursts from my chest, and I gesture for her to lower the volume, whispering, “I would be fired if I organized a bar hop.”

“Please, darling. I’ve been old enough to drink longer than you’ve been alive. Maybe double.”

She’s probably not wrong. But still. I’m not a drink alchemist or an alcohol tour guide for senior citizens, especially since Travis’s response to a bar hop suggestion would be But we don’t know about any contraindications of the prescription meds our residents are on; ergo, there is no room on the schedule.

“Would You Rather isn’t a bad idea for a game night in though,” I say diplomatically, doing my best to maintain the requisite chipper attitude.

I do have a chipper attitude.

Well, most of the time. When I can actually make a difference—the very thing I wanted to do in the first place when I took this job. My cover letter was bursting with enthusiasm and plans. Travis even said he’d never seen a job candidate with so many creative ideas.

And yet, here I am. Wizard of Bingo Scheduling.

Roxanne lifts her cane, curling her fingers around the puma head. “Or how about something more practical for an activity? I have a fabulous idea.”

I hold my hands out wide, letting her know I’m all ears. “I love suggestions. What do you have in mind?”

Her cool eyes glint. “A session on how to make a great dating profile. An Ins and Outs of Tinder class.”

Hmm. A class on Tinder isn’t a discussion on libidos, so I can entertain this topic. “Go on,” I say.

“Like, for instance, how do I know if I’m being hatfished?”

I smile helpfully. “You mean catfished?”

She shakes her head, her silver mane swishing. “No, hatfished. It’s quite common with my generation. That’s when a man wears hats all the time to hide his lack of hair.”

I stifle a laugh. “Oh, well. Dating truly is full of hazards.”

“Exactly. And don’t even get me started on the submarining. I refuse to be a victim of that foul trend.”

I pump a fist in solidarity. “The last guy I went out with did that to me—ghosted me then reappeared out of nowhere without so much as an explanation.”

“I hope you torpedoed him,” she says, and we’re sisters-in-arms suddenly.

“Of course.” I take a beat, studying the savvy woman in front of me. “Seems you already know the ins and outs of online dating, Roxanne.”

She shrugs coyly. “Fine, maybe I do. I have profiles on Tinder, Bumble, and POF. But there is always something to learn. Like, if I swipe right on the gentleman down the hall, is he going to expect me to have a conversation here first? Because sometimes I want conversation, and sometimes I simply have no patience for small talk. But how do I set expectations on the latter occasions, when I primarily want to get to the good stuff?” Her expression is dead serious. “These are important topics for the modern woman.”

“And they are things I have wondered myself,” I admit with a sigh.

“See? We should work together to spruce up the social life here.” She hooks her elbow through mine, coconspirators. “Dating, dancing, wine tasting, how-tos. Make that happen, Summer. I want a full life.”

Since my shift is over and I have an hour before I meet up with Oliver, I gesture toward the front door. Knowing Roxanne loves to stay active, I say, “Want to go for a walk and you can tell me what you want most?”

As we amble around the block, she rattles off her dream activities, from cheese tasting, to bar hops, to tips on how to make the most of a hookup. “But the ones I want most after the dating classes?” She leans in close to whisper, “Kickboxing and spin classes.”

“You do?” I can barely contain my rush of excitement at this unexpected and unwitting validation of a business idea I’ve been saving toward since I was twenty-two.

Over the last nine years, I’ve squirreled away nearly enough money to open a specialty gym that caters to the over-fifty-five crowd. Just a little more capital so I can pay instructors for the classes I want to offer, and I can do it. Top-notch classes are vital for the success of a gym, and hearing Roxanne’s enthusiasm—and for just the sort of classes I want to offer—is a big dose of encouragement.

“Absolutely. How else would I stay in shape for Tinder?”

And we’re back where we started. But hey, in my book, exercise is good, no matter the reason. “If it keeps the heart rate up . . .”

As we near the entrance to Sunshine Living, she says, “The best thing about being my age is I don’t have to worry about getting knocked up.” She eyes me up and down. “You, on the other hand . . .”

I hold up a stop-sign palm. If she only knew how dating and I have fared. “I’m not involved with anyone. Or dating, even.”

Her sharp gaze says she doesn’t believe me for a second. “Are you sure you don’t have a date tonight? You look different. You’re wearing black. You never wear black. And a little more mascara. Do you have a swipe-right lined up?”

I laugh, shaking my head. Dating is the opposite of what I do with Oliver. “Nope. I’m just meeting a friend after work.”

Skeptically, she regards my skinny jeans, my black boots, and my sweater that . . . Fine, this one is my favorite, and since my blue shirt was unwearable, I had to go home and change after that troublemaker put his arms around me.

“I don’t buy that he’s just a friend,” Roxanne says.

I picture Oliver’s square jaw. His flop of hair. His daring grin. The way he drives me absolutely crazy.

With complete honesty, I answer, “I’ve known him since I was wearing braces. Since I was all elbows and knees, and understanding boys was like learning how to survive on Mars.”

“And now you’re all legs and sass and energy,” she says in a flirty tone.

I shake my head, adamant. “And he’s always dating someone else. Besides, he’s helping me with the paperwork I need for my new venture.”

Her face says she still doubts me. “Is he a dragon?”

That’s a dating term I haven’t heard. “Does that mean he has bad breath?”

She shimmies her hips. “It means he brings the fire in the bedroom.”

A blush creeps across my cheeks and my skin heats as the briefest image of what Oliver might be like in the bedroom flashes before my eyes.

But I give her the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. “I will never know, because he’s just a friend. And he’s my brother’s best friend at that. Ergo, nothing will happen.”

For so many reasons.

“If you say so . . .” Roxanne lets those words trail off into the evening as I say goodbye, heading across town to meet the off-limits dragon.

3

Oliver

My job boils down to three things: Reassuring. Fighting. Finagling.

I happen to be tops at all three.

Perhaps that sounds cocky.

But as my cousin Jason says, “You can’t be cocky if what you say is true.”

Fine, fine. There are about a million flaws in his logic, as I point out every time, but it’s become our joke.

Today, I’m completely confident as I reassure my newest client. “I’ve got this, Geneva. I’m going to take care of you. This is going to be the partnership you’ve always wanted.”

Seated across from me in my Park Avenue office thirty floors up, the nervous client breathes an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you so much,” she says, her shoulders relaxing. “I had a feeling you would be the right one to call on this deal. And I’m not just saying that because we’re from the same side of the street.”

“Can’t beat Crystal Palace, even the dodgy end,” I say. I grew up in that London neighborhood, where I lived until I was thirteen, and my new client comes from there too.

I tap the top paper in the stack on my desk—a term sheet I’m working on for her. Her ad agency is partnering up with a smaller one for a number of media clients, and my firm is handling the legal issues of the new pairing. Untangling prior contracts, I’ve found a few particularly thorny ones with unfortunate terms. Her last attorney was a selfish prick, adding in layers of unnecessary loopholes that likely just padded his billables. He was also her ex. More proof that exes are douches. “We’ll get this all sorted out,” I tell her, keeping my opinion of her ex to myself.

“Thank you, Oliver.” She smooths a hand over her tight black bun. “It’s been a terrible year, and I want something to go well. I had a very public split recently.” She waves a hand to dismiss her words. “But you don’t need to hear about that.”

“I’m sorry you’ve had a rough go of it,” I say lightly. I did hear of her divorce. Or rather, my Aunt Jane did, and she told me before the appointment. Since I hired her a few months ago, Jane’s job has been not only to staff the reception desk and manage the office, but also to stay abreast of every iota of gossip.

“It’s better now. Or it will be soon,” Geneva says, stiff-upper-lipping it.

“It will be,” I reassure her. I don’t know all of her situation, but I do hope it improves.

“And on that cheery note, I’d better be off,” she says.

I rise, escorting her to the reception area, where Jane beams from her post at the desk. “You already look happier,” Jane tells Geneva. “Like I told you when you arrived, Ollie has a way of setting everyone at ease.”

“Oliver,” I say low, in a friendly warning.

Jane gives us an oops grin. “He’ll always be Ollie to me.”

“Ollie,” Geneva says, laughing. “It’s a very sweet name.”

Sweet.

An adjective no corporate attorney wants assigned to him.

“Would you like Jane to call you a Lyft?” I steer the conversation away from nicknames. “An UberX to whisk you home? Horse-drawn carriage, maybe? On the house.”

Geneva’s lips quirk at the over-the-top suggestion.

“I wasn’t sure ‘on the house’ was in an attorney’s vocabulary.”

“Shh. Don’t tell the bar he said them,” Jane whispers.

“I’ll keep it quiet.” She seems to be enjoying the banter—a good sign for business. “But I must know—does the carriage come with a footman?” she asks with a smile.

That smile is like a signature on the client roster. It tells me she has all the faith in the world in my firm, which is how I want her to feel.

That’s how I want all our clients to feel. Absolutely reassured.

“But of course,” I say, not sure where I’d find a footman but still playing along.

Geneva, though, gestures to the lift. “I like to walk in the spring. But thank you so much. I appreciate it.”

When she leaves, Jane gives me an approving nod. “Try to be a little less charming next time, dear.”

“That would be impossible.”

“I know,” she says with a wink.

“Also, you should try to call me Oliver.”

“I will, Ollie,” she says with a wave.

I return to my office, make a few initial calls to the other attorneys involved in Geneva’s business, then shoot her a quick email letting her know I’ve begun the work. I lean back in my office chair made of old tires. I had my doubts when Jane ordered it—finding recycled replacements is another passion of hers—but the chair is not only kinder to cows than leather, it turns out it’s also pleasant on the arse.

As I gaze out the window, I picture the deal coming together, imagining what it could do for this firm. How it could shoot us to another level, raise our profile, allow us to attract bigger clients and pay our staffers even more. It’s an enticing image, being able to provide for those in my employ while sticking it to her ex.

Well, not directly to her ex.

I simply have zero tolerance for bad legal advice.

And zero tolerance for lateness.

I grab my phone, lock up my office, and head out, chatting on the way with Jane about her weekend plans. No surprises—they involve snuggling cats, gardening, and reading the gossip blogs, much like they always do.

“Thank you again for the job, love.” She plants a kiss on my cheek. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be working for that wretched temp agency.”

“What? You didn’t like shuffling papers for bond traders who spent the day shouting into phones when not cursing and punching things?”

“Shockingly, I did not,” she says with a smile.

We say goodbye on the street, and I turn to walk uptown. As I reach the crosswalk, a text pops up.

Logan: Tomorrow night. Paintball. Be ready. I need you operating at 110%.

Oliver: Everything I do is at 110%.

Logan: That’s not what she said.

He rings. I pick up, faking an over-the-top laugh. “Haha. Never heard that from you before.”

“Listen, if you give me low-hanging fruit, I’m going to pluck it. But about paintball—” Logan wastes no time and minces no words. “I’ve got some new strategies to go over. We have to beat those fuckers at Lehman.”

His two speeds: intense and hyperintense. It’s my job to remind him of life’s niceties. “You do know the paintball league events are to raise money for charity, right? Not for obliterating other teams.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s awesome. That’s totally why I do it. But I also have to crush Lehman, and you know why.”

“Fair enough.” I do know he has his reasons. Perfectly valid ones. “But don’t worry. I’m brilliant at paintball, as you know.”

“Humble too.”

“Because humility is the trait you lead with as well?”

He scoffs. “Never. Anyway, I’ll email you and Fitz and the rest of the team the strategy guidelines later. I’m going to the boxing gym now. I’ve got to blow off some steam. Want to join me?”

As I walk up the avenue, I shake my head, though of course he can’t see me. “I know you can risk things like having an eye that looks like a meat pie or a nose that’s out of whack, being an ugly git already, but I can’t take those chances. What with this face and all.” I scrub a hand across my jaw as I stop at Sixtieth Street.

“Right,” he says, the word having about ten syllables. “You don’t want to risk your next appearance on Buzzfeed’s New York’s Most Eligible Bachelors.”

“Of course not. I’m hoping to make it five years in a row.”

“I cannot wait till the day you fall off that list,” he says, and I can hear that he’s practically salivating.

“They say all good things come to an end, but this one seems like it’ll last forever.”

“You’re telling me.”

“In any case, I’m almost at Melt My Heart to meet your sister.”

“Say hi to my twin for me. Also, why don’t you two just—”

A bus rumbles to a stop, the sound drowning out Logan’s words. “Didn’t catch those last few words.”

“Marry her. It’ll be easier.”

“What would be easier? I don’t follow.” My brow furrows. What he said doesn’t compute. There are a million reasons why Summer and I shouldn’t get married. First and foremost, we’re great friends. Second, despite her being quite lovely to look at, I can’t think of her that way. Third, I like having her in my life, not out of it, and since relationships always go belly-up and exes always go rogue, it’s best to keep this one on the level.

“Kidding! I’m kidding,” Logan says. “Just like I was that time I told you to propose when you took her to that asshole’s wedding.” His other line beeps, and he groans.

There’s another reason too. “Let me remind you, your sister is well-known for having the worst taste in men. Just bloody awful, and well, I’m delightful.”

“I beg to differ on your levels of delight. But the devil is calling, so I have to go. It’s my night with Amelia after boxing.”

“Tell Amelia her favorite person will swing by this weekend. We have to catch up on Game of Thrones.”

“You are not showing Game of Thrones to my six-year-old.”

“Sex Education, then? It’s brilliant.”

“Goodbye. The devil waits for no one.” He hangs up to talk to his ex, who is evidence that exes GO wrong.

Tucking the phone away, I head into Melt My Heart to wait for Summer, a woman who fits into a highly specific category among the people in my life. And that is the most important reason we can never be a thing.

Because Summer is a dependable person.

She’s reliable in a world where far too many people aren’t.

And frankly, those are the people you don’t risk losing by messing with a proven formula.

4

Summer

Things I love about New York City.

1. The people. New York thrives on a Las Vegas-style buffet of humankind. There’s no type of person you won’t find on the menu here, and it’s awesome. I love talking to strangers, talking to friends, talking to anyone.

2. Central Park, and everything else. You can literally never be bored in New York. If you are bored, you’re boring. There’s always something new, exciting, innovative, or even traditional to participate in. I’m all about participation, so this suits me. Museums, parks, sports—there is a league for everything, a class for anything, and a desire to move, move, move. Plus, there’s that huge oasis in the middle of the city, and I could spend all my days there.

3. Specialty shops. This city is the Land of the Niche, with shops for pickles, for mayonnaise, for pencils, for grilled cheese, and for cookies—like my friend Stella’s cookie shop.

As I head across town to meet Oliver, I make a detour at Stella’s Cookie Shack, since she messaged me earlier asking me to pop in.

With her hair in a messy bun, her purple glasses sliding down her nose, and an apron tied around her neck with an illustration of two cookies high-fiving each other on the front, Stella is a model of charm and efficiency. She slides a box of a dozen cookies to a curly-haired woman, then tells her it’ll be thirty-six dollars.

The customer doesn’t bat an eye. Stella bakes the best cookies on the eastern seaboard, and there’s no reason she shouldn’t charge two arms and two legs for them.

When the woman leaves, Stella shoots me a grin, her brown eyes twinkling from behind her glasses. “Can’t stay away, can you?”

“No one can,” I say, proud of my friend and her business.

Her store opened three months ago to rave reviews. This momentary lull in customers is just lucky for me. In a few minutes, throngs of Manhattanites will pour in here, grabbing cookies for dessert, for a snack, for a meal.

Hell, cookies for anything is my mantra.

“It was a busy day,” she says, then crosses her fingers. “May there be many more.” She gestures to the display case and its mouthwatering array of designer treats. “In the mood for the chef’s choice?”

Setting my reusable drink mug on the counter, I give a crisp nod. “I’ll live my life on the edge. Bring on the mystery cookie.”

She bends down, dips a gloved hand into the shelf, and brandishes a treat. “Try the habanero chocolate chip cookie. I’ve just perfected the recipe, and it has all the zing and all the sweetness.”

I let my tongue hang out, my show of adoration for her talent. “Sounds perfect. But I’ll eat it later. I don’t want to have cookie crumbs all over my face when I see Oliver in a little bit.”

She sets her palms on the counter and stares harshly at me. “One, there are napkins for that. Two, that’s a given. You have to look perfect for Mr. Perfect.”

I wave breezily, making light of her comment. I do like looking good for Oliver, but it’s a “when in Rome” thing. The man always looks good, sounds good, smells good, making a woman want to do the same. “That’s not why I don’t want to eat it now,” I say, defending myself. “I just don’t want to look like a piggy when I see him in”—I stop, check my watch—“about ten minutes.”

Her eyes twinkle with a gotcha. “And counting.” I’ll be hearing someday about how I know in exactly how many minutes I’ll see him. Stella darts out a hand, reaching for my to-go cup. “The usual?”

“Yes, please, Goddess of Cookies and London Fog Lattes,” I answer, grateful for the latte and for moving away from the subject of Oliver.

She fills the cup, sets it down, and adds an extra cookie into the bag. “One for you, one for Ollie. Then you can be piggies together with all your crumbs.”

Amused, I shake my head, dip a hand into my purse, and offer her a ten.

She sneers. “Your money is no good here. Save it for the gym.”

“And that’s exactly what I need it for. I’m meeting with the bank on Monday. Here’s hoping for approval on a loan.” I have my savings for the lease on the space and for equipment, but I need a loan for the finishing touches and some great classes I want to offer. “Roxanne has me thinking that kickboxing would be a terrific addition to the class list.” I can picture it now. A class full of senior citizens learning to punch, kick, and defend themselves. The image fires me up. “What do you think? Kickboxing for seniors? Is that a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down?”

“Big thumbs-up. I’d send my grandpa to that class,” she says. “And that’s why I have all the faith in the world that your loan will come through.”

I segue to a text she sent me earlier. “You said you had something to show me?”

A giddy smile takes over her freckled face. She ducks behind the counter, grabs something from a shelf, then slides a glossy sheet of paper to me.

I arch a brow. “What’s that?”

“It’s from a magazine.”

“Oh, those things that used to be paper, but now are digital?”

“Yes, Miss Sassy Pants. I saw it at the dentist’s office. It’s basically an ad for the magazine’s online sister pub—The Dating Pool. It’s having a really cool contest that you should look into.”

“A dating contest? I don’t think so.” I shake my head so fast my hair whips. “Dating and me—we’re not really simpatico these days. Do I need to remind you of the last guy who ghosted me?”

Stella stares down the bridge of her nose at me. “That’s because you like bad boys.”

“Yes, because they also don’t get in the way of little things like, ya know, goals,” I counter. Bad boys have their place on a modern gal’s dating résumé. She just has to remember the heart can hurt just the same when they show their douche colors. “So, considering I’m waist-deep in opening-a-gym goals, I think I’ll avoid dating contests.”

“It’s not a dating contest. It’s an essay contest—with prize money. And you’ve always been good at putting your crazy thoughts and wild ideas into writing. Remember the time you convinced the physical therapy company you worked for to institute Happy Heart Friday? You had that whole pitch for a midday walking break laid out beautifully, and they said yes. Boom—happy hearting at Home Health Solutions was born.”

I sigh contentedly at the memory. Too bad Home Health had to cut back last year, a decision that sent me to Sunshine Living. I don’t think Travis would approve stopping work for a walk, let alone see the benefits of disco bingo.

But that’s yet another reason why I’m trying to open the gym.

Hmm . . . That’s not a bad idea. I wiggle a brow at Stella. “What do you think about disco bingo?”

“For your essay?”

I shake my head. “No, for Sunshine Living.”

“Summer, focus. Just read.” Stella stabs the glossy sheet, and I scan it quickly. The theme is “Lessons Learned.” That does sound right up my alley. “Okay, that’s more interesting. I’m intrigued.”

The bell dings above the door, and a squadron of schoolkids rushes in.

“It’s the cookie lady,” the kids shout.

She warbles a songbird hello to the chattering throng, then in a low voice says to me, “You should definitely enter it.”

“Thank you, cookie lady.” I blow her a kiss, tucking the bag of cookies into my purse.

As I open the door, she waves goodbye, calling out, “Feel free to test Law Number Three of Stella’s Theory.”

I shoot her a sharp stare. She simply smiles and returns her focus to the kids, bug-eyed and gaping at the displays of yummy goodness.

I leave, hearing Stella’s voice in my head as I go.

Stella has a theory about men, and it’s based on her three so-called Immutable Laws.

Law Number One: funny men make great lovers.

Law Number Two: funny and smart men make even better lovers.

Law Number Three: good-looking guys make terrible lovers.

The way Stella explains it, being good in bed is work. It requires skills. It demands talent. It calls for an education in the ways of women.

“That’s why beautiful men are boring in the sack,” she explains when called upon. “I know because I conducted a comprehensive study before I married Henry. And my conclusion? The best-looking men waltz through life on their looks. They never have to work to get a woman in bed, so they don’t care about her pleasure. Therefore, you should never go above a five on the looks scale. And that’s Stella’s theory on how to have a happy vagina.”

As I drink my latte along the way to the grilled cheese shop, I wonder if Oliver’s ever had to work for it.

With those eyes, that face, and that accent, what are the chances? Women flock to him, especially since he’s on all those most-bangable-in-the-city lists. Several years ago, he went to a few galas and premieres with a TV actress, shooting him straight onto the seen-on-the-arm-of pages of the gossip rags. Since then, he’s been spotted with plenty of well-known women, and, come to think of it, he’s not even on the apps.

Hmm. Maybe he doesn’t have to work for it. I bet they line up at his door. Send him perfumed panties in the mail. Leave keys for their hotels at his reception desk.

My shoulders sag. I bet Oliver’s terrible in the sack.

Dreadful.

I bet he kisses like a bore, bangs like a jackhammer, and licks like he’s painting a house.

Then I berate myself for thinking about Oliver’s prowess or lack thereof. Who cares if Chantal the heiress, or Dardania the TV lawyer, or Angelique the model ring him up for dates? Who cares if he takes women to O-town or not? That has no bearing on our friendship.

And that’s what we are. I’ve known the man since we were fourteen, when my mom drove him, Logan, and me to school nearly every day.

I’ve known him since his sister and I helped the boys plan their prom-posals.

I’ve known him since that night a few years ago, when Logan, Stella, Henry, and Oliver took me out for a night on the town to celebrate my recent and nasty breakup. When Douchey Ex himself waltzed into the bar and sauntered over to me, and Oliver pretended to be my new boyfriend.

Draping an arm around me.

Dropping a kiss onto my cheek.

Playing with my hair.

Making me momentarily believe he was.

But that’s just what friends do—help each other out in a pinch.

I push those thoughts out of my mind as I reach Melt My Heart. When I open the door, Oliver stands and flashes me that familiar grin—one that sends an inappropriate tingle across my chest.

I’ve got my own theories, laws, and rules too, and mine start and end with—ignore that inappropriate tingle.

I’ve done it most of my life.

5

Summer

Somehow, Oliver doesn’t look piggy when he eats a grilled cheese sandwich.

Maybe it’s the charcoal suit—the complete opposite of what I saw him wearing this morning. Nearly every inch of his skin is covered up now, except for his neck and a bit of his throat where he’s slightly loosened his teal-blue tie.

And a hint of his forearms, since his sleeves are rolled up.

Also, his face. Since he’s not wearing a sack over it. But if he did, he’d probably wear it well.

Just like the silk suit.

And the swimsuit.

Damn him.

But wait. What’s that I see?

A string of cheddar decorates his lower lip as he chews.

If there is any justice in the universe, that cheese will stick to his lip all afternoon, unbeknownst to him.

A girl can hope.

“So, what do you think, Summer? Does this make it onto our list?” he asks as he sets the sandwich down on a mint-green ceramic plate. For some reason, the Fiestaware style makes me want to collect plates, even though I’m not generally a collector of anything.

“Your list,” I point out, as I root for the cheese to hang on. Go cheese. You can do it. “Your morbid list.”

“It’s not morbid. It’s important,” he says, licking his lips but still missing that bit of cheese.

Maybe I should tell him about it. But it’s too fun to watch the polished Mr. Harris, attorney at law, eligible bachelor, and connoisseur of women, outfitted in his tailor-made suit and wearing a sliver of Vermont cheddar on the corner of his lips.

I nod solemnly. “Then yes, I might consider this sinfully delicious grilled cheese sandwich as a last meal.”

He nods appreciatively. “I had a feeling this would make it. What do you say we put it in the top three?”

“Does it meet the key requirement though?”

As Oliver considers whether the grilled cheese says something about how he’s lived his life, I flash back to when we first played this game a few years ago, dining on buttered scallops. He’d groaned like a cooking show host after the first bite.

“About to go full Sally in the diner there, are you?” I’d asked.

“Yes. Because this is last-meal worthy,” he’d declared.

“Something you’re trying to tell me?” I asked, concerned that he was about to deliver Very Bad News.

Something he knew far too much about.

“No. It’s just that last meals say something about you. So it’s important to know what your last meal would be.”

“Brandon was obsessed with that. Well, with death row inmates’ last meal requests,” I offered.

“Is that Douchey Ex Number Two? Since that guy at the bar is Douchey Ex Number One.”

“Yes, and he also liked to read about serial killers. He had a stack of books about them on his nightstand.”

Oliver speared another butter-drenched scallop. “That’s why you broke up with him, right?”

Sheepishly, I answered, “He broke up with me, but that’s beside the point.”

Pointing his fork at me, Oliver had gotten emphatic. “No, that is the point. The man would have to be barking mad. It’s a damn good thing you’re not with him, and someday you’ll realize you have literally the worst taste in men.”

I arched a pot-calling-the-kettle-black brow. “And you have all the taste.” He had a solid three-and-out approach to dating.

But tonight I don’t want to linger on thoughts of Oliver and his appetite for the ladies, so I shift away from the memory, returning to the present. “Your renewed interest in last meals—is it because we’re nearing . . .?”

He shakes his head, a familiar flash of sadness in his eyes. He hides it well, and it disappears so quickly I can almost believe it was never there at all except that I’ve glimpsed it since we were eighteen.

“I just think it says something about you—your life, your passions, and such—if you know what you’d eat if it were your last day. Sort of like last words. Did you know Humphrey Bogart’s last words were ‘I should never have switched from scotch to martinis’?”

“Fitting,” I say. “But let’s make sure yours aren’t ‘Do I have cheese on my face?’”

An eyebrow lifts, and he swipes a hand across his cheek.

I laugh, shaking my head. “Try again.”

“Damn. I missed it.” He goes for the forehead.

“Still off.”

“Help a mate out, Summer,” he says, jutting his face forward.

His gorgeous face.

I’m tempted to lift a finger. To touch his lip. To feel my flesh on his.

So I do, leaning closer, raising my hand, about to touch.

And maybe for a fraction of a second, the look in his eyes says he wouldn’t mind if I did that. Wouldn’t mind my hand on him. Wouldn’t mind knowing how my fingers on his lips would feel.

But I shake those lunatic thoughts away, reach for a napkin, and wipe the cheese off his lip like the mate that I am.

And still, a tingle rushes through me.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t feel these bouts of inappropriate desire for my good friend. They’re like a side effect of the drug of friendship with a hot guy. Buddy-ira. Friend-ium. Mate-Zan.

Side effects can include temporary hallucinations, including, but not limited to, occasional inconvenient fantasies, inability to control dirty thoughts, and heightened desire to touch your friend’s lips.

Because it is inappropriate for a thousand reasons—and also just one.

I need him.

Even though he’s as infuriating as an alarm clock that won’t stop beeping, he’s also as wonderful as a sunrise. And sunrise is my favorite part of the day. Which I suppose means Oliver is one of my favorite parts of life.

“Thank you for looking out for the artwork,” he says with a teasing wink. “The Louvre appreciates your service.”

I roll my eyes, and we are back to normal. As normal as we ever are anyway.

He sets down the remains of his sandwich, taps the plate, and declares the grilled cheese “on the short list for last meals because it says he lived his life unafraid to indulge now and then.”

“It was indeed a tasty indulgence,” I second.

He dusts one hand against the other. “Let’s dive into the paperwork.”

We spend the next hour reviewing the final details of the gym and its lease, as well as my insurance obligations. I’ve been saving for this for years and planning for just as many, and I’m nearly ready to pull the trigger.

“Everything looks good. And I’m proud of you, Summer. You’ve wanted to do this for some time. And look at you, doing it,” he says, smiling. It’s his earnest smile, his honest one. The one, too, that says he admires me. It’s one of my favorite smiles of his.

“Almost doing it,” I correct. “But I’ll get there. I have a meeting with the bank on Monday.”

“Need any help?”

“Nah, I’m good.” I want to do this on my own. Nab the loan, secure the financing, fund my dream. “I can’t wait to tell Maggie later that it’s looking good.”

“Your grams will be so happy for you that she’ll go run a marathon.”

“Or get on Tinder,” I say with a laugh. “Lord knows she has better luck than I do.”

“Are you still on Tinder? Thought you declared yourself done.” He says it crisply, as if done is exactly where he wants me to be with dating.

“I might as well be done with it.”

“Are you though?” he presses, and it sounds vital that he know. Perhaps it’s just the lawyer in him, asking questions in that most lawyerly tone.

“Not entirely,” I admit. “But I haven’t used it in a while.”

He groans, dropping his head in his hand. “Woman, what am I going to do with you? Screen all your dates so you stop dating douches?”

“I’m fine with my relationship status. Why does it bother you?”

“Why?” His eyes widen as he repeats the question. “Why does it bother me?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because you’re you,” he says, and he seems flustered.

Totally discomposed.

It’s an odd look on him.

“And?” I prompt.

“Don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?”

“Something nice,” he grumbles.

I laugh. “Ah, so that’s it. You’re being protective of your nice friend.”

“It’s hardly protective, and you’re not really nice. More like saucy and vexing, and you wear sarcasm like a coat.”

I preen like a cat, taking the compliment. “Thank you for backpedaling on such a terrible adjective. ‘Saucy’ is way better than ‘nice.’”

“I just don’t want my mean, cruel, terrible friend dating douches, and you seem to be drawn to them.”

I shoot him a withering glare. Who is he to talk? “And you’re drawn to sweethearts? Angels? Mother Teresas?”

He stares at the ceiling as if in thought. “Hmm. I’m not sure about sweethearts, but I’m positive I’ve never dated Mother Teresa.”

I lean across the table to swat his shoulder. “You have definitely dated douches too. Oh, wait. You haven’t dated anyone long enough for them to measure on the douche-meter.”

He arches a brow. “I beg your pardon. I have absolutely hit the crazy-ex floor in the department store of love.”

I laugh as we clear our plates and head for the door. “Have you now?”

“Do I need to remind you of Hazel?”

No. He doesn’t.

I can picture perfectly the day I saved his ass.

6

Oliver

Two years ago

This was getting to be a problem—the morning ambush.

Warily, I walked to the window, pulled back the blinds, and peered down to the street. Cars, cabs, and buses rushed along the avenue, and I held onto the fervent hope that I might be able to leave my own building unscathed.

Then I caught a glimpse of red.

Fucking hell.

Hazel was there, lying in wait.

With tea.

I didn’t even like tea.

Who decided that all Englishmen liked tea and scones, lived in castles, and followed football?

Well, scones were delicious.

I pulled back from the window, grabbed my phone, and called in a favor.

“She’s here again,” I whispered, even though whispering was unnecessary. But it felt necessary. “Are you nearby? You’re probably on a run, right?”

On the other end of the call, Summer breathed out hard. “Just finished five miles. I’m on the east side of the park. I can be there in ten. Want me to pretend I’m your girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“I’m on it,” she said, knowing the situation well and knowing the solution too.

“You’re a superhero.”

“I am. It’s true.”

I grabbed a tie and slipped it around my neck, knotted it, and pulled on my suit jacket. I had to get to work without my ex pouncing on me and asking me to get back together with her. Never mind that she was hardly an ex. She was a woman I’d dated for a mere two weeks. After I ended it on account of a massive lack of sparks—and not at all because she wanted to attend a cheese-making class, even though I hate trendy thing-making classes—she decided to try to woo me back by waiting outside my building with tea from my favorite coffee shop.

She’d done this four days in a row. Today was the fifth.

Returning to the window, I watched the street below. On the dot, Summer walked into view, holding a paper cup. She spotted Hazel and, with a smile, headed over to the redhead, exchanged a few words, then continued into the lobby.

Hazel cast a glance upward, but she’d never been inside my building, so she didn’t know which floor was mine.

Her shoulders sagged, and she walked away.

I punched the air as my doorbell rang.

Summer looked quite pleased with herself, and quite pleasant in her running shorts and purple sneakers, her blonde hair high in a ponytail. Her cheeks were red, her skin flushed from running. Would other activities bring that same pink glow to her face?

To the exposed flesh above her sports bra?

To . . .

Quickly, I dismissed the freight train of dirty thoughts, because I had to.

Also, because . . . coffee.

She thrust a cup into my hand. “Coffee. Just the way you like it.” She took a beat, pausing before delivering our oft-said punchline, “Without tea.”

“Superhero indeed,” I said, taking the drink then motioning with my free hand for her to tell me what went down.

Squaring her shoulders, she flicked an unseen piece of lint off her Lycra top. “Call me Super Friend. Able to deflect clingy exes in a single bound. As soon as I saw her, I walked over, said a cheery good morning, then eyed her two cups of tea with friendly concern.”

“And?”

“And then I said, ‘By the way, if that’s for Oliver, he doesn’t care for tea. Go figure. But that’s my boyfriend for you.’”

I beamed as she continued. “Then I trotted inside, said hi to the doorman, and left her to tuck her tail between her legs. She did tuck her tail, right?”

“Totally tucked. Saw it when I peeked out the window.”

Summer blew on her fingernails. “Yay, me.”

“Thank you for your excellent service,” I said.

“It was easy. No doubt you’ll need me again for the next crazy ex-girlfriend.”

We left my building a minute later, finding Hazel across the street waiting for the bus.

When she spotted me walking next to Summer, I immediately grabbed Summer’s hand, threaded our fingers tightly together, and dropped a quick kiss onto her cheek.

Her breath hitched, and she whispered a surprised oh. A sexy-sounding oh. One that had the freight train starting to chug out of the station again.

But there were exes to deflect.

“She’s across the street,” I said in her ear.

“Oh.” Summer straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. “Well, in that case.” She tugged me closer, looping her arm possessively around my waist, let out a throaty laugh, then returned the kiss.

She dusted her lips across my jaw, sending an arrow of heat straight up my spine. Then she whispered in my ear, “Peas and carrots, peas and carrots, peas and carrots.”

Good thing she’d mentioned the veggies, because I’d been borderline aroused.

But I hated peas, so that took care of that.

7

Summer

Present day

For a second, I remember that whisper of a kiss.

Tender, gentle. The slide of his lips against my cheek.

The soft whoosh in my belly.

So fleeting, and then it was gone, and Hazel boarded the bus.

“Never to be heard from again,” I say, finishing the story.

“Thanks to Super Friend,” Oliver says as we reach the crosswalk, slowing to a stop at the light.

I tap my chest, imagining my Super Friend insignia is stitched on top of my shirt. “I’m awesome at saving your ass.”

He squeezes my shoulder. “You are. Especially from exes who want to take macchiato-making classes.”

“I thought it was cheese-making that turned you off?”

“Oh, no doubt the macchiato was coming next.”

I nod sagely. “Good thing you cut it off. So, can you just admit you have douchey exes too?”

He shakes his head. “Get it right, woman. Men have crazy exes. Women have douchey exes.”

“But your rule of thumb is that all exes are awful?”

“That’s why they’re exes, right?”

“I’m not sure I agree. Yes, we joke about my number of douchey exes. But were they truly all jackwads? What if they’re only exes because they weren’t right at the time?”

He shakes his head, adamant, as the light changes and we cross the street walking down Madison. “That presupposes there is only one right person for everyone, and there is nothing sadder in the world than assuming there’s only one person for you.”

“Right,” I say with an exaggerated nod. “That’s the saddest thing in the whole world.”

He levels a chiding gaze at me. “Obviously, it’s not the saddest. I’m simply saying it’s damn sad when it comes to relationships.”

“And I’m simply saying that no matter how fun it is to refer to a parade of exes as Douchey Ex Number One, Two, and Three, perhaps none of them were the right person. And there’s nothing wrong with that. You have to kiss a lot of frogs. I think we can learn from every ex.” I snap my fingers. “I should write about that for that contest.”

“What contest?”

Grabbing the sheet of paper from my purse, I unfold it and show it to him as we walk. “The Dating Pool is hosting an essay contest. Lessons learned from the past. I could write about lessons learned from my exes.”

He smiles wryly, quickly scanning the page. “That’s so very you. You can find the positive in every negative experience.”

“Is that such a bad thing? To find the silver lining?” I tuck the paper back into my purse.

“No, it’s not a bad thing. It’s a Summer thing. And that does sound like a good idea for you to write about,” he concedes. “You’d probably make it hilarious.” He mimes typing a letter. “Dear Dating Pool, I learned how to cook an omelet from Timmy the Dickhead Cook, how to sing an aria from Rupert the Awful Opera Singer, and how to pilot a private jet from Kip the Cocky Playboy Captain I dated.”

Aghast, I swat him. “I never dated those men.”

“I know, but that’s the sort of thing you’d say. You can make a sweater out of any tangled skein of yarn. You’re an inherently positive person. That’s why you’re in the field you’re in.”

“And you? You’re a negative person?”

“I’m a realist,” he says. “And the realist in me says that if we were meant to get on so well with our exes, they wouldn’t become exes, and so if they are exes, they are crazy douches.” He raises his arm in the air, like an orator declaring victory. “Or frogs, and neither is terribly appealing. Both men and women can be douches or frogs.”

“That’s the difference between you and me. I played with frogs when I was a kid, and no, that’s not a euphemism.”

“You played with frogs?”

“Yes. And I put one in Logan’s bed too.”

His mouth twitches in a that’s too good grin. “Well done. How did he take it?”

“Screamed like a boy,” I say, proud of my frog fearlessness. “Also, it was a tiny frog. Like, maybe an inch big.”

“Things no one says about me,” Oliver whispers.

I shoot him the side-eye he deserves. “It’s a wonder any woman has lasted with you for any period of time.”

He wriggles his brows. “Oh, sweetheart, they last because I can last. All night long.”

“I take it back. You are a pig,” I say.

“Guilty as charged.”

As we stop at the next crosswalk, I reach into my purse and grab the bag of cookies. “All right, frog prince, this is my small way of saying thank you.”

He takes one. “Aww. This is a thanks for me letting you check out my package earlier?”

“You ass.”

“Ah, it’s for the time I let you check out my arse. I see,” he says, biting into the cookie.

“Double ass,” I say, but I’m laughing.

He chews and somehow looks sexy while eating, crumbs and all. “Admit it—I’m the sexiest of your ex-boyfriends.”

“You’re not a real ex,” I point out as we turn the corner then head into Central Park.

“I know. That’s what makes me the sexiest.”

“Cockiest maybe.”

“Like I said, the sexiest.” We wander along the mall, almost by instinct. He knows this promenade, with its towering elms and green canopy, is one of my favorite parts of the park, which is my favorite place in the city.

“More like most infuriating,” I say, as we slide back into our rhythm.

The rhythm that reminds me to squash any inappropriate tingles.

This rhythm is worth so much more than testing a theory would be.

We continue debating exes along the Literary Walk.

He hooks his thumb at a statue of Shakespeare. “He thinks exes are rubbish.”

“He killed most of his heroes and heroines,” I point out. “Hello, tragedy?”

“Like I said, rubbish.”

As we pass stone replicas of Sir Walter Scott and Robert Burns, the great debate rages on, until he walks me all the way home, where he gives me a hug outside my building and says goodbye.

Later that night, as I read in detail the magazine page Stella gave me, our debate gives me a brilliant idea.

A brilliant idea that might solve a big, hairy problem.

8

Summer

I wave the magazine page at Maggie. “I should do this, right?”

“Darn straight you should do it.” My grandmother, also my roommate, affirms my decision as she slices off the top of another strawberry with precision, and slides the red fruit to the edge of the cutting board.

“I mean, this is tailor-made for me.”

Another slice, another cut. She drops a handful of berries into the blender. “It’s as if it was written for you.” She holds up the knife to make her point. “Just for you.”

I back away. “Mags, put the knife down.”

“I have excellent vision and dexterity, you know.”

“This isn’t about your vision or dexterity, you crazy old bat,” I say playfully. “It’s about you wielding a sharp knife.”

“Impudent whippersnapper,” she mutters under her breath, but I smile at her teasing. She sets down the knife, drops the rest of the strawberries into the blender, then hits the crush button.

As the machine pulverizes the fruit, she chatters above the noise. “In any case, you’ve always loved contests, and you’ve always excelled at them, so you should do it.”

She hits end with the panache of a former professional cheerleader.

Because that’s what she is. This seventy-five-year-old babe shook her pom-poms and backflipped her way from the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders to a forty-year career as a cheer coach and a trophy case full of well-deserved bling.

“But you could also let me fund your gym,” she adds like she’s trying to entice me into her car with candy.

“No way.” I shake my head and gesture to her rent-controlled two-bedroom Upper West Side palace. “You barely charge me rent. You’ve already made it possible for me to save a ton of money and live in one of the world’s most expensive cities on an activity manager’s salary. No way am I taking the cash from you.”

“But the offer stands.”

“And I appreciate it, but my answer is still no. I want to do this on my own.”

“Always digging your heels in.” She rubs my back gently. “I know you don’t like to accept help. And I know it’s because you think your mom should have kept working instead of quitting her job to help your dad.”

“Well,” I say, straightening my spine, “she gave up her own career managing a bookstore when his company took off. And she always reminds him.”

I love my parents madly. They have a great marriage, and they raised me with love. But every now and then when I was growing up, my mom made little comments about how proud she was of the success his consulting company was having, in part because she quit her job to support him.

I don’t ever want to be the person who quits.

The one who has to remind the other that she did.

Or the one who maybe wishes she hadn’t quit. Because I suspect that’s what’s behind her little asides.

Maggie tilts her head with a skeptical look. “Always reminds him?”

“It feels often to me,” I say, then I wave a hand breezily.

She pours her concoction into two glasses and slides one to me, then whispers, “I have an extra thousand under the mattress. C’mon. Take it.”

“Please tell me you don’t keep money under the mattress.”

“Mattress. Bank. Same thing.”

I shake my head. “Nope. You didn’t fund Logan’s business. You’re not funding mine. Besides, I’ll either win this contest or nab a loan.”

She takes a long swig of her smoothie, and I do the same. Then I nearly spit it out as my tongue rebels against the taste. “This is the worst one ever. What did you put in it?”

“Wheatgrass.”

“You do know grass is what dogs eat when they need to barf?”

She laughs. “Wheatgrass is very popular in healthy beverages.”

“No. Just no. Wheatgrass is wrong. It’s grass, Mags. Grass.”

She gives me a look like I deserve to be sent to my room for impudence. “It’s good for you. Keeps you healthy. And I need to replenish after my workout. By the way, I killed it at my bike-training session today. Mildred and Octavia had nothing on me. I left them in the dust in Central Park,” she says, then heads to the living room, where she grabs her phone and, judging from the beeping sounds, returns to her Words with Friends game.

From the stool at the kitchen counter, I review The Dating Pool contest rules one more time.

The theme is spot-on: letters to exes, with the proviso that you must have learned something from the past relationship. No slams, no digs, no skewering. Show us how you’re moving on.

Dating Pool, I’ve got this. I’ve so got this.

This is my jam. Learning. Takeaways. Putting a positive spin on nearly everything.

I can bang out this letter, easy peasy.

I have the perfect person to write about.

Grabbing my tablet, I flip it open.

Two hours later, my entry is polished and ready to go.

9

Oliver

One year ago

There are things a man just needs to know how to do by the time he goes out on his own.

How to tie a necktie, ideally without looking in the mirror. How to parallel park in one try. How to build a campfire—with and without matches. (Hint: magnifying glasses. Learn how to use them and you, too, can become Prometheus.)

And how to answer a Mayday call from your female best friend.

As it happened, Jason and I were hanging in his apartment one evening, working our way through the top ten skills any man must know.

I strummed a chord on his acoustic guitar, working my way through “Love Me Do,” the song we’d dubbed easiest to learn to play on a guitar. (On the list of things a modern man should know: how to play at least one song on the guitar.)

“Stop. Stop. It’s like a parrot mating with a trombone,” Jason said, clapping his hands over his ears.

Naturally, I played louder. “You’re just jealous that I’m ahead of you. I’ve tackled six items, and it’s your bloody list.”

An eye roll was his answer. “I would never be envious of someone who is total rubbish at item number four.”

“Building a campfire?” I scoffed. We’d worked on that skill last weekend while camping an hour outside of the city. “Please. I excelled. Yours was more like a bonfire, Smokey Bear. You do know the point isn’t to set the whole forest alight?”

“I made an elegant fire and cooked a burger on it. A burger you enjoyed,” he pointed out as he reached for the composition notebook with his list.

“Fine, I concede. The burger was tasty. But when you do your podcast on the top ten requisite skills, I want credit for excelling in outdoorsmanship, which is all the more impressive given my day job. Not only can I argue a case in court, but I can also survive a bear attack.” I eyed his notebook. “Check out item number seven. It’ll get any bloke past a grizzly or a black bear.”

He smacked the notebook on his thigh, looking skeptical. “I’m not questioning that you can research how to survive a bear attack, since you did it to put the item on here. Frankly, neither one of us ought to be putting that one to the test. Spoiler alert—the bear usually wins. But let’s go back to your other supposed skill.” His eyebrow rose to the ceiling. “‘Argue a case’? You’re a corporate attorney, inking contracts from your swank Park Avenue office. You’re hardly a prosecutor orating in court, Atticus.”

I stopped strumming, shooting him an oh no, you didn’t stare. “First, you enlist me as your comrade in tackling this Be a Man list for your podcast. Then you malign my ability to execute the tasks. Now you question my talent in the courtroom? I’m not sure you understand the meaning of the words help a fella out.”

“Fine, fine. You can fend off the next black bear we run into if-slash-when we answer the call of the wild,” he said, just as my phone bleated.

Jason peered at it on the coffee table, then arched a brow. “Ohhhhh. Summer’s calling. Your totally charming, utterly adorable bestie who you deny having a thing for,” he said in a high-pitched tone, sliding the phone across the coffee table like he’d caught me in the act of—what? Having a friend with breasts? “Go on. Answer it.”

“Men and women can be friends, as you well know.” I clicked answer on the call and said, “Oliver Harris, at your service.”

“Hi,” Summer said, biting out the word. Sensing the rage in that one little syllable, I sat up straighter. Then, like she was breathing fire, she scorched the next word from her mouth. “Drew.”

As she hissed, the light bulb went on in my brain, illuminating an image of someone she used to date. “Ah, Douchey Ex Number Three?”

“Yes. He took my work ideas and claimed they were his.”

“That is grounds for top prize in jackassery.”

“And obviously why I broke up with him, though he never saw it that way. He thought my ideas were just ‘part of the conversational fabric and, therefore, fair game, and why don’t we try to work this out, sweetie-pie lovey-bear?’”

“And the double pet names didn’t win you back? Such a shock.”

“I know, right?”

“Also, who the hell says ‘conversational fabric’ unless it’s an op-ed piece for a snooty newspaper?”

“Drew, that’s who. And guess what he did now?”

“Don’t keep me waiting. I’m on the edge of my seat.”

“He invited me to his wedding,” she said, irritation thick in her voice. Suddenly, I had one goal—erase that irritation as soon as possible.

“Say no,” I said, since that was the easiest method to wipe it away.

“I would, except . . . remember? We work together, and the whole department is going. There’s this office-vibe thing, and I look like the petulant jackass if I don’t attend. Like I’m holding a grudge.”

“‘Conversational fabric’ is reason enough to hold a grudge. It’s in the guidebook.”

“Along with claiming any idea of yours is ‘fair game.’ Also, inviting an ex to your wedding should be in the guidebook.”

“That’s in the How to Be a Total Arse handbook.”

“Ah, but of course. Why did I take a job at this company?”

“You’re a glutton for punishment, clearly.”

“I know, and now I have to go to this wedding, says the rule book for being the bigger person compared to my douchey ex. What am I supposed to do?”

The answer was so simple I barely thought about it. There was one way to survive a black bear attack—make yourself look gigantic. I could help her in that department.

“I’ll go with you,” I said.

“You will?” Her voice lightened immediately. Gone was the anger. In its place was something else . . . amusement perhaps.

“I’ll be your pretend boyfriend,” I offered. It seemed like the ideal solution.

My normally confident, outgoing friend was quiet for a beat. “Like we’ve done before?”

“Exactly. Unless you don’t want me to, in which case I will spend the time showing my hapless cousin how to fix a flat tire, because I’ll wager he can’t do that without my help.” I looked over to tell Jason, “You do know law school teaches students how to fix flat tires?”

“Exactly what law school did you go to?” he asked, rolling his eyes.

Summer laughed—a warm, happy sound that made me certain playing her beau for the night was the right choice. “So it’s between helping me and fixing a flat tire with Jason?”

“Yes, but you’re far more interesting than working on a car, I assure you.” I returned to the music, absently strumming The Beatles again.

“What is that sound? Is there a cockatoo strangling a trumpet near you?” she asked.

My shoulders sagged. “I’m playing the guitar. And I swear, you and my cousin are in cahoots. Did you go to the same school of insult metaphors? Now, would you like me to go with you, and we can show this asshat at the office that, one, it’s rude to invite an ex to a wedding, and, two, if you are such a twit that you do invite an ex, you are going to be shown up by a much sexier, much more handsome new beau?” I paused for dramatic effect. “Me.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a ginormous—”

“Yes, of course. All the time.”

“Ego, Oliver. Ego.”

“If you mean ‘ego’ as a euphemism for the crown jewels, then also yes.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she said, but she was laughing again, happy again. And that was what I wanted from Summer. After all, she’d been one half of the reason I didn’t spiral into depression during high school. She’d done everything she could to keep my spirits up during the darkest days of my life. This was the least I could do for her.

“That’s better than being corrigible, isn’t it? Tell me when to pick you up.”

She gave me the details, and when I hung up, Jason stared at me, lips twitching, eyebrows arching. “So, it’s the old pretend-boyfriend ruse, is it?”

“Why, yes, it is.”

“You know what they say about that.”

I strummed another chord. “No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

But he simply laughed rather than answering, and I didn’t give his comments a second thought.

After all, being Summer’s pretend boyfriend had always been easy.

* * *

On a Sunday evening two weeks later, I knocked on the door to Summer’s apartment. As it opened, I said, “All right, sexy fake girlfriend, get on my arm and let’s show you off like the—”

My jaw dropped.

Possibly literally.

Definitely figuratively.

Because holy fuck.

Summer was a fox.

She wore some kind of dress. Some kind of fabric. Who the hell knew what any of it was except light blue and delectable.

She looked nothing like the girl I’d known most of my life, yet everything like her too.

She was sex appeal and sweetness all wrapped up in one delicious package.

“Like the what?” she asked, curious. “Show me off like the what?”

My throat was dry, but I managed to speak through the desert. “Let’s show you off like you’re the thing he most regrets.”

Because jackass or not, how could Drew not regret his fuckup? Losing this woman had to be cause for going to the hospital to check for alarmingly high levels of relationship remorse.

She smiled, and it did something funny to my chest.

Something funny that I shoved into a dark corner of my mind, determined not to examine.

I hooked her arm through mine, then we left her building and slid into a waiting Uber.

In the car, I reminded myself of our roles, and that quick reset was all I needed to ignore that dark corner of my mind.

At the wedding, it was easy, so damn easy to pretend she was mine, but that wasn’t because she was all dolled up.

It was because we knew each other. We had an ease between us. A rhythm.

During the reception, her ex strode over and introduced himself. “Pleasure to meet you. Drew McAllister the third.”

Are you fucking kidding me?

I held out my hand. “Oliver Harris the twelfth,” I said, since two could play that game. “Congrats on the wedding.”

“Yes. I particularly love the favors. I’d been hoping for a pen with your photo on it,” Summer put in.

“Thanks. They’re great for signing things,” Drew said, completely missing the point.

“As pens are,” I added, affixing a most serious look to my face. “Do they also work for taking notes?”

“Yeah,” he said, giving me a confused look. Drew scrubbed a hand over his jaw and glanced from Summer to me and back. “Have you two been together long?”

I looped my arm around her waist. “No, but when something is right, it’s just right, isn’t it?”

And since I had no more interest in him than I did in his bride-and-groom photo pens, I took Summer to the dance floor and twirled her around.

“Did you know you can also use a pen as a whistle?”

“Did you know you can use a pen to poke your brother or your cousin?” she tossed back.

“Some pens double as back scratchers,” I said.

“And don’t forget—nearly all can be used to hit that hard-to-reach reset button on modems.”

I spun her around, and when she made a full circle, I added, “And this concludes our discussion of other uses for pens. By the way, Drew the third, dullest man in existence, is not only a douche but a total douche.”

Her blonde hair spilled behind her, and she smiled. “Was it the third or the personalized pens that sealed the deal?”

I shook my head, tugging her up. “No, it’s that he’s holding a wedding on a Sunday. Who does that?”

“What’s wrong with Sunday? Don’t tell me you hate Sundays.”

“It’s too close to Monday.”

“Aww, poor Oliver hates Monday,” she said, patting my chest as we danced. “Ollie and Garfield.”

“Don’t call me Ollie,” I growled.

“But comparing you to a cartoon cat is okay?”

“It’s better than being called Ollie.”

“You know why I call you Ollie,” she said, a hint of seriousness in her tone.

“I know,” I replied, partially serious too.

“And I think you like it, even though you pretend not to.”

“Try me, woman.”

Her lips curved into a fantastic grin as she taunted, “Ollie, Ollie, Ollie.”

Maybe, just maybe, I didn’t entirely mind it from her. Still, I wasn’t a man for diminutives, so I clasped her tighter.

“Now I must punish you.” I dipped her precariously far. But Summer was the girl who liked to cliff jump into the ocean. She was the daredevil who’d skateboarded down the hilly street we lived on as teens. She had a lion-tamer’s ferocity and a fearless heart.

“That’s your punishment for Ollie?” she fired back.

“Watch it, or spankings come next.”

“Ooh, is that included on the fake boyfriend menu?”

I brought her back up again, flush against my chest, and for a flash of a moment, I had an image of where dancing might lead.

A dangerous image that would require use of the dark corners of my mind, so I stepped away from talk of spanking.

Lest it lead to something just like that.

Instead, I cleared my throat and answered her earlier question. “Holding a wedding on a Sunday is throwing in the towel. It says you’re going to bed early. It says you’re waking up and heading to the gym the next morning. It says you aren’t committed to lasting all night long.”

“What’s wrong with going to the gym in the morning?”

“Nothing, as long as it’s not the morning after your wedding night.”

“How do you know they aren’t staying up all night long?”

“Because it’s Sunday.”

“So are you telling me that you’ve never stayed up all night long on a Sunday?”

“I have, but I doubt Drew the third has my stamina,” I said, as I made sure our bodies didn’t sway too closely. I didn’t need another brazen image of her lodging itself where it didn’t belong.

“You are so cocky.”

“But it’s not cocky if it’s true.”

She tapped my shoulder. “Just because you and your cousin have this saying doesn’t make it right.”

“But you know what is true and right?” I asked, spinning her and enjoying the way it made her laugh.

“What?”

“Me stepping in as the future Douchey Ex Number Four. Because now you’re not thinking about your Douchey Ex Number Three breaking the rules of common decency by inviting you to his wedding, are you?”

Her smile lit up the entire dance floor. It was all the twinkling lights in the reception hall. It was the stars in the night sky. “Not at all.” She took a beat, as if stripping away the sass and teasing that were the hallmarks of our friendship. “Thank you, Oliver.”

“It was my pleasure, Summer.” And it was. The night had been fantastic. “Just like it was with the guy from the bar. Remember that night at the Lucky Spot?”

“I do. You pulled me onto your lap and played with my hair, really selling it to the jury.”

“It worked. He sulked off,” I said, but I wasn’t thinking of the ex. I was thinking of her hair, grateful she wore it up tonight, so I wouldn’t be tempted.

Summer glanced around, as if surveying the success of the wedding ruse. “And on that note, has anyone told you you’re the best fake boyfriend around?”

“Why, yes. It’s going on my business card.”

“Oh, good. Now I feel special.”

“You should always feel special,” I said, conveying that in my tone. I wanted her to know that. Wanted her to feel it. Because her role in my life and the immeasurable levels of special she brought to it were the reasons I didn’t want to get any closer to her.

“I should?” Her question came out a little tentative, a little surprised.

I met her gaze, making sure she saw that I was being honest. “You are special, Summer.”

She’d been one of my closest friends since I was old enough to need someone to turn to.

She’d been there for me the entire time my sister was sick when I was in high school, and when Phoebe died, she’d been there for me too.

Always.

And I always wanted her in my life, and to be in hers, not on a list of mistakes.

That was why I laughed it off when Jason or Logan hinted about us becoming more than friends.

We were an us because we didn’t ever let us become anything else.

10

Summer

Present day

Stella answers on the first ring. “Let me guess. You’re in jail, and you need me to bail you out.”

“As if I’d call you first,” I say indignantly.

“Who would you call?”

I consider this from bed, staring at the ceiling. “Logan probably. He can talk his way out of anything.”

“Sweetie, it’s money you need for bail. Not talk.”

“But maybe he could talk his way out of the bail,” I suggest.

Stella yawns so savagely you could drive a semitruck through it. “Anyway, why are you calling at ten at night if you’re not in jail?”

“How old are you? Ten is not late.”

“Two years older than you, which means I need my sleep.”

“Sorry,” I mutter. “Sort of. Anyway, I’m calling because I wrote the letter, and I’m about to hit submit. But want to hear it first?”

“Oooh! I am wide awake and ready.”

I clear my throat and read the letter out loud.

Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend,

I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again.

Exes are exes for a reason.

But not always for a bad reason.

Usually, they’re in the past because you didn’t see eye to eye.

Or because you didn’t love each other enough.

Or maybe circumstances pulled you apart.

That happens, and it’s just part of life, part of learning.

Sometimes, though, an ex is history because one of you, or both of you, are absolute douches.

After all, exes can be jerks. They can wander into bars, saunter over to you when you’re with your friends, and act like nothing happened.

Or invite you to their wedding when you have zero interest in their nuptials and even less in their swaggy wedding favors. (Seriously. Commemorative pens? Pens with your face on them?)

But I’ve never believed that all the ex-boyfriends are the worst.

I don’t believe that about you.

You stepped in when I needed you the most, with your charm, and your wit, and your “I’ve got this” spirit.

You lifted me up when I needed you to. And you saved me when I needed saving. I saved you too.

And I know you—from the way you look when you get out of the pool to the way you like your English breakfast tea (not at all, thank you very much).

But in spite of this knowledge, you told me that someday I’d call you a douchey ex too.

And you’d deserve it, you said.

You’d deserve it because we don’t always see eye to eye. Because we don’t agree on everything. Because we see the world differently.

But you know what? I’ve learned something about who I am from you.

Just like our choice of a last meal is insight into the life we led, right? Exes say something about a person. When I look back on mine, they tell the story of my heart and my goals and my dreams. They say I’m not ready yet to give my all to a relationship. I’m not ready to move into that phase of my life.

There is a world out there and so much to see in it. I couldn’t travel the way I wanted to if my exes had been the kind to stick around.

The kind I wanted to stick around.

And especially if you’d been the kind of guy who wanted more.

That was never in the cards for us.

So I say, if you want to be Douchey Ex Number Four, I welcome that. I’ve got labels printed out. You can wear a sandwich board stating that you’re Douchey Ex Number Four—and proud of it.

We’d grab a pint someday and probably even laugh about it, except we both prefer martinis.

Because you and me? We know what we are to each other. We know that the world needs more sexy ex-boyfriends so we can achieve our dreams.

May we learn lessons from all kinds of exes—from the jerks, from the timid, from the crazy, from the ones we just didn’t love enough, and from the ones who didn’t love us enough.

They teach us about ourselves.

And I’m still trying to achieve all my dreams.

So I say thank you, Douchey Ex Number Four, for being the sexiest ex-boyfriend of all.

My best,

Summer

I finish, feeling naked, exposed, but hopeful that it says everything I want to say, and that Stella will like it.

Hopeful that The Dating Pool will love it, because winning this could tip me over the edge with my new venture.

“It’s . . .” Stella begins, but doesn’t finish.

“It’s terrible? That’s what you were going to say? Or it’s a brilliant scheme and a terrific chance to nab some extra money if I win. And if I win, I would use it to add a self-defense class to the roster, and that’s precisely what my gym needs.” My words are like froyo spilling out too fast and overflowing from the sample cup.

She laughs sweetly. “I was going to say I think it’s a brilliant scheme and a lovely letter. And I actually think I get it now.”

My brow knits. “Get what?”

“You and Oliver. Your connection. I think I understand it in a whole new way.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, I do. I kind of get why you’re not interested in testing my theory. I understand now why you always say nothing will happen.”

“Thank you,” I say, warmth and happiness bubbling up in me. “It’s so easy to think because we’re good friends that a romance is inevitable. But that’s not in the cards.”

“Yeah, I see that now,” she says, sounding introspective. “I guess it’s human nature to want to ship two pretty people who spend so much time together.”

“And now you understand why there is no Sumiver Ship or Olimer Ship.”

“More proof you’re right. Your names are horribly un-shippable.”

“There you go.” I smile, thanking her, then hit submit.

Even though, I suppose, a small part of me still wonders about the accuracy of her theories.

But just a small part, I swear.

11

Summer

On Monday, I watch as Loan Officer Electra nods thoughtfully, takes a beat, then smiles. “You present a very compelling argument. And honestly, I’m counting the days till your gym opens.”

Must not crawl across the desk and tackle-hug the world’s coolest loan officer.

Instead, I sit ramrod straight on the edge of the leather seat, beaming. “I’m so glad you feel that way. I’ve lined up my final teachers too, to make the classes amazing. Seniors have different needs than other age groups and want a gym where they feel comfortable and welcome. Providing that can increase health in the golden years. I found a Zumba teacher who specializes in catering to seniors. I have a spin-class instructor who’s the best in the biz. I even found someone to teach kickboxing to older adults.”

I’m giddy, but professionally giddy. That’s a thing. “This is going to be so good for health and fitness and longevity. In time, we can reduce medical costs and reduce insurance needs. It’s going to be great,” I say, unable to stop giving my pitch to her on why fitness for life matters.

But the curly-haired woman with the hawklike nose seems to need little convincing. “I know! I can’t wait to sign up my dad. He is going to love it. He’s jonesing to do kickboxing.”

Just like Stella’s grandpa. Yes! This gym is filling an unserved need. And I am going to call my instructors the second the ink dries. They are going to flip.

“Thank you, Electra. I’m glad you feel that way. I can’t wait to let my instructors know it’s a go,” I say, nerves winging through my body as I adjust the pencil skirt that feels like a costume, since I don’t usually wear navy skirts and silk blouses.

Except when begging for money.

But that ends today.

Humming, Electra drums her fingers on her oak desk, flashing a cheery smile in my direction. “They are going to be ecstatic. And we simply can’t wait to hear how it goes.”

I blink. What? She can’t wait to hear how it goes? “What do you mean?”

“I mean, do keep in touch. And best of luck, Summer.”

Ohhhhhhhhhh.

My shoulders slide toward the floor in the slumpiest slump of all time. “You’re not granting the loan?” I ask in a dead tone.

She shakes her head, still grinning, which seems kind of cruel. “No, but you’re one of our most regular and valuable customers, and we so appreciate you saving all that money with us.”

“But I need more.” My voice cracks, and I swallow that awful splintering sound. Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe she’s just messing around. “I’ve been a good customer for ten years, and now I need a loan to make this gym the best it can be. To be competitive.”

Electra pumps a fist. “And we are fired up to see how it goes with all that you have saved here. You go get ’em, girl.”

Girl.

She just you go, girled me.

She hasn’t even uttered any of the warning words that come before crushing your hopes and dreams. Words like however, but, with that said, or unfortunately.

She’s turned me down with pep and vigor.

“Is there anything else I can do?”

“The risk is just too great.”

With a deep sigh, I gather my purse, say a wooden thanks, and leave.

A deep sadness cloaks me as I walk across the stone floor of the bank toward the ominous exit.

Maybe I didn’t present a compelling enough pitch. Maybe I asked for too much. Maybe I asked for too little. But I need that extra money. Need it to get me over the hump. Need it to show I can do this on my own.

All I’ve ever wanted is to do this on my own.

And now I don’t have enough to open the doors.

Now I’ll have to table my dreams for months while I save up the rest.

As I trudge to the street, my phone rings—my mom is calling. I answer it half-heartedly, wishing I could muster my normal pep.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, trying to sound cheery, trying to focus on her. “How’s everything going with you? Is it Book Club Monday? Do you have everyone hooked on the newest Nora Roberts?”

“Of course I do. I’m a master at picking books. I should be running book clubs all over town. But that’s not why I’m calling. How did it go?” She sounds like she’s been holding her breath with anticipation.

“Oh, you know. It went . . .” But I can’t even spin a tale. “They turned me down.” My throat catches.

“Sweetie, let us help you.”

I shake my head. “Nope. I’ll make this work.”

“Summer, I want to help. We want to help,” she says, her tone upbeat. “I’m very good at helping, as you know. I’ve done it for years.”

And that, right there, is why I don’t entirely want it.

What if I take it and feel indebted? Annoyed? Resentful? She says she likes helping, but why does she always bring it up? Because she wishes she were still running her bookstore, I suspect.

“I know, Mom. But this is just a little speed bump. I’ll figure it out.” I check my watch. I need to go to Sunshine Living in two hours, so I’ve got one-hundred-and-twenty minutes to process my disappointment. I refuse to bring it to work with me. “I have to go to work in a little bit. I’m going to go for a walk. But I’ll text you later.”

“Do that. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I hang up, walking toward the park, trying to work through these obstacles before I clock in with Travis.

The moment I hit Fifth Avenue, my phone trills again—my brother this time. I’m tempted, so damn tempted to ask him for a loan. The words are on the tip of my tongue. He has the money.

He also has a six-year-old and the scars from a painful and expensive divorce.

And if I won’t take it from anyone else, I won’t take it from him.

I sigh so heavily it’ll send the Dow Jones plummeting. I’ll just wait a little longer, save a little more. It’s all I can do.

“Hey, Logan, what’s going on?”

My brother is cackling. “Sexy. Ex. Boyfriend. Dude, that is the funniest thing you’ve ever written.”

My brow pinches. “What are you talking about?”

But when I click on Twitter, I see I’ve made so much more than a grammatical error.

12

Summer

I. Am. Trending.

Or rather, “America’s Worst Boyfriend” is.

It’s all over Twitter. The letter I wrote. The dissection of it. The whodunit. And there is little social media loves more than a good outing. How was it even published? But I don’t have time to figure that out because right now, I need to rubberneck at my own ten-car pileup.

I scroll through a river of comments hashtagged #AmericasWorstBoyfriend as I walk, head bent, face buried in a mess of my own making.

@NYer14: I bet he’s a celebrity.

@GossipLover1andOnly: A reality show star.

@SportsFan: An athlete.

@Anglophile2200: Hello? You twits. He sounds British. English breakfast tea and all.

@GossipLover1andOnly: No, she said he hated tea.

@Anglophile2200: No, she said it would be cliché if he loved it. Learn to read, dimwit.

@RoyalWatcher: Could it be one of the royals?

@BTSLover: I bet he’s in a boy band.

@HatesBoyBands: Yes, that has to be it. Guys in boy bands are royal douches.

@TheThird: Wait. I know this guy.

@SexyLady: No, I know him.

@SexierLady: No, I dated him.

I stomp like Rumpelstiltskin.

No!

My hair is on fire, my blood heats to a thousand degrees of fury. I can’t believe I did this. I can’t believe this happened. I can’t believe . . . oh shit.

I can’t believe the next comment.

@TheThird: I’m pretty sure it’s Oliver Harris the twelfth. He came with Summer to my wedding. I gave out very nice pens. I’m not surprised they split though. He seemed like a bit of a playboy, truth be told. Also, my pens were cool.

Screw one thousand degrees. I am an inferno, and I want to throw balls of fire at my very douchey ex Drew.

Because his comment is all it takes.

What started as the funniest thing I ever wrote speeds straight into an epic dumpster fire.

@ManCandyFan: Oliver! Oh, he’s hawt.

@LovesListsofMen: That British lawyer? The one who looks like Tom Ellis and Chris Hemsworth had a love child and Harry Styles donated his hair to their baby?

@GossipLover1andOnly: Yes, the one on New York’s Most Eligible Bachelors list.

@ManCandyFan: The one who dated that heiress? Chantal. And some TV actress. That dude gets around.

@CheetahNoah: I hope he gets around! I’m doing a corporate scavenger hunt, and one of the things we have to find is a picture of an internet celebrity in the wild! If I can find HIM, I’m golden.

@MenAreJerks: I bet you’ll find him being a douche.

@PeopleAreJerks: He does look like a douche too. And I mean that in the best way possible.

@ILoveJerks: Right? Jerks are sooo hot. Why are jerks so hot? I don’t even know. They just are.

@ILoveCockyJackholes: OMG, yes. So much yes. There is just something about a jackass that I love.

@DownwithDouches: And look at this picture of him. He’s posing like a freaking model, with his top button undone, his hand in his hair, like he thinks he’s the hottest thing ever.

@ILoveJerks: Well, he is. I mean, my God. That jawline. That’s, like, the kind of jawline you use to measure hottest jawlines ever.

@MenAreJerks: That’s not a thing—hottest jawline ever is so not a thing.

@ILoveCockyJackholes: Well, it should be.

@FanofNietzsche: Jerks always get the good genes. It’s the universe’s way of reminding us that nihilism is alive and well.

@QuestionEverything22: So now this is a philosophical movement?

@DownwithDouches: Let’s start a movement to stop assholes.

@HZRedhead: Yes, I concur. I dated him once. I went to his apartment to bring him tea. Wasn’t that sweet of me? And he didn’t even have the courtesy to come downstairs and break my heart in person. I was in love with him. IN LOVE. MAD, CRAZY, BEAUTIFUL LOVE. Instead, he sent his new girlfriend to tell me. This man is the patron saint of asshole exes, and he must be stopped.

My eyes bug out when I discover Hazel’s comment. She and Oliver dated for maybe two weeks. He ended it with her in person. And she stalked him. With tea.

“You got it all wrong, crazy pants,” I mutter at the screen.

Maybe I’m the crazy one, though, since I’m talking to my phone as I march uptown. Oh, wait. That just makes me a New Yorker. But the craziest thing of all is when I see the next email.

From an editor at The Dating Pool. And it answers a big question.

Congratulations, Summer! We loved your letter so much we published it this morning, as we planned to do with the top three finalists. If yours is selected as the winner, you’ll receive $5000 in prize money. Best of luck!

13

Oliver

This is not how my day was supposed to go. This is not how any day is supposed to go, ever.

Dragging my hand through my hair—which looks nothing like Harry Styles’s, thank you very much—I pace in my office. With my work phone pressed to my ear, I do my very best to practice one of the three skills I pride myself on.

Reassuring.

“That’s not me. I swear that’s not who I am,” I tell Geneva, who’s beside herself thanks to Twitter doing what Twitter does best.

Misinterpreting literally everything.

“But all the posts say it’s you,” Geneva insists, a brand-new worry in her voice. “All the comments, all the blogs. Hashtag ‘America’s Worst Boyfriend.’ And frankly, I don’t know if I’m comfortable doing business with someone like that.”

A knot of anxiety tightens in my chest, hard and unpleasant.

I hate unhappy clients. It means I didn’t try hard enough, fight well enough. That’s not okay. I didn’t go into this field to lose. I went to law school to help those who need a lion in their corner, who want the king of the jungle fighting their battles.

For all the lawyer jokes in the world, the reality is, when you need someone to go to battle for you—and everyone needs someone to go to battle for them at some point—that usually means you need an attorney who will be fierce for you.

My sister needed it when she was young. Geneva needs it now. And I want to be that person for her. “I think there’s simply been a misunderstanding. Allow me to explain,” I say calmly, preparing to improvise the hell out of this shitshow.

A shitshow that Summer started. Unwittingly, I’m sure. But one she started, nonetheless, with a funny, sweet, heartfelt insider’s joke of a letter that’s been twisted by the thing known as the internet. I bet in ten years, computers will come with a warning label. Caution: internet use may be hazardous to your sanity. Social media, in particular, has been known to cause stupidity and bad decisions, resulting in dumpster fires and absolute fuckery.

“You see . . .” I begin.

“No, allow me to explain,” Geneva says, sharper now, her voice like a knife. “I just went through a terrible divorce. Public and horrible. My ex was a Casanova who made an utter mockery of our marriage, and frankly . . . this reminds me of it.”

What she described, what Twitter is saying, couldn’t be further from the truth. I just need to convey that to her.

“Twitter has twisted this all around. The woman who wrote that—I’ve known her my whole life. It was all . . .” I say, and then I’m about to tell her the true reason for the letter—that the woman who wrote it is, like, my best mate, that we have a long-running joke about terrible exes, that it’s a thing we do for each other, playing pretend, and that it all started way back in high school when my sister was sick. But as those words take shape in my mind, they sound ridiculous.

They sound like a bald-faced lie.

Geneva picks up where I trailed off. “If you were America’s best boyfriend, it would be one thing. But this? These things they are saying about you . . .”

My cell buzzes on my desk with a text from Summer. I lunge for it as Geneva goes on about all the brilliant comments on Twitter, including how I am the biggest twat of the internet.

Summer: I am so sorry. You are not America’s worst boyfriend. You are America’s best ex-boyfriend. That was supposed to be fun, a tongue-in-cheek way to celebrate us, and I never thought anyone would figure out it was you. I didn’t even know my essay was going to be posted online—at least not right away, not to mention go viral—and I feel like such an utter idiot. The absolute worst friend ever. You probably hate me, and if you do, I deserve it, but I will do anything to make this right for you. What can I do?

Immediately, I know the answer.

I won’t lose this client for my firm. I won’t lose this deal. And I will fight this battle for her. It’ll take me three weeks to ink the new partnership for her agency, and in the meantime, there’s only one choice.

I flash back to a few years ago when my cousin Christian faced a somewhat similar predicament. To save his company in Paris, he had to marry straightaway.

A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.

Sliding in when Geneva pauses, I go for it. Leave it all on the field. Well, not exactly marriage. But the same idea. “Here’s the thing. Summer didn’t mean the letter that way. The truth is, I am America’s best boyfriend. Because . . .” I draw on my best store of humility, such as it is. “Summer and I . . . well, we’re engaged. It happened quite recently. So, you see, what she meant with the letter is that she’s saying goodbye to me as her ex-boyfriend because now I’m going to be her forever one.”

And the response from my client is all I could ever want.

It’s one word.

Oh.

Her tone is surprise mixed with delight, and then it finishes on a happy squeal.

“That’s so lovely, Ollie.” She laughs, sounding almost embarrassed, and I don’t even care that she called me Ollie. “I got it all wrong. I am so sorry I got it so completely inside out.”

“Everyone did, obviously.” I push out a chuckle. “We weren’t going to announce it yet, but Summer? Well, she’s Summer. She likes to present things in unconventional ways, which is one of the things I love about her. You’ll see when you meet her. We should all have dinner this Saturday.”

“Perhaps Jane can come along too. I wanted to invite her to my wine tasting tomorrow night. Why don’t we all go to that, and then we can have dinner with some of the other partners in the firm this weekend? It’s important to me to fully know and trust the people I work with.”

“I’m sure she’d love that—the wine and the dinner.” I breathe a lifetime’s worth of sighs of relief, even though Summer hates wine.

But I bet she can fake it for me.

Geneva seems relieved too. “I can’t wait to meet her, and of course, I won’t back out of our deal. I’m so glad that it was a misunderstanding. Thank you for setting things straight.”

I wave a hand airily. “Everything gets out of hand on the internet, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed it does. I should have known better,” she says with so much contrition that I almost feel bad for my fib.

Almost.

When I hang up, I call Summer and tell her to meet me straightaway. Then I leave, telling Jane I’ll be back soon.

“Don’t forget you have a one o’clock with Hanover Media,” she tells me. “Prospective new client. Helen Williams Designs referred them, since she loved your work so much on the last deal.”

“And I love word of mouth.” Word of mouth is exactly why I need to stop this shitshow from snowballing.

Loosening my tie as I go, I head to Fifth Avenue, walk up a few blocks, texting my cousin in Paris as I go.

Oliver: Remember that time you engineered a marriage of convenience to save your company?

Christian: Hmm. Sounds a bit familiar. Care to elaborate?

Oliver: It worked brilliantly, right?

Christian: What sort of hot water have you gotten yourself into, cuz?

I stare at the text thread. Yeah, this might not be helpful right now.

Oliver: I’ll update you later.

Christian: Spare no details. I need a good laugh.

Yes, a laugh. This is funny. This is something we’ll all look back on and laugh. Putting my phone away, I find Summer outside the entrance to the park, waiting at a bench and wringing her hands.

She looks devastated, her big brown eyes brimming with worry. “I am so sorry. I am the worst friend ever. I never thought that would happen. Those people are dickheads.”

“Yes, and Twitter is the biggest dickhead of all.” I’m not in the business of holding grudges or staying pissed. There’s no point. Besides, I’m about to call in a big favor now. “But I knew what you meant. I know what you were trying to say.”

“You do?” she asks, and her voice is small, fearful. “You’re not pissed at me?”

I hold up my thumb and forefinger, showing a sliver of space. “Maybe a little at first. But not for long.”

“Oh, Oliver. I feel terrible,” she says, her brow knit with worry. “I thought it was a nice little way of saying thank you, but in a way where only you would know it was you.” She presses her palms together as if in prayer. “Tell me how I can help. I meant it when I said I’d do anything.”

I shoot her a wry grin, take a beat, then call in a your-turn-to-scratch-my-back. “Here’s what I need for the next three weeks.”

“Anything. Please. I’m dying to make this right.” The look in those puppy-dog eyes is a desperate plea. I sort of hate that she feels that way, but sort of not.

Because it’s going to make my outlandish request much easier.

“Good,” I say, with what I’m sure is a slightly evil grin. “Because I’m cashing in on the prom promise. Your sexy ex-boyfriend is about to become your fake fiancé.”

14

Summer

Thirteen years ago

We huddled in the teen cave, the sprawling basement of Oliver’s home, music blasting, hands dipping into the popcorn bowl as the four of us plotted—Logan, Oliver, Phoebe, and me.

The mission? Prom-posals for my twin brother and the guy next door.

We’d already mapped out a plan for Logan to ask the foreign exchange student in his history class.

Now it was time to assist Oliver in asking Emily.

As for me? I planned to go with my friends, a big group of girls in pretty dresses and sparkly shoes, dancing with each other.

“How about I ask Emily when she goes for her run in the morning?” Oliver suggested, grabbing a handful of popcorn and munching.

Logan pointed his finger approvingly as he grabbed some kernels then headed to the Ping-Pong table. “Dude. Yes. You just get some Sharpies, write it on a sign, and boom. In like Flynn.”

I scoff-laughed. “I don’t think it’s that easy.”

From her spot in the corner of the couch, Phoebe shot her younger brother a look that said he was a dolt. It was a look she’d perfected with him. “Promise me you’re not going to do that, Ollie. Just promise me.”

Oliver turned to his sister, now nineteen. It was one of her good days. They were fewer and farther between, but she tried to embrace them when they came.

We all did. She’d been fighting cancer since the family moved from England a few years ago so she could undergo an experimental treatment at a nearby hospital. It had worked . . .

For a while.

“Why not? Emily likes to run. She’s captain of the cross-country team. It seems perfect for a prom-posal,” Oliver said, being all boy-logical as he rose to join Logan at the table.

But boy logic didn’t always sway teenage girls.

Phoebe turned to me. The look in her crystal blue eyes said, Boys. You can’t train them to do anything. “What are we supposed to do with him, Summer? He’s hopeless. Utterly hopeless.”

“It’s a condition of being male,” I agreed dryly.

Oliver lifted his chin, standing his ground. “I think it’s brilliant.”

“You would,” Phoebe said, reaching for some popcorn and tossing it at her brother. The kernels landed a few feet from Oliver. Her strength was waning.

He bent to pick them up, but their corgi mix, Gloria, raised her snout from the floor and gamely trotted over to hoover up the spill as Logan served the white ball across the table.

Oliver darted up in time to smack it back, and the rhythmic sound of the plastic ball hitting the table punctuated our romantic war room machinations.

“Anyway,” Phoebe added in her best arch I’m your older sister and I know better voice, “I would strongly suggest something a bit more creative. Right, Summer?”

“Perhaps balloons spelling out PROM,” I offered. “Or get a T-shirt for Gloria to wear with Will you go to prom with my person? written on it.”

“Excellent idea. Dogs are perfect wingmen. Or wingwomen, in Gloria’s case. Another option is to rent the marquee at the local cinema and put a sign up there asking her.”

Logan slammed a ball across the table. “No way. That’s megabucks. We don’t even know if Emily likes him.”

Phoebe stroked her chin, brow furrowed. “Fair point. It’s hard to imagine anyone would, truly.”

I held up a hand to high-five her.

“You’re a little stinker,” Oliver said to her as he backhanded a ball. “But I’ve no doubt she’s into me. She has excellent taste.”

“Then I bet she’ll go for that bloke who looks like Jude Law,” Phoebe offered.

My gaze snapped in her direction. “You mean Colton Davis? The guy who plays guitar? Senior? He’s yummy.”

“So yummy,” Phoebe said dreamily. It was the first thing that had come out of her mouth that afternoon that wasn’t laced with sarcasm or sass.

Logan missed the shot, Oliver lowered his paddle, and I simply stared at her. Phoebe rarely talked about boys. With a determined look, Oliver walked over to his sister, sat next to her, and took her hand. “Do you want to go with him? We could ask him to go with you.”

The sound that emanated from Phoebe was the most derisive snort to emanate from any person ever.

“No!”

Instinctively, I turned to the door, looking for Oliver’s parents to come running to see if she’d fallen, to see if she was okay. But she was more than fine, and they were out, their dad at work, their mom running to the pharmacy to pick up meds for Phoebe.

She jerked her hand away from Oliver and pointed a stern finger at him. “Do not ever do that. Do not do something because you feel sorry for me. I mean it. I don’t want to get dressed up. I don’t want to wear stupid makeup, and I definitely don’t want to wear a hideous fucking wig. No, thank you. I’d rather stay home with Gloria than have everyone stare at me because I finally got to go to prom.” For a second, her voice trembled, but she swallowed and raised her chin. “Besides,” she said, collecting herself, a twinkle in her eyes, “I’d rather help Summer get ready, do her hair, and snap the photos when she has to take you as a pity date after Emily turns you down.”

Her smile was slow to spread, mischievous and thoroughly Machiavellian.

Logan mimed shooting a slam dunk. “Ohhh! You’ve just been burned.”

We all laughed. Phoebe was still Phoebe—always finding ways to poke fun at her little brother.

I joined in the laughter, knowing full well Phoebe’s prediction would never come true.

Emily would say yes, Oliver would take her to prom, and I’d go with . . . well, a group of friends.

Which would be fine.

I liked my girlfriends.

I didn’t have a crush on the handsome British boy next door.

I didn’t long for my brother’s best friend.

For my good friend.

Not at all.

At least, not very much most of the time.

* * *

But enough, apparently, that butterflies flickered through my chest two days later when Oliver pulled me aside after fifth-period calculus, scratched his jaw, and said, “Listen. Turns out Emily’s involved. Dating some wanker in community college who’s taking her to prom.”

“He’s definitely a wanker if he’s dating a high school student,” I said, quickly concurring. “What kind of college student dates a high schooler?”

“The wanker kind.” His grin faded, his expression turning serious. “But I was thinking about what Phoebe said.”

“Which part?” I asked, ever so casually, as if the details of the prom planning weren’t seared into my brain.

“The part where she mentioned you getting ready. I think she really wants to help you get ready. Do the whole girly thing. And look, I know it’s not your thing. I know you’re more into sports and Phoebe was always more of the frilly one, but would you want to?”

My heart sped up, beating a wildly fast rhythm. That was weird. Why would my heart trip over itself? I didn’t like Oliver like that. I truly didn’t. Fine, now and then I’d entertain little crush-like thoughts, but that was it, that was all.

But I wanted to be sure I understood. “Would I want to go to prom?”

“Would you be my pity date?” His lips curved into a grin as he repeated Phoebe’s words.

“You make it sound so appealing,” I teased, but we both knew what the date was about.

It wasn’t about us. It wasn’t about this skip in my heart.

It was about Oliver giving something to his sister that she’d never ask him to give. Something small that he could do if I said yes.

Of course I said yes. I didn’t say it for me, though, in spite of those butterflies.

I said it for him and, most of all, for her.

* * *

A few weeks later, Phoebe did her best to help me with my hair, flat ironing it until she was too tired to hold the iron.

She applied my blush, then regarded me with the intense stare of a reality show judge. “You look smashing,” she declared, appraising my simple blue dress. No frills, no satin, no lace.

“She does,” Oliver seconded, shooting me a smile that warmed me all over.

Was the smile for her? Or was the smile for me?

I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. Phoebe mattered.

Oliver gave his sister a hug at the door, and Phoebe said, “That Emily doesn’t know what she’s missing, Ollie.”

He simply laughed, soft and light. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Oh, you love it,” she said, waving a hand dismissively.

“No. I don’t at all,” he said, but his grin gave him away.

“Then grumble every time someone calls you that, just like you do with me. It’ll be your way of remembering me when I’m gone.”

His smile disappeared. His eyes narrowed. “Oh, shut up now.”

“Just do it,” she said, and she wasn’t mad. She was simply . . . Phoebe.

Especially when she turned to me and said, “Summer, call him Ollie now and then to get a rise out of him. Do that for me, okay?”

Laughing, I gave her my oath. “I solemnly swear to call him Ollie every now and then.”

“You’re a gem,” she told me.

“And you’re a little stinker,” Oliver told her.

She preened. “I know.”

“So stop talking about when you’ll be gone,” he said, a hitch in his voice.

“It’s the truth. I’m used to it. I’m fine with it.”

“I’m not,” he said fiercely, then dropped a kiss onto her forehead and wished her a good night.

As we left, he seemed to collect himself, to shift away from that tug I was sure he felt in his heart, that wish that things were different.

“I love Phoebe,” I blurted when we slid into the limo, just the two of us.

He offered a sad smile. “Join the club.”

“It is not fair,” I said, my lip quivering, but I swallowed the threatening tears. It was his hurt, his pending loss. I didn’t want to co-opt it.

“I know. Some days that’s all I think about.”

“I wish everything were different,” I said, my voice catching once more.

“You have no idea how much I want that. How much I hope for . . .”

“For a miracle.”

Glancing out the window, he nodded, swallowing tightly and swiping a finger across his face before looking back at me with a helpless shrug. “I’ll miss her so much,” he whispered.

I set my hand on his, squeezing. “I’ll be here for you.”

He pressed his shoulder against mine. “I know.”

“Always. I promise.”

“I know that too, Summer.”

He squeezed my hand in return, and that contact was like a seal on our friendship. A promise that we’d look out for each other. That we’d have each other’s backs.

We had a blast at prom, dancing, drinking punch, laughing, and hanging out with friends.

Later, we lounged in our chairs at our table, watching the disco ball swirl its squares of light on the floor as others swayed and we talked.

He lifted a brow in a question. “So, tell me, Summer. How was your first pity date?”

“You’re assuming it’s my first,” I teased.

“Oh, is this a service you offer other sorry boys?”

“Only the sorriest.”

“How lucky am I?”

“Very lucky,” I said.

“In that case, let me know if I can return the favor. Down the road, when you’re twenty-five or thirty, if you ever need a pity date, you call on me, okay?”

I patted his knee. “You’ll be the first one I call. I promise. And same goes for you if you need my services again.”

“It’ll be our prom promise,” he said.

“A solemn vow,” I said, wiggling my brow and pursing my lips before I added with a smirk, “Ollie.”

He narrowed his eyes, growling at me. “You’re evil. But even so, I doubt you’ll need to cash it in. You’ll have no problem getting dates . . .” He trailed off like he was waiting for me to say something more.

Was I supposed to say something? Something clever or romantic?

I didn’t know, wasn’t sure what he was getting at. Teasing him was easy. Understanding him was hard in moments like these.

And deciphering my own tangled knot of emotions—friendship, a dash of attraction, a close family connection, and that terrible kernel of pending grief, cresting like a wave not far from the shore—was impossible. Best to not even try.

So I simply laughed and said, “You’ll have no problem either, Emilys of the world aside.”

The odd thing was that Emily didn’t go to the dance. She wasn’t there with her wanker boyfriend.

The next week, I overheard her in the cafeteria line talking to a friend as she scooped salad onto her tray. “It’s strange,” she said. “I was so sure Oliver Harris was going to ask me to prom. He never did.”

I blinked, my face flushing as she unwittingly revealed his secret to me.

He’d never asked her.

I never let on that I knew he hadn’t.

It didn’t really matter anyway.

I was his pity date, and Phoebe was the happiest we’d seen her in a long time.

15

Summer

Present day

All day long, all the time, all across the world people say, “I’ll do anything.”

But it’s just a saying, like “I’m dying to see your dress” or “This song is the worst.”

So when Oliver takes me up on my offer to do anything, my jaw comes unhinged. My brain buzzes with static, a radio stuck between stations.

Did he just say “become your fake fiancé”?

That’s the anything?

Cashing in on our prom promise? Isn’t that what we’ve always done? First with Emily, and later with Drew the third and his pens, with Hazel and her tea, and with all the other douche exes we’ve both had.

But not for three weeks.

More like for a few minutes, an hour, a night.

And now we’re making believe for twenty-one long days. I should be dreading it, like a twenty-one-day paprika-infused juice cleanse.

When someone cashes in a voucher for a debt you owe, it’s not supposed to be enjoyable.

But being Oliver’s pretend fiancée doesn’t sound that bad.

It sounds weirdly sort of fun, when he explains why he needs one.

Like being immersed in a great romance novel.

Hell, maybe, just maybe, a touch of pretend will eradicate those occasionally pesky tingles from my body. Satisfy a craving or my curiosity perhaps.

I confirm I heard him right. “So, let me get this straight. I wrote a letter for a contest extolling your virtues as an ex, the internet misinterpreted it, your client freaked out, and your solution is for us to pretend we’re engaged?”

He quirks up an I’m so clever brow. “Brilliant, right?”

I laugh. “That’s one word for it.” I shake my head, but I’m already in, and we know it. “A deal is a deal, and no prom promise shall be reneged on. So we better lay out the rules.”

His eyes twinkle with delight, and maybe relief too. “We should. Rules are good, right?”

“Rules are vital for any game people play.”

As if we’d planned it, we both gesture to the park as if to say, Let’s walk and talk. There’s no need to say it. It’s one of the things we do, and the park is my favorite place in the city.

We used to hop the train in from Connecticut and do teen things, and we usually ended up in the park eventually.

Heading into the park, we roll up our fake fiancée planning sleeves. “So, how did this happen? Well, besides the obvious. My letter. I’m sorry for it,” I say, and I feel like I’ll be apologizing for this for the rest of my life.

“Don’t. It was quite sweet.” His tone is neutral, though, and I can’t tell what he means. “Even if it was nearly deadly to my business.”

I cringe. “So what happened?”

“I didn’t see it at first, so I was a tad surprised when Jane alerted me to the things people were saying.”

“Ah, Jane. Looks innocent on the outside, loves gossip on the inside,” I say.

“That describes her to a T. Though it’s a useful trait in an aunt who runs the reception desk. In any case, she tipped me off, showed me the comments, then Geneva rang.” As we wander through the park, he goes into how his key new client reacted.

“And that’s when I realized, I had to cash in on the prom promise,” he continues. “But we should probably get our story straight. Like, how this happened, and so on.”

I tap my chest. “I’ve got this. You’ve come to the Queen of Brilliant Schemes. I’m thinking we keep it easy—we say we’ve known each other for ages, and—”

He snaps his fingers. “You fell for me when you saw me get out of the pool. Couldn’t keep your hands off me, and we’ve been shagging like bunnies every night since.”

I blink. “Whoa.”

My mind is a carousel now. The merry-go-round of my brain whirls past an arousing array of images of Oliver unable to keep his hands off me.

Because, hey, this is my inconvenient fantasy, and in it, he can’t get enough of me.

But there is one little issue nagging at me, back where I can hear Stella’s voice in my head. “So, that’s how it happened? Your fake fiancée backstory starts with shagging?”

He scratches his head. “Yeah. I mean, how else would it start?” The corner of his lips curves up into the cheekiest of grins as we near the carousel.

Carnival music floats out from the ride, a nostalgic sound that reminds me of our times traipsing through the park on weekend escapes into the city. I told Oliver once that I planned to have my first real kiss in front of the carousel. And now we’re talking about banging.

“Right. Naturally, it started with sex,” I say, deadpan, and I’m thinking Stella is right. Good-looking men have no clue.

Women fall at their feet.

“Precisely. A very stellar shag,” he adds.

Naturally, Oliver would assume I caught one look at his banana hammock at the pool and had to get his man meat between my thighs.

God damn it.

Why does Stella have to be a soothsayer?

Oliver is surely awful in bed.

I raise a palm as we near the pretty ponies. “Or, hear me out, we could keep the bedroom part private and maybe just say something generic, like After years of friendship, we realized the one we wanted was right in front of us.”

He snorts. “Boring.”

“Seriously? That’s boring? It’s kind of sweet.”

“Nope. It’s dull. After years of friendship, we can’t just have a light bulb moment. We need fireworks.” He mimes an explosion with both arms. “A parade. A twenty-one-gun salute in honor of our hormones finally getting on the same page,” he says.

“Fine, yes. That could work. Or maybe,” I say, as if offering an outlandish idea, “how would you feel if it wasn’t about hormones? If maybe it was about—gasp— feelings?”

He sighs dramatically. “Only if we can still have fireworks. Don’t you get me, Summer?” He grabs my shoulders, gripping me. “We need the story of our fireworks.”

Fireworks. The thing we will never have because the Law of Good-Looking equals bad in bed is as inescapable as E equals MC squared.

This entire conversation is pretty much confirmation.

“Fine.” I wave a hand airily, searching for a tale that’ll satisfy him. “Let’s say one night while you were helping me plan the gym, I went over to review paperwork, we got stuck in the elevator, and all our pent-up truths came out.”

“Elevator, you say? Can we have shagged in it?”

I slug him. “Yes, you sex-obsessed pervert. You are America’s Worst Boyfriend.” I laugh, and he grabs me, putting me in a chokehold.

“Say you don’t mean it. Say I’m the best. Say no one is better than me.”

It’s like being tickled, and I’m laughing and snorting at the same damn time when a throat clears.

And a voice I don’t recognize cuts in—fast, excited. “Excuse me. This may be crazy, but it’s probably not, because I’m pretty sure I’m right. Aren’t you America’s Worst Boyfriend?”

Oliver groans.

We both turn to face some random person, a guy a few years younger than us with dark hair and a trim frame. He’s waggling his phone at us, showing his Twitter feed. A satisfied grin lights his face. “Yes! I thought it was you. I was so sure, and now I know it is. I’m Noah. I’m doing this crazy scavenger hunt for my company, and we have to get ten items. One is a pic of a real-life internet celebrity. We hashtag the pic, and everyone shares it. Can I take your pic? It would probably get my team into first, and if we win, our company will donate to the charity we chose, and I picked pediatric cancer research.”

While the guy catches his breath, a flash of sadness crosses Oliver’s eyes, and that’s when an idea sticks in my mind.

The next brilliant scheme.

This will solve the hairiest, thorniest issue of all. And it’ll even do some good, it seems.

I drape an arm around my best friend, then meet Noah’s gaze. “You can take his picture, but his nickname isn’t America’s Worst Boyfriend. It’s America’s Best Boyfriend.” I squeeze Oliver’s shoulder like a girlfriend would do, then shoot him a hearts are aflutter in my eyes look. “And I know that because I wrote the essay and this man is my fiancé.”

“Sweet! Even better. It’s like I can break the story. I always wanted to be a journalist. Well, after being an Olympic superstar. That was my first goal. But this—this’ll work.”

“Excellent. Glad to hear it,” I say. Oliver turns his face to me, mouthing, You’re brilliant.

“Smile for the camera,” Noah says, and holds up his phone. “New hashtag. ‘America’s Best Boyfriend.’”

And America’s Best Boyfriend deserves a kiss. I lean in and press my lips chastely to his cheek when Oliver says, “Let’s give them something to hashtag about.”

16

Summer

I’ve thought about kissing Oliver before. My mind has gone there every now and then.

It’s not like I’ve mooned over him.

Please. I’m a grown woman. I don’t moon.

It’s been more of a . . . consideration. A visit to another town, just to peek around, see the shops, check out the scenery.

That’s all it is, because I’ve had enough experience with this inconvenient crush that it’s no longer inconvenient. I can turn it off anytime. Hell, I turn it off most of the time. I guess that makes it a convenient crush.

But when I have let my mind skip over the border to Kissingville, there’s a buildup. I picture us at a bar, on the beach, along the boardwalk.

There is always a moment. A movie moment that I see coming.

But now I’m completely blindsided, and I have no time to brace for the most unexpected kiss of my life.

I close my eyes the second his lips touch mine.

No, the world doesn’t stop.

No, I don’t melt.

And no, I don’t stop breathing when Oliver brushes his mouth against mine.

What happens is far more wondrous.

I feel good everywhere.

There’s not a corner forgotten or untouched.

I’ve taken a happiness drug, and it’s flooding my veins with a dreamy, dizzying sensation, and every molecule is tingling.

It’s sunshine and music, this feeling of his lips dusting mine with a soft, tender ghost of a kiss.

A gentle slide.

A delicious sigh.

His lips trace mine for the very first time and the kiss sweeps through me, lights flickering on like fireflies in June.

I’m illuminated by a kiss that feels like floating.

His lips are soft, full, and confident.

They brush against me, making me tremble, making my skin shimmer.

It’s possible I’m glowing.

Because holy hell.

Oliver Harris is proving Stella’s theory wrong.

This man can kiss.

Oh my, he can kiss so damn well.

My knees wobble, my stomach flips, and shivers rush down my arms, skating across my skin.

One touch of his lips, one flick of his tongue, and I am tumbling out of this-is-so-easy zone and into what-the-hell-was-I-thinking land.

Pretending to be his fiancée is no longer the simplest thing, not when I know now exactly what I’m missing.

I’m missing him.

I’m missing a kiss that makes me want to sing.

I’m missing this possibility beyond my reach.

Then, that possibility turns hotter, burns brighter. Oliver’s hand cups my cheek, grazing my skin, making me shudder. His fingertips trail down my face.

And he lingers, his thumb sliding along my jaw. It’s almost like he doesn’t want this to end either. His lips luxuriate on mine for one last second, and right when I swear he’s about to pull away, his tongue flicks out across my bottom lip.

I gasp.

He breaks the kiss.

I’m not a fainter. But I’m about to tumble to the ground in a puddle of turned-on woman. He clasps my elbow, and I steady myself.

Oliver’s gaze stays on me, his green eyes growing darker, glittering with something new, something that looks distinctly like the start of a fire.

Like desire.

Like want.

And that—that look—sends a whole new rush of sensations through me.

Hot, wild, electric ones that threaten to consume my common sense, tenuous as it is right now.

The man behind the phone camera emits a low wolf whistle. “Hot damn. I think I’m going to enter that on a Tumblr feed of hottest kisses spotted in the wild. Or really, I bet my friend Ginny will. She’s into that sort of thing. She’ll dig it.”

“Glad to be of help,” Oliver says, his voice smoky.

I’ve never heard it like that before.

But I want to hear it like that again.

And that’s a problem.

The man leaves, and I turn to Oliver, trying to wrestle some semblance of control over my thoughts, when I remember—I’m due at work.

“I need to go.” I point in the general direction of Sunshine Living as explanation.

He drags a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath, like he’s centering himself.

“I’ll . . .” he stops, like he isn’t sure what to say, “see you later,” he says distractedly, and when he leaves too, I try not to glance back.

I swear I do.

But when I sneak one last peek, I see Oliver doing the same at me.

And when I reach the other side of the park, I’m still replaying that kiss.

17

Oliver

Evidently, one kiss does the trick.

Geneva sends me an email that night.

I’m so sorry again about earlier and my mistaken assumptions. I just stumbled across the photo of you and your fiancée in the park. How utterly delightful! You’re the toast of the town. See you tomorrow at wine o’clock!

I fire off a quick reply, thanking her, then segue to business, updating her on the deal and confirming we’ll be at the tasting.

Jane is next, sending me a text.

Jane: How dare you not tell me you’re betrothed? You naughty boy. Also, I expect all the salacious details tomorrow. :)

Jane: Wait. Not the salacious ones. Just the juicy little nuggets of how you found yourself in this pickle.

Jane: P.S. How long must we keep this ruse up? It is a ruse, no?

Oliver: Yes. Ruse. But you didn’t hear that from me.

Jane: I’ll be in early tomorrow for a full and proper download.

I sink down on my couch with my Chinese takeaway for dinner, put on my online hazmat suit—aka my I don’t give a fuck armor—and dive into the deep end.

I click on the hashtag “America’s Best Boyfriend” as I eat.

Well, well, well, look at that. That turnaround didn’t take long.

Apparently, I’m not such a knob after all. The internet loves me again.

@LovesListsofMen: SAD!!! All the good ones are taken! Do you think she runs her hands through his Harry Styles hair?

@ManCandyFan: If she doesn’t, I volunteer as tribute. But she totally does.

@GossipLover1andOnly: Among other places where she runs her hands.

@ManCandyFan: Arms. I bet he has good arms. Sigh. I love good arm candy.

I check out the guns. Not too shabby. Why, yes, ManCandyFan, feel free to enjoy the arms.

@RoyalWatcher: Did we ever figure out if he’s royal? He looks like a duke. Or an earl. That lady is lucky to snag an earl.

@Anglophile2200: I’d take a viscount.

@BritsDoItBest: I’d take the valet of a viscount if he could speak British to me.

@Anglophile2200: British is not a language, you twit.

@BritsDoItBest: Gee, thanks for horning in on my fantasy life.

@Anglophile2200: Maybe keep it off Twitter?

@BritsDoItBest: Maybe you should keep off Twitter. Maybe you’re America’s Worst Boyfriend.

@RomanceFanForLife: Can we please focus on the most important thing? How cute they are? That letter was like a love letter to him. It was her way of telling him how much she loves him.

I scoff at that last one. Oh, you are so very wrong, RomanceFanForLife. But who cares, because I righted this ship, and that’s all that matters.

That kiss barely matters.

That was simply a smooch for the camera.

I’m not thinking about how it turned me on wildly. Definitely not contemplating how I touched her face, dragged her close, and brought her in for a hot, searing moment of passion.

If not for the guy on the scavenger hunt, I would have pushed her up against a carousel horse and continued for hours rather than seconds, kissing the breath out of her to the calliope music soundtrack until we were panting, groaning, putting on a show.

And see? That didn’t happen.

So it’s all good.

The plan is working, and Geneva doesn’t think I’m a callous arse.

I take another bite of the pepper steak, then fire off a text to Summer, sending her a link to the new hashtag.

Oliver: It worked. We are tops at faking it.

Summer: Well, I’ve been pretending to tolerate you for seventeen years, so this is easy enough.

Oliver: Absolutely. It’s been the same for me. It’s not easy, since you’re a terrible bore.

Summer: And you’re a humorless nitwit. :)

Oliver: And we have zero to say to each other.

Summer: Nothing but dead air when we’re together.

Oliver: Amazing that we’ve pulled off this friendship for so long when we can’t stand each other.

Summer: And no one can tell. They actually think we like each other. As if.

I laugh as I take another bite of my dinner. This is an excellent way to handle a kiss that didn’t feel like we hated each other whatsoever. That felt a little pent-up. Fine, a lot pent-up.

But whatever.

It was just a kiss for the hashtag.

The sighs, the gasps, the little murmurs were just by-products. If there was more to the kiss than damage control, we wouldn’t be joking so well, getting on like we’ve always done.

Summer: Little do they know we are experts at this ruse. Heck, we could enter a contest for most believable fake fiancée kissing. Oh, speaking of contests, I have news!

Oliver: I’m all ears. Digital ears. But ears nonetheless.

I reread my last note. I might sound like I’m trying too hard at friendship. But hell, we are friends. It’s not trying. It just . . . is.

I truly want to know her news.

Summer: The magazine just informed me I won the prize for the essay!

I pump a fist, thrilled for her.

Oliver: That’s brilliant!!! You deserve it! Everything is coming up aces.

Summer: Crazy, right? It’s $5000!

Oliver: Is it enough for the final funding for your gym, with the classes and whatnot?

Summer: Not quite, but it sure does make the shortfall a little easier to manage.

As I’m typing out a reply, a new post from Twitter pops up under the hashtag thread, with a series of replies too.

@MenAreJerks: I bet he’s still a douche.

@PeopleAreJerks: He looks like he’s a good kisser. Therefore, a douche.

@ILoveJerks: Jerks are the best kissers.

I take a screenshot and send it to Summer.

Oliver: Ah, Twitter still thinks I’m a jackass. C’est la vie.

She seems to take her time answering. The dots pop up, indicating she’s typing, but they stop every few seconds, making me curious.

What are you trying to say, Summer?

Hell, I’m dying to know.

And then, finally, she sends something, but not to me.

There’s a new post on the social media feed, in a reply to ILoveJerks.

@SummerTime: I don’t know if jerks are the best kissers. I do know that Oliver is.

And there goes my fucking resolve not to think about kissing her.

My brain can go fuck itself.

18

Oliver

“This tastes like blackberries and a fireplace on a cold winter’s night.”

The declaration comes from Geneva the next night at the wine tasting in Soho.

She holds the glass of merlot up high, sniffs it again, then takes another sip. “With a hint of . . . leather.”

“The finest leather,” Jane seconds from her post next to Geneva.

My client turns to Summer, who’s by my side looking elegant in a black dress that, if it were up to me, would plunge lower. But the V-thing it’s got going on works its powers of distraction nevertheless.

Geneva reaches for a fresh glass from a nearby table and thrusts it at my date. “What do you think, Summer? I’d love your opinion.”

Summer shakes her head. “I’m honestly not a wine person.”

Geneva frowns. “Oh? I thought Oliver said you liked wine?”

Summer jerks her gaze to me. “You did?”

And shit, fuck, bugger. I forgot to debrief Summer properly on the way over, forgot to tell her I told Geneva that she enjoyed wine. Because of that damn dress. It’s like Lex Luthor designed a dress with my personal kryptonite. Or maybe that kiss fried too many brain cells going into tonight.

Jane widens her Mayday eyes, trying to signal that I need to get my act together.

“My apologies, Geneva. Summer’s never been a wine fan,” I say, dropping an arm across my date’s shoulder. “But I wanted to come, and I knew she’d be a good sport about it, because she is a great sport.”

Summer gives an aren’t we cute grin. “That’s me. Sometimes he even calls me sport.”

What?

I would really like to roll my eyes now. I’d never call her “sport.” Maybe “strawberry.” Or “petal.” Or “cupcake.” She does look a bit like one right now . . . as in, good enough to eat.

I push out a laugh as I shift my gaze to the woman by my side. “But most of the time, I call you cupcake.”

“Yes, it is so dear when he calls her ‘cupcake,’” Jane chimes in.

I press a kiss to Summer’s cheek. And the kiss seems to do the trick.

“For a moment there, you had me thinking you don’t really know your fiancée. With the wine and whatnot.” Geneva wags a finger at me. She’s grinning, but her grin says, You damn well better know your fiancée.

I toss my head back and laugh at that ridiculous suggestion. “I know her incredibly well. Have for years.”

“They were practically inseparable in high school, from what I heard,” Jane adds.

“We were. And we never drank wine together then either,” Summer says.

“Such well-behaved teens,” Jane says.

“And I can at least sniff it now,” Summer chimes in, grabbing the glass and lifting it to her nose. “Yes, it does indeed smell like bacon.”

Geneva frowns.

“I meant leather.” Summer quickly corrects herself. “I meant it smells like fine leather. The finest.”

Jane grins.

I squeeze Summer’s arm tighter, then drop a kiss onto her cheek. “Leather. Bacon. Sometimes it’s one and the same.”

“I love bacon,” Summer blurts out. “That was a compliment. Bacon is awesome. They should make bacon wine.”

Geneva tilts her head, considering us for a beat. The woman is more skeptical than I’d like her to be, and it’s much harder to play pretend than I anticipated.

Time to prove it’s real. I draw Summer close and plant a quick kiss on her lips that’s not so quick after all. Because she’s delicious and the taste of her lips goes to my head, making me want more of them. So I linger just a little bit longer. “Your lips taste like cupcakes,” I murmur.

And Summer breathes out hard.

That makes Geneva smile bigger.

“Such an affectionate couple. I swear, some days you can’t pry them apart. Now, let’s go try that Syrah,” Jane says, steering Geneva away while shooting me a get it together look.

I turn to Summer. “‘Sport’? I would never call you ‘sport.’”

She swats my arm and chides in a whisper, “And I never would have said I didn’t like wine if I’d known I’m supposed to love it. Maybe if you had told me that instead of spending all that time on the fictional first time we shagged.”

“Fair point. But also, bacon wine?”

“Someone should make it.”

“No. No one should make it.”

“If someone made bacon wine, I might like wine.”

“Stop. Just stop. Bacon wine sounds horrid.”

“Bacon wine, bacon wine, bacon wine,” she whispers, taunting me, and I can’t help but laugh.

“Woman, you need to get a grip.”

She bonks my shoulder. “And you need to brief me properly.”

“Fine. On the way home, we’ll work on our cover story for next time. But for now, I have a solution.”

“What’s that?”

I waggle my hands. “Did you know I’m incredibly affectionate?”

“Is that so?”

She raises her eyebrows flirtatiously, and I tempt fate. I run my fingers over her leg.

Her breath catches the tiniest bit, and if she wasn’t my fake girlfriend, my fake fiancée, I’d think it was sexy.

But this is all pretend.

It’s a lucky thing I’ve always been so good at make-believe. For instance, I know that if your pretend love affair comes into doubt, you should touch your fake fiancée as much as possible.

At least, that’s my rule and I’m sticking to it.

19

Oliver

This is weird.

It shouldn’t be, and yet it is.

I take a drink of my IPA, set the glass down, and try to focus on whatever Logan is going on about—something vitally important, judging by the sound of his voice.

“So it lets you take down the enemy faster,” he says, staring intently at us. “Make sense?”

“Right,” I say, but I’ve missed how we’re taking down the enemy or even why we want to. I don’t even remember who that is exactly.

At this moment, my libido is my most obvious foe, taking over a larger portion of my brain than it normally controls, say, 99 percent instead of the usual 95 percent.

Thank fuck our mates are here with us at Gin Joint on Wednesday night, because I need the buffer with Logan.

Which is another thing that’s unusual—I’ve never needed a buffer with Logan when it comes to his sister because we’re all friends.

But this is the first time I’ve seen him since I kissed Summer. Since I had my hands all over her. Buffers are absolutely necessary because I’m thinking about his sister naked.

“So, that’s the plan, guys. Can you do it?” Logan asks, looking at me, then at Jason, then at Fitz, who rolls his eyes as he downs the rest of his drink.

“Dude. I knocked out Blake MacAvoy from Ottawa the other night. Yes, I think I can take out this fucker from Lehman.”

Yes! Paintball. Sneak attack strategies. That’s what we’re talking about. I can focus on that, not on how insanely strange it is to be sitting across from Logan after thinking about the huge boner his sister gave me last night.

But there is no brain space for boners now.

None.

Zero.

Not even if I think about her lips.

Her smell.

The way she curved her body against mine.

Nope.

I’m not getting aroused again.

Especially while I’m sitting here with my mates. Three great big, hairy male mates. There are no better boner killers than that.

Maybe I should just stare at them to erase the image of Logan’s sister melting in my arms by the carousel, sighing against my lips as that guy snapped our pic, and emitting that sexy little gasp when I kissed her for the hashtag.

When I touched her face, her cheek, her jaw.

And when I kissed her a second time last night.

I definitely need to focus on something the opposite of enticing, and these fellas will do.

Logan with his dark hair, who looks nothing like his twin sister.

Jason and his familial relationship to me.

Fitz and his beard and his ink, the familiar face of one of the NHL’s top D-men. Who’s our paintball ace.

Done. Summer is no longer in my head. Ejected.

“Perfect. You’re our secret weapon,” Logan says.

“It’s good to have a ringer on our team, isn’t it?” Jason gestures to Fitz, who winks.

“I got your backs, boys.”

“If we didn’t have Fitz,” Logan says, always planning for contingencies, “I’d invite my sister because she is the most competitive bastard I know—”

Dammit to fucking hell. Why did he mention Summer? Why not show me a picture of her in that dress again and just kneecap me now? Though, admittedly, I wouldn’t look away.

“Wait. More than me?” Fitz asks, mortally offended. His million-dollar-a-year job depends on him being ruthlessly competitive.

Logan arches a brow, considering Fitz’s question. “Maybe not more than you. But close. Only, she won’t play paintball with us. She says it’s”—he stops to sketch air quotes—“‘Neanderthal.’”

“Smart woman,” Jason remarks, then gestures to the bar where his wife is mixing drinks. “And speaking of smart women, I’m going to see my bride and nab a refill.”

I raise my empty glass. “Same here. On the refill, that is.”

We head to the bar, where a couple of hipster guys are checking out Fitz. The taller of the pair says, “This is my chance. I should go talk to him. I’ve had a crush on him forever. But do you think he’s involved with one of those guys?”

“Probably, because who wouldn’t want him? It could be your shot though. You have to take it, Gavin. Do it,” the other one urges.

Jason shoots me a smirk and quietly says, “Should I tell them the good news that he’s not with one of us? Or do you want to pretend you’re engaged to Fitz as well as Summer?”

I lean back, catching the eye of the taller of the guys at the bar. “Sorry, mate. Fitz is with this guy,” I say, clapping my cousin on the back.

Jason mutters under his breath, “Fucking hell. You beat me to it. Also, what if Fitz was into him?”

“Fitz is a big boy. He can make his own moves.”

“You’re a terrible wingman.”

“That may be true.”

After we refill our drinks, Jason says he’s going to spend time with his bride, so I return to the boner-killers, settling into my chair and turning to Fitz. “By the way, those guys at the bar are devising a strategy to come talk to you.”

This gets his attention. He raises a curious brow. “Are they hot?”

I give him a Seriously? look. “How am I supposed to answer that?”

“Do you have eyes?”

“I do.”

“Can you not tell if a dude is good-looking?”

“Are we talking about George Clooney?” Logan asks. “Because I can tell, empirically, that George Clooney is good-looking. Beyond that, no one.”

Fitz huffs. “So you’re saying you can tell if someone is good-looking only if they’re the gender you want to sleep with? Unless it’s George Clooney? That’s the line you draw?”

“It’s called the Clooney Line,” I supply. “He’s the only guy a straight guy can tell is empirically good-looking.”

Fitz smiles, wagging an I’ve caught you finger at Logan. “You want to sleep with Clooney—admit it.”

Logan laughs, nearly spitting out his beer. “No. I don’t.”

Then to me, Fitz says, “But if you had to sleep with a dude, it’d be Clooney.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to sleep with Clooney.”

“If not Clooney, who would it be?”

I shoot him a look like he’s nuts. “Are you barking mad? I’m not going to answer that. Can you say which movie starlet you’d shag?”

He shudders. “Fair point. But I’d do Clooney for sure. I don’t mind the gray hair.”

“How open-minded of you,” I say.

Fitz’s grin spreads, and he leans his elbows on the table, counting off on his fingers. “But if you really want the movie star list, it goes something like this—Idris Elba, Adam Driver, Kit Harington, Henry Cavill, Michael B. Jordan.” He stops, furrowing his brow. “And Michael Fassbender. For obvious reasons.”

Logan blinks. “Why is that obvious? What’s the reason?”

Fitz’s jaw drops. “You don’t know?”

Logan stares at him blankly. “No. That’s why I asked.”

Fitz gestures wildly to Logan’s phone on the table. “Just google his name. You’ll see what comes up as one of the search terms.”

Logan picks up his phone as Fitz says, “Also, I forgot to add Liam and Chris to the list.”

“The Hemsworths?” Logan asks, momentarily distracted from the search mission.

Fitz shrugs, giving a wolfish grin. “Yep. Both. Same time.”

“And you know they are brothers?” Logan asks, ignoring his phone now.

“Well, they don’t have to bang each other,” Fitz deadpans.

I clear my throat, continuing down this path of absurdity because it is indeed a fantastic murderer of the libido. “How are you shagging them both at the same time?”

Logan cuts in, narrowing his eyes at me. “Did you really just ask him that, Oliver? It’s patently obvious. Same way you’d do the Olsen twins.”

And that does it for me.

Not the prospect of Fitz taking on the Hemsworth brothers, because, whatever, who cares who he bangs.

But it’s the image of me doing the Olsen twins.

I used to watch Full House reruns, for fuck’s sake, and that’s the most massive boner killer of all time.

“But for the record, I can tell if a woman is pretty, unlike you dickheads.” Fitz gestures to Logan. “His twin sister. Very pretty.”

And here we go again. Back to Summer. Back to picturing her blonde hair, her brown eyes, her glossy pink lips.

I. Can’t. Win.

“Thanks. She takes after me,” Logan says, then swings his gaze to me. “Speaking of my sister, dude, what the hell? Why are you two engaged?”

I shake my head. “We’re not a real thing. Also, use your library voices, arseholes. It’s a bloody fake engagement. I don’t need the whole bar knowing.”

“Whatever. It’s funny,” Logan says, swiping his screen, then swiveling it around to show us Twitter, of all things. “So, now you’re America’s Best Boyfriend. You turned that shit around in two days. Well done, my man. Well done.”

I take a small bow. “Thank you.”

Fitz taps on the picture of Summer and me. “So, tell us more about this kiss, Ollie.”

My skin goes hot. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and every detail of kissing Summer flashes before me, image after delicious image. The moment should be no different than any other moment in my life, but it keeps flipping before my eyes.

Taunting me.

Teasing me.

I drag a hand through my hair. I should not be this affected by one little fucking kiss.

One kiss.

Hell, there wasn’t even any tongue. There were no fingers in hair, no bodies aligned together, grinding and pressing . . .

Well, maybe there was a little tongue.

And maybe that little bit of tongue is what’s unleashed this dragon of lust in me.

A dragon that did not return to its lair last night.

Nope, the wine-tasting handsy action only intensified the fire.

“Excuse me,” I say, pushing back in the chair and walking away from the table, heading straight for the men’s room.

Men’s rooms are reliable erection banishers too, especially if they are shitholes.

This one is mostly tidy. I’d give it a seven on a scale of one to not-a-shithole, so that’s a small miracle, but it still helps with deflation.

Because it’s still a toilet.

I set my hands on the counter, stare in the mirror, and do something I haven’t done in ages. I listen for my sister’s advice. I try so damn hard to conjure what Phoebe would say. Ever the older sister, she loved to tell me what to do. Sometimes it’d be a scathing wardrobe indictment, like That blue shirt looks wretched with those jeans. Please go change before all the girls never date you again, and other times it’d be a backhanded compliment, like Just ask the debate teacher if you can level up, since clearly you’ve never met an issue you won’t argue.

If she were here, I’d ask her how to put a kiss or two with Summer behind me.

But when I try to guess at what she’d say, I come up empty, so I’m left to answer myself. “One kiss with your best mate. Get over it, you twat.”

A toilet flushes, and I groan. Grand, just grand. Someone’s in here. I turn on the tap to wash my hands and don’t look at the guy who comes out of the stall and heads to the sink next to mine.

After a moment he asks, “But was it a good kiss?”

It’s the guy who was crushing on Fitz. I grumble my answer into the water. “Yes.”

“Then maybe you don’t want to get over it,” he says, turns off the water, dries his hands, and walks out.

I flip him the bird as the door closes. “Thanks for that profound unsolicited advice.”

Then I stare at my reflection.

This time I don’t say a word out loud. But in my head, I repeat my new mantra.

Don’t touch her again.

Don’t touch her again.

Don’t touch her again.

I’m sure Phoebe would agree that’s the right approach.

When I return to the table, I slap my palm on it. “Let’s review paintball strategy. We need to crush the opposition.”

That reroutes the conversation with the two most competitive friends I have, and for the next thirty minutes, I am laser-focused on paintball strategy and only paintball strategy.

Logan is determined to win the league, even more so because his ex-wife’s lover works at Lehman, an investment bank his firm worked with.

“So that’s the plan of attack for this weekend,” Logan says, then turns to Fitz. “We will see you after you destroy Montreal Friday night.”

“Annihilation is indeed the game plan,” Fitz says. “I have extra tix. Want ’em?”

Logan shakes his head. “I’m with Amelia that night.”

“Dude, she loves hockey.”

“Afternoon games. I can’t take her to a night one,” he says. “Past her bedtime.”

Fitz tips his chin at me. “Why don’t you take Summer? It’ll help with your public image, lover boy.”

“Good plan,” Logan seconds. “Sell it to the jury, man.”

And the funny thing is, in some other bar, some other guy is cursing himself for crushing on his best friend’s little sister because his friend would hate it.

But that’s not the case here.

Logan isn’t the issue. Hell, he’s given the idea of us his approval already.

The issue is I know exactly how it feels to lose the people you care for, the people who make your world go round.

I know, too, how it feels when your life falls to pieces.

I became a lawyer in the first place because of the battles my parents fought with insurance companies over my sister’s treatments. Because of the marathon phone calls they endured trying to get coverage, to get treatment, to get meds.

I saw what it did to them. How it nearly broke them. How they nearly withered. How we all nearly fell apart.

And how much I needed Logan and his sister at that time. They both became my family. Hell, their parents did too. It’s why I’ve never crossed a line before with Summer.

Because what if it all went to hell?

That could happen.

I don’t want to lose someone I love.

And I’m pretty sure I love Logan and Summer—as friends—and I want them in my life always.

Best way to keep Summer in it? Lock her in the friend zone.

I send her a quick text to see if she wants to go to the game, and she replies immediately with a yes. Perfect. The hockey game will be the ideal opportunity to refocus on our friendship.

“Sure, Summer and I will take the tickets,” I say.

Fitz gives me the details, and as I’m saving them in my phone, Logan shouts victoriously. “Michael Fassbender’s penis! How did I miss that reference?”

“Now you see why it’s obvious he’s on the list,” Fitz says, like a supremely satisfied cat.

I blink, bewildered, as Logan high-fives Fitz with one hand and holds his phone in the other. Logan waves the mobile around, showing the results of his image search.

Michael Fassbender’s penis.

Yes!

That’s perfect. And, frankly, obvious.

* * *

I leave later with the perfect trick to rid my mind of dirty thoughts of my good friend.

That night, every time my brain drifts off and imagines the sounds Summer might make if I touched her, I think about Michael Fassbender’s penis.

It works.

It works all the next day at the office, and at the gym, and in the shower.

I may never be aroused again.

This is like a three-week celibacy pill.

Who knew that Michael Fassbender’s penis would cure me of all my desire for Summer Clarke?

That is, until Friday morning when I see her march into the pool area at the gym as I’m finishing my swim.

Out of the corner of my goggles, I notice her sundress, how it’s swishing around her legs, showing them off, accentuating her curves and muscles.

And now I won’t be able to get out of the pool.

Thanks a fucking lot, Fassbender.

Your dick failed me when it mattered.

Time to turn up the friendship charm.

20

Summer

I crouch at the edge of the pool, waiting for Oliver to finish his lap.

When his head pops up, he gives me a grin. “Good morning, fake fiancée,” he whispers, wiggling his brows.

“Shh. We don’t want anyone to know,” I say, pressing a finger to my lips.

But the pool is quiet. It’s only us.

He parks his elbows on the edge of the deck, water droplets sliding down his face, one hitting his lip.

My finger itches to touch it, to swipe it off.

I ignore that desire, zeroing in on everyday us. “Just wondering if you wanted to grab a quick breakfast when you get finished. I would love to go over my plans for how to use the money from the essay. That is, if you have time.”

“I have a meeting at nine, but I always have time for the future Mrs. Harris.” He’s laying on the charm, flashing a slightly strange smile, but he doesn’t move to get out of the pool.

“Breakfast is on me,” I add.

“Sounds great,” he says, still not budging.

“Do you have more laps to do?” I glance at the wall clock. He’s usually done at seven on the dot, and it’s ticking past the hour.

His eyes light up. “Yes, I nearly forgot. I have ten more to do. Can’t fall behind.”

“Cool. I’ll wait for you on the bench.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind. I can answer some emails.”

His eyes stray longingly to the clock. “Maybe twenty more laps. You’d better wait in the lobby. You know, for your health. Nasal health.” He taps me on the nose, an overly cute gesture. Made all the overly cuter when he crinkles his own nose.

“For my nasal health?”

“Well, all the chlorine in the air,” he says apologetically, like it’s somehow his fault. “It isn’t great to breathe.”

“I already taught a water aerobics class, so I’ve been inhaling it all morning.” The whole exchange makes me wonder what he’s been inhaling, but I just point out, “I’m not affected.”

He simply shrugs. “If you say so.”

I rock forward and rap my knuckles on his forehead. “You’re being odd.”

He’s silent, and I see the cogs in his head turning, picking up speed. Then things seem to click, and he heaves a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Fine. I’ll skip the rest of the laps. I was trying to do you a favor. I just thought, with you being my fake fiancée and all, it’d be even harder for you to look away when I got out of the pool. I didn’t want to tempt you.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll do my best to resist you.”

Though, admittedly, resisting him is much harder now that I’ve kissed him. Twice.

Even though they weren’t real kisses.

He glances at the pile of towels on the bench. “Any chance you can grab one for me?”

My brow knits. He’s suddenly strangely shy. More proof the kiss was a one-way street.

With tongue.

And moans.

He definitely moaned the other morning.

I can still hear the sound of it rumbling in my ears.

Whatever. I’m not letting myself go there, and I’m not thinking of his hands all over me at the wine tasting. How they felt when he slid his palms down my bare arms.

I turn around, head to the bench, grab a towel, and return to him. He’s at the ladder now, and he climbs out, quickly wrapping the towel around his waist like he’s preventing me from seeing his Speedo.

“Weirdo,” I mutter.

“Takes one to know one,” he says with a wink.

Ah, that’s the Oliver I know. Fine, I get it. He’s firmly planting his flagpole in Friendship Land.

Well, duh. Where else would he plant it?

“I’ll be ready in five minutes,” he says.

“That’s all it takes to blow dry your Harry Styles hair?”

He drags a hand through his wet locks. “Harry’s got nothing on me, baby.”

There’s the sound of shoes clicking on the tile, then a voice calls out—older, feminine. “Summer, dear. Have you seen my silver tennis bracelet? I think it fell in the water this morning.”

Hello, déjà vu.

It’s Mrs. Wilson, one of my regulars in water aerobics, and evidently a regular when it comes to losing her shiny objects.

I turn around, and Oliver does too, scanning the pool area. A hint of silver gleams on the deck by the ladder. “I think that’s it,” I say, and Oliver and I cross over, bending and reaching for it at the same time.

We’re close to each other, our noses inches apart, and I’m keenly aware of his body, his scent, and how even with the chlorine he still smells kissable.

Damn him. He is good for my nasal health.

“Found it,” he says.

“Oh, thank God. Good thing it wasn’t my cubic zirconia ring that everyone thinks is a diamond. I’d hate to lose that. I’d have to go to John Steven in Midtown to get another one,” Mrs. Wilson says with a laugh.

Oliver meets my gaze, his green eyes saying what I’m thinking. Holy shit, we need a ring before dinner with your client this weekend and probably before the hockey game tonight.

Geneva must not have noticed the absence of one the other night, but I suspect she’ll be more hawkish at a dinner party.

We rise, and Oliver hands the bracelet to Mrs. Wilson. She blows him a kiss, but then her brow knits. “Wait. Aren’t you America’s Best Boyfriend? My granddaughter showed me the picture of you two kissing the other day. Apparently, it wound up on BuzzFeed’s Ten Best Kisses Ever list,” she says, then waggles her fingers and says goodbye.

As she walks away, I grab my phone, tap “BuzzFeed” into the search bar, then stare at the two of us at the top of the list.

I’ve seen the image a million times now.

But still, seeing it codified this way, seeing it labeled, is like seeing it anew.

Or maybe the difference is that I’m seeing it with him next to me, mere inches away.

My pulse spikes, and I shudder.

Oliver clears his throat, like there’s something smoky, husky stuck in it. “Yeah, that’s . . .”

My lips part to say hot, but Mrs. Wilson wheels around before I do. “Dear, can you remind me again how to do that move? It was like a trick. The leg-lift bicep-curl combo.”

“Of course,” I say, and the moment crumbles away as Oliver heads for the locker room and I show Mrs. Wilson how to do the move.

* * *

Over eggs and potatoes at a nearby diner, we arrange to snag a cubic zirconia ring in Midtown tonight at John Steven Jeweler’s before the hockey game, then we review my plans for the money.

We don’t discuss that moment at the pool. No need to after all. We’re past it.

“So, the extra money helps, but I’ll still have to push back the opening. Not the worst thing,” I say, taking a drink of my coffee and giving an easy shrug.

He munches on his potatoes then sets down his fork. “You always manage to see the positive. And I have no doubt you’ll be swinging open the doors in no time. I’d offer to loan you the rest, but—”

I narrow my eyes. “But you know I’d claw your eyes out with my daggers for nails.” I brandish my short, unpolished nails as claws.

He shudders, shirking away. “Yes, exactly. I learned from a very early age never to cross you when it comes to you doing things your way. Like when you were insistent that we all go as the Breakfast Club for Halloween in tenth grade. Even if it meant taking the train to the city and scouring all the secondhand shops to find your frayed denim John Bender jacket.”

I wiggle my brows. “Worth it. We won best group costume. And this’ll be worth it too.”

He nods, then reaches for his coffee. “But it’s not just your iron will and damn-the-torpedoes approach, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

He takes a drink, then sets down his mug. “You’re so determined to raze the city solo.”

“I am not.”

He laughs at me. “Funny, how you believe that.”

I narrow my eyes, grumbling. “Fine. I’m stubborn. I just want to—”

“Do everything on your own?”

“Yes. But you know why. I mean, are we that different? You like to be prepared. I like to be independent.”

“Well, nothing could have prepared me for the Twitter hate,” he jokes.

I wince. “Are you mad at me for that?”

He takes another bite of his breakfast, then says, “It’s hard to be mad at you. And believe me, I tried.”

I’m about to reply when the woman in the booth behind us says to her companion, “I have no problem admitting I would watch the neighbors have sex. Are you telling me you have an issue with that?”

My eyes pop.

I nearly drop my fork.

Oliver mouths, This is getting interesting.

As I lift a forkful of eggs, the woman says, “And you’re telling me you wouldn’t watch?”

The man she’s with scoffs. “No. I wouldn’t. You would? You truly would? If you looked outside and saw someone in an apartment across the street having sex, you’d watch?”

I keep my gaze on Oliver’s, smirking as I take a bite.

Oliver mimes bringing a pair of binoculars to his eyes, pretending to peer at someone in the distance. I hold in a laugh as the man and woman grab their things and leave, the debate raging on as they go.

“It’s not perversion,” she says, her voice lingering as they head to the door. “It’s curiosity.”

“It’s a little perverted. Actually, a lot,” the man says as they fade out of earshot.

Oliver’s lips quirk in a grin. “That raises an interesting question, doesn’t it? A little or a lot perverted?”

I laugh. “I thought you were going to ask if I’d watch.”

“Excellent question too. Would you watch?”

“Would you?”

“You go first,” he says.

“Fine. The answer is yes. Yes, I would.” I square my shoulders, owning it.

“So, set the scene for me,” he says. “You’re at home with Mags, you walk past the window, you see the neighbors shagging. Mr. Winchester with his bald spot and beer belly has bent Mrs. Winchester over the couch by the window. And you’re the Peeping Tom in that scenario?”

“Are you saying I should only watch hot young things bang in front of the window?”

We are back to Oliver and Summer, pals at large.

He laughs, shaking his head. “Not saying that at all. I just want to understand this particular perversion of yours.”

I pretend to toss my napkin at him. “Humans are inquisitive. If someone is going to publicly screw, I will watch. Not for titillation but curiosity.”

He arches a brow. “You’d watch for curiosity?”

I nod, then take another bite of my eggs, chewing, swallowing. “Yes. Because it’s interesting. Sex is interesting. And if someone is going to do it in front of an open window, I’m going to check them out. And obviously, you are not.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I am most definitely watching. Wait. Correction. I am flipping through the channel, stopping, deciding if it looks good.”

“And if it’s Mr. and Mrs. Winchester, you’re moving on to ESPN?”

He pretends to work a remote. “Clicking the next channel at lightning speed,” he says, a gleam in his eyes.

“Well, I guess you’re more discerning than I am with your perversions,” I say, glad whatever weirdness he felt at the pool has vanished. “Or more discerning than the rest of the world too, since everyone seems to want to watch us kiss, what with that pic and all.”

One eyebrow climbs. “Really? I dunno, Summer. Seems like watching your neighbors go at it like bunnies is just a little different than checking out a snapshot of a somewhat chaste kiss.”

Somewhat.

That’s the key. It was somewhat chaste, but what does he make of the “somewhat” portion? I wish I knew.

“The concept is the same,” I say, sticking to the cerebral side of this conversation.

“The concept is one hundred percent not the same,” he insists, stabbing his finger against the table. “Case in point. We can look at that picture right now, in public, and that’s not perverted.” Grabbing his phone, he taps on the search bar, and seconds later, slides the device to the middle of the table so we can both see it again.

An image I checked out less than an hour ago.

And I can’t look away from this picture of a man and a woman swept up in each other.

Lost in a kiss.

They look . . . enrapt.

The memory of the kiss sweeps over me, cocooning me in a kind of residual bliss.

A somewhat chaste bliss, but I feel all the tingles you get from a memory. They float over me, reignite, send flutters all through my body.

Flutters that turn to sizzles as the memory intensifies.

They turn more carnal.

They’re hardly chaste at all now.

Heat races through me, and my neck is hot. My cheeks go red. And my wishes must be written in my eyes. I have to wonder if Oliver can read them there.

Kiss me.

His gaze locks with mine, and I swear on all that is good and holy—on Stella’s cookies and comfortable yoga pants and nights out with friends—that his eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them before.

Desire flashes across them too.

But we’re in a diner.

We’re just checking out a photo.

Testing a concept.

Except I’m thinking about where this image could lead to.

To touching, to closeness, to sex.

To nothing chaste whatsoever.

“You know,” he begins, as if he has an idea. I hope it’s to pour cold water on my head or dip me in an ice bath, because I need something, anything, to deal with the heatwave inside of me. “We should take one. Post it on your feed, since you defended my kissing the other night on Twitter.”

It’s not Summer the friend who answers his suggestion.

It’s Summer the tiger.

It’s Summer who wants Oliver, the man who’s spectacular at kissing, to kiss her again.

“Yes. We should.”

He rises from his side, moves with grace and confidence around the table, and sits next to me.

I shiver at his nearness.

He raises the phone camera, then laughs, shaking his head. “This may come as a bit of a shock, but I’ve never taken a picture of myself kissing before.”

I laugh. “First time for me too.”

He holds out one arm, slides the other all the way around my shoulders, clasping me tightly, and I am dying.

His touch is electrifying.

I feel almost ashamed, because he’s not even kissing me, and it’s not even real, but I’m already awash in anticipation.

Waiting.

Needing.

Hoping.

He peers into the screen, checking the image.

“Wait. Hold on,” he says, then adjusts his hands, moving his fingers away from my shoulder, fluttering them across my neck, playing with my hair, and then he’s leaning in.

And everything happens in slow motion.

I watch him inching closer.

His eyes zeroing in on my lips.

His lips parting.

Then, when he’s dizzyingly near to me, he glides his lips over mine, and all the hope I’ve been holding escapes in one long, delicious sigh that turns into a moan.

Because here we are again, kissing for the camera.

Click.

I hear him snap a picture.

And I hear something else too.

His sexy sighs.

His murmurs.

He kisses me with another click, another moment, another image.

It’s simply for the camera.

But he flicks his tongue against my lips.

And I ask myself if this is proving Stella wrong once again, and whether I want to fully explore her laws.

When I part my lips for him, inviting more, I know the answer.

I do.

And this kiss becomes more than a kiss for the camera.

The device slips from his hands and hits the table with a thud.

In no time at all, his hands are on my face, and he’s hauling me in for a hot, hard kiss.

This kiss wastes no time. This kiss leaves no mixed signals. This isn’t a kiss for a hashtag. He’s taking it for himself.

His hands curl around my face possessively. He holds me like he doesn’t want to let go.

He kisses me fiercely. His lips are hungry, fevered, as he skates his tongue across my lips again, and then our mouths explore each other.

Not just our mouths—my hands are curious cats, slinking up his suit jacket, sliding up his pressed shirt, grabbing his tie. I yank him closer, tugging on the silk.

And he responds with a rougher kiss.

It’s no longer an exploration.

It’s a declaration.

It says, I want you, I want your lips, I want your taste, and I want to feel you, touch you, have you.

In a diner, on a Friday morning before work, we kiss like the world is going up in flames.

I’m positive that if I were to see someone going at it like we are, I’d watch.

Oh, hell would I watch.

Because kisses like this don’t come around often.

I’ve never had one like it in my life, and I don’t have a clue what it means, or where we go after.

Someone coughs, and we break the kiss as the waitress passes us.

I blink, breathing out hard like I’ve run a race.

He looks at me the same damn way.

He swallows, trying to collect himself, his voice hoarse. “So, yeah. Looks like we got that one. You want to post it?”

I don’t know how he’s speaking. I don’t know how anyone can speak after being kissed senseless by her best friend.

But he’s doing it, so I follow his lead. “Yes. Sure. Of course. Do you want me to say anything special?”

He waves a hand. “Oh, you’re great with that stuff.” He looks at his watch. “I have a meeting. I should go.”

He’s leaving? Just leaving? Though he did say he had a meeting. Still . . .

I furrow my brow. “Oliver?”

He scoots away, grabbing his phone and tossing bills on the table. “Yes?”

But the look in his eyes is nothing I’ve seen before. It’s distant and masked.

Actually, I have seen that look before. It’s how he looked for months after his sister died.

My chest hurts. It aches terribly.

He regrets kissing me, while I regret stopping the kiss.

I try to draw a big, fueling breath, like it can reroute the pang in my chest. I purse my lips. Then, against the tightness in my throat, I manage to say, “I’ll meet you at the jeweler. Before the hockey game?”

“That’d be perfect.”

He turns and leaves me and my bruised lips and heart at the table.

21

Oliver

Blinders come in handy.

I put mine on all day, zeroing in on the contract work ahead of me for Geneva’s firm, then on the deal memo for my new client, Helen Williams Designs.

I focus on that rather than on how utterly fucking complicated this fake fiancée gambit has become after this morning’s kiss.

I have half a mind to call it off. Because how the hell am I supposed to spend time with her and pretend I don’t want to kiss her again?

It’s all I want to do.

Wait. That’s not true. I want to do much more.

Which is the real problem.

So I bury myself in work, since the law is reliable.

With every line of legalese I write, I remind myself of why I am faking it—I have to protect this firm and its rep.

I meet with some of the junior partners handling various deals for the firm, and we review the terms. When we’re done, one of the newest attorneys here mentions that his one-year-old just took his first steps, and then shows us the video.

“What a cutie-pie,” one of the women says.

That’s another reminder.

These people depend on me. I sign their checks so they can pay their student loans and take care of their one-year-olds.

I can’t call anything off.

Even if I want to.

Even if it’s getting harder to pretend.

* * *

At the end of the day, I change into running shorts to hit the park, chatting with Jane on the way out.

“I see you’re the toast of Twitter now,” she says as the elevator doors close.

“Am I now?”

With a sneaky look on her face, she grabs her phone from her handbag, slides it open, and shows me the latest comments.

@LovesListsofMen: The kissing pics!!! Dying. Just dying.

@ManCandyFan: Dying twice. Dying dead again. Dying from the hotness of the kissing.

@GossipLover1andOnly: I am dead. I am literally dead.

@ManCandyFan: *collects your body* *gives it a proper funeral befitting a death from hotness*

I laugh at the exuberance. I guess it’s better than the first rush of tags. “That’s good. Wait—” I narrow my eyes and point to the next one in the thread. “Is that the pen twat again?”

@TheThird: I dunno. Something about the two of them is almost too good to be true.

@LovesListsofMen: Jelly much?

@TheThird: Not one bit. I’m just saying, who’s like that?

@HZRedhead: He wasn’t like that with me.

@ManCandyFan: Uh, hello. He’s not with you. He’s with her.

Jane closes the app. “Your public is amused.”

“Seems to be.”

She pats my arm. “You know, I’m happy to keep this up as long as you need me to, but do think about what happens down the road,” she says as we exit the lift.

Down the road. I let those words echo, as I slide a thumb across my mobile, checking out the latest text from Christian.

Christian: Tell me every entertaining detail. Also, have we discussed the importance of an exit strategy?

But I’ve got no time for down the road, or exit strategies, when I have to deal with now and with this morning and what will happen tonight.

I head to meet Jason in the park.

* * *

“It happens to the best of us.”

That’s Jason’s sage advice that evening after I updated him on my morning bolt-from-the-scene routine during our four-mile run through Central Park.

“And what exactly is the ‘it’?” I ask as we walk along the Reservoir to cool down.

“Being an arsehole,” he says.

“You’re saying I was an arsehole this morning?”

He blinks. “Are you saying you were anything but?”

“I had a meeting. I had to go.”

He rolls his eyes. “‘Had a meeting’ is a load of shite for an excuse. You kissed her in a diner full of people and then left like your trousers were on fire. Face it—you just punched your ticket at the ‘I’m an arsehole’ counter.”

I shoot him a betrayed look. I knew it was a dick move, but I wasn’t prepared for this sort of character assassination, not even from the renowned hitman of men’s characters. “And I suppose you’ve never done anything so stupid?”

He lets out a deep belly laugh, hands on his stomach. “How the hell do you think I know about the ticket counter for arseholes?” He pats his chest. “You’re looking at a once-upon-a-time card-carrying member. I did some very stupid shit when I was figuring out things with my wife, before she was my wife.” He gives me a wry smile, one that I know means he’s about to give me shit. “However, I never ran from a kiss like I might catch something. Now that I think about it, you’re the bigger knob. I’m getting you a plaque.”

“Thanks. This is grand. Simply grand.”

He claps my shoulder. “Just apologize. Say you were overcome by the taste of her lips or something.”

I recoil. “That does not sound like anything I’d say.”

“I know. With you, it’s more like grunt, tits, arse, sex.”

I roll my eyes. “Pot. Kettle.”

“I’m calling it as I see it,” he says as we head around the bend toward the park exit. “Anyway, say you were stressed about the meeting, you know it was rude, and you’d very much like to kiss her again.”

I flinch. I can’t say that. We can’t kiss like that again. “That won’t work.”

He stops at the edge of the park, trees overhanging us, other New Yorkers running, walking, blading by, and shoots a serious stare at me. “Why exactly did you leave?”

I stop, rubbing my hand across the back of my neck. I left because I didn’t know if I could stop kissing her. I left because I wanted to say, Screw the meeting, come spend the day in bed with me. I left because I want to know what the hell is going on with this brand-new mess of desire I feel for my best friend.

Somehow I wrap that all up into one simple answer. “Because it was easier.”

He drops a hand to my shoulder. “I hear you. But now you have to do something harder—find a way to say you’re sorry for being an arse. Probably won’t be the last time you have to say it, so consider it good practice.”

I blow out a long stream of air, nodding. “I hate that you actually know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t worry. It came from years of being a dickhead too.”

“I feel loads better.”

22

Summer

I see the puma first. The gold figure waggles out of a doorway in front of me as I walk down the hallway of Sunshine Living’s fifth floor.

“Summer,” Roxanne says, poking her head out, scanning the hallway. She sets the cane on the floor, puma-head down. She blinks, flustered, then switches the puma to its upright position.

“Hey, Roxanne.” Curious, I slow at her door. She doesn’t seem her savvy self at all. “What’s going on?”

“Help,” she whispers.

The hairs on my neck prick. “Are you okay?”

She shakes her head and beckons me. “Come inside for a second. I think I’ve made a grave mistake.”

“Okay,” I say, following her into her apartment.

The door stays open as she ushers me to her living room and motions to a high-backed cranberry-red upholstered couch. “Sit.”

I park myself, and she brandishes her phone. “I don’t know what to do,” she says, almost distraught. “It’s this damn Tinder. I’m in a bit of a pickle.”

“What happened?”

Shaking her head, she lowers her voice. “I’m now chatting with a man I’m not interested in. Actually, I’m chatting with a bunch of men I’m not interested in.”

I frown. “Can you just stop talking to them?”

“I could . . .” She trails off.

“But?”

“But there are things I like about them. Hence, my dilemma.”

“I’m a little confused. How did you wind up chatting with them in the first place if you’re not interested?”

She gives me an innocent grin. “They have cute dogs. I swiped right on their dogs.”

A laugh bursts out before I can stop it. “You swiped right on their dogs? How does that happen?”

She squares her shoulders. “Sometimes the dog picture shows first, and some dogs are so adorable I can’t help myself. Especially if they look like my collie, Sally.” She wrings her hands. “Can I just go out with them to see their dogs? I miss my Sally so much.”

I take a breath and consider my answer. “That’s an idea. But I think you should probably tell them that you’re only interested in their dogs.”

She sighs heavily, but after a moment, nods and pats my knee. “You’re right. Honesty is usually best,” she says. “And speaking of honesty, can I tell you my idea for classes?”

“Sure. Of course.”

She sweeps her arm out wide. “Exotic dancing. I want to learn exotic dancing.”

I keep my expression neutral somehow as she tells me about the dance moves she wants to learn.

“Can you please work on getting an exotic dancing class here? Or else I’ll have to set it up myself.”

“Sure. I can look into it,” I tell her.

Throughout the rest of the day, her words echo in my head. Not about exotic dancing, though if she wants that, I will try to help.

But what she said about being honest.

I should be honest with Oliver.

Let him know we simply can’t fake-kiss again. It’s hurting my heart too much. It’s throwing me off.

Nothing against the man, but I’d rather date someone who was more into my dog than me than go through that again.

As I leave, I vow to find a way to add an Ins and Outs of Tinder class to the activity list, no matter what my boss says.

23

Oliver

After a post-run shower, I head to Midtown and pace outside the jewelry store, practicing what to say to Summer.

The words roll off my tongue easily.

I’m sorry I was a dick earlier.

I’m sorry I took off like the jackhole the internet sometimes thinks I am.

Boom.

That shouldn’t be too hard.

I can handle all of that, no problem.

Except something nags at me as I wait on the street, while early evening crowds march past, heads bent, checking their phones on the way to their destinations.

Because I can picture myself asking Phoebe what to say to Summer.

And for the first time in a while, I can hear her crisp voice in my head, chiding me. That’s only half an apology, Ollie. Apologize all the way.

An image of my older sister giving me a sharp stare, telling me to apologize properly, takes shape before my eyes.

It’s the strangest thing to see and hear her so clearly, especially when I was listening for her the other night and heard nothing.

My God, how can the sharpness of her voice still be so clear after all this time?

Maybe because she’s right, you daft idiot.

I laugh out loud, because I hear that in her voice, crystal clear. And it makes me happier than I ever thought I would be to still recall her voice in these moments.

“What’s so funny?”

I jerk around. Summer’s here, head tilted, eyes curious, lips so damn pretty.

My heart pounds a little faster.

“I was just thinking of something funny Phoebe would say.” Then I’m smiling because I can share that with Summer. I don’t think I’ve ever been with a woman to whom I could admit how much I long sometimes to hear my sister’s voice.

After thirteen years, I shouldn’t still be so affected by her passing. And yet, every now and then, I am.

I don’t need to explain to Summer why I sometimes drift off, why I obsess over last meals, why I don’t mind one bit if she calls me Ollie.

Why I even like it when she does.

Because it’s a promise we made to Phoebe long ago.

Summer’s smile starts small then spreads as she steps closer. “Tell me what she would say. And then I have something to tell you.”

“Ladies first.”

She stands firm. “No. You.”

“Fine.”

I know what to say. I have to do this the right way. Because this friendship matters too much to give her half an apology.

I draw a fueling breath then begin. “I’m sorry I left so quickly this morning at the diner.” That’s easy to get out—what comes next is harder.

But then maybe not as hard as I anticipated, because the huge knot of anxiety comes undone when I continue with the cold, stark truth. “I left because I didn’t think I could stop kissing you if I stayed, and I care about you too deeply to jeopardize our friendship. Even though kissing you was absolutely fantastic and definitely not at all chaste. So I hope you’ll forgive me for being a dick.”

I try to read her reaction, try to find the secret to Summer in her brown eyes, but all I see is surprise.

Or more like shock.

Because her irises go wider than the moon, and she blinks several times, like she’s trying to make sense of my words.

For a second or two, her lips seem to twitch like she has a secret. But if she does, she’s keeping it in, because she schools her expression before she parts her lips to speak.

A ringing bell from the store interrupts us. A large man with a thick beard and a helpful grin pops out of the shop. “We’re closing in ten minutes. Just wanted to see if you needed something before we shut for the evening.”

“Yes. We do,” I say, and then we head inside, quickly finding a cubic zirconia that looks mostly real, and once we leave, she returns to the conversation.

“There’s nothing to forgive. We’re all good. And I appreciate you saying that. It means a lot to me.”

“It does?”

“It does. I care so much about our friendship too. I truly do. And I don’t want to jeopardize it either.”

I sigh in relief. “Well, that’s good. That’s great. Being on the same page and all.” But I’m still eager to know what was on her mind earlier. “What were you going to tell me before we went in there?”

She smiles as she looks at her fake ring. “Just what I said, for the most part. That I love being friends with you.” She lifts a hand like she’s going to set it on my arm, but she doesn’t. She lowers it and keeps her arms at her sides. “But also that it’s probably for the best if we don’t pretend to kiss again . . . because I liked it too. A lot.”

Oh.

Well.

That’s an interesting twist. “You did?”

She gives me a what can you do shrug. “I did.” She smiles a little impishly then taps my skull. “But don’t let that go to your head too much. I don’t want your ego to grow any larger.”

“No, I wouldn’t want it to outpace other large parts of my body.” Joking is easier than addressing what she’s just told me.

But I stew on it anyway as we walk to Madison Square Garden to catch Fitz’s game. Along the way, I’m extremely grateful for the noise of Manhattan, for the sardine-packed streets stuffed with tourists and locals, and for the smells of garbage, the scent of buses fuming, the din of phone calls, of cabs honking, of cars stopping.

It keeps my focus on the immediate rather than this brand-new information that’s complicating matters even more.

She liked it too.

A lot.

When we go inside the Garden, it feels like I’m entering a safe zone.

There is no way I will be tempted to kiss her here.

Not a chance.

Especially when we grab nachos and beer. The nachos here are covered in jalapeños, and who would want a jalapeño kiss?

Not this guy.

Not at all.

Not even with Summer.

Then I take a bite of the nachos, and they are spicier than I remembered.

Who am I kidding? I bet she’d taste fiery.

That’s the trouble.

24

Oliver

But a deal is a deal.

That’s what we have. A deal to appear engaged. A deal to look the part.

So we do our best at the game, shouting and cheering and, also, talking.

Like we’ve done for the last seventeen years.

Every year. Every day.

And I can forget the jalapeño desire. I can forget how good she tasted, how fantastic she smells. I can do what I’ve always done—be her friend.

“Have you given any more thought to your gym time frame while you save the rest of the money?”

“No. But my mom texted me again. She offered me the money a second time, but . . .”

“But you’re not going to take it, I trust?”

“It just doesn’t feel right to me.”

“I suppose.” I take another drink of my beer as the good guys chase the puck on the ice and Summer shouts her encouragement.

At the next lull, she picks up the discussion as if we’d only hit pause.

“You get why I turn her down though, right?” she asks earnestly. “I want to do this myself. I already pretty much get off scot-free in the rent department, living with my grandma. I don’t want to be beholden to anyone else.”

“But your mom would give you the money. So would you truly be beholden?”

She reaches for the nachos, scoops one up, and chews. “No, but what if I was? She always talked about how she gave up her job to help support my dad’s business. So what if it became this thing that would hang over us?”

I nod, taking a tortilla chip and eating it as New York attacks the net. But New York misses the shot, and the collective shoulders in the rink slump.

“Your mom’s happy though, don’t you think? At least, she always seemed that way when we were younger.”

“Did she?”

“Happier than my parents. But that’s not hard.”

She sighs, sets a hand on my shoulder, and squeezes. “True. Understandable, but true.”

“It was so much better to be at your house, you know?”

She nods. “I do know, and I also know it’s not simply because I made amazing popcorn.”

I arch a skeptical brow. “‘Made’? More like bought.”

“Hey! I made it. Most of the time,” she says sheepishly.

“And all of the time it was better to be there than with my parents fighting constantly over insurance and treatments, and on and on.” Ironic that they moved to America for jobs with supposedly better health benefits but wound up arguing with insurance for hours every day, it seemed.

Summer winces. “I sound like I’m complaining about my mom wanting to support me. I’m a dick, huh?”

I laugh, loop an arm around her shoulders, and draw her near. “Only a little.”

“I’m a little dick. Even better.”

I laugh, knowing I’d miss these moments if I lost her to a stupid decision like giving in to lust. “All I’m saying is you’re remembering it a certain way. You remember her being resentful, but I remember her being happy.”

“And I remember your parents trying really hard every second to keep it together, and you remember them fighting,” she says softly.

I mull that over as I drink my beer. She has a point, but also maybe not. “But isn’t it our recollections, more than the reality, that informs our outlook?”

“Possibly. But what if our recollections are wrong?”

“Speaking of wrong, sometimes I worry that Logan is too caught up in what went wrong with his marriage. On wanting to beat that guy who cheated with his wife,” I say.

“I think that too. But I’ve said it to him, and he doesn’t seem ready to hear it.”

“Maybe we only hear things when we’re ready.” My attention swings back to the ice, where Fitz slams the puck, sending it to the forward, who lobs it straight into the net. Setting my beer down, I thrust my arms in the air, cheering.

Summer’s up in no time, punching the sky, hooting and hollering.

The Jumbotron pans the crowd, capturing a raucous audience cheering. When it swings to us, the words “Best Kiss Ever?” blast across the screen.

And in seconds, the whole section is pointing at us.

Summer blinks, her face flushing pink.

She looks at me. I look at her. We look at the screen.

And the words “America’s Best Boyfriend” flash across it.

I don’t know if one of us goes first, or if we both just realize we have to.

I cup her cheek. She slides a hand around my waist. And we kiss not only for the camera, but for the entire arena. Twenty thousand fans cheer us on as I seal my lips to hers, kissing Summer for the fourth time.

And for the fourth time, tearing myself away from her seems impossible because I don’t want to stop kissing her.

Only this time, it’s because I know she likes it.

Judging from the way she slides closer, from how she skims her hands up my shirt, from the way she murmurs, we both like it more than we should.

In fact, when we finally break the kiss, our section is seated, play has resumed, and the Jumbotron screen is showing the game again.

I have no idea how long we were kissing.

Only that I didn’t want it to end.

And I know, too, that we’re going to have to sort out what the hell is going on—sooner rather than later.

When the game ends, her phone trills loudly, and after she answers it and listens, she shrieks in excitement.

25

Summer

Things I never expected to happen in Madison Square Garden.

Getting a phone call from a dating site.

Getting a phone call from a dating site asking me to be part of a feature.

Getting a phone call from a dating site asking me to be part of a feature that the magazine is willing to pay me for.

It would cover the rest of the financing I need for the gym, I mentally figure when the woman on the other end of the line tells me how much I’ll receive if I can deliver a bang-up piece.

“So, would you want to do it?” she asks.

Oliver is watching me with expectant big eyes, gesturing for me to hurry up and tell him what it is.

I cover the phone. “The Dating Pool asked me to do a profile on Top Five Best Dates in New York. They want us to go on them,” I whisper. “Do you say yes?”

“Yes.”

* * *

At Gin Joint with Fitz, we toast.

“To another win,” I offer.

Fitz clinks his glass to mine. “To the best fake engagement ever.”

Oliver taps his glass too. “To the money for Summer to fund her dream.”

Then we drink and chat, and this moment almost seems too good to be true.

Like this is a fragile bubble of happy news, great friends, and possibilities. Stella even texts that she’s nearby after a baking class and comes to join in.

She flops down next to us, giving Fitz a kiss on the cheek, then Oliver, then a hug for me. She’s a toucher, and always has been.

“Henry’s at a conference, so I’m all by my lonesome,” she announces, then orders a gin cocktail. “I debated going home and bingeing Schitt’s Creek, but I decided I like you guys better.”

“How lucky for us,” Oliver deadpans. “We’re better than TV.”

“Dude, have you seen Schitt’s Creek?” Fitz asks. “That’s one helluva compliment.”

I nod savagely. “That’s a compliment of the highest order.” I point to my friends, sweeping a circle around them. “Trust me, if it’s between you guys and that show, I’m picking the show.”

“You’re not wrong,” Fitz says.

“You’re definitely not wrong,” Stella adds, then returns to the topic of The Dating Pool phone call. “So, what’s the first step in being this poster child of adorable couples?”

“They want us to do very New York photo-shoot things. Eat cupcakes, stroll through the park, all that jazz,” I tell her, and the four of us discuss date options as we work our way through a round of drinks.

“Just make sure to look pretty for the cameras when you snap all the shots,” Stella says.

“Don’t I always?” Oliver asks, adopting an Instagram-ready duck face.

“Yes, you’re so lovely,” Fitz says. He drifts off in thought for a moment, staring at the ceiling, then returns to Oliver and me. “I was just thinking though—what happens when this ends?”

Oliver nearly spits out his drink. “What do you mean?”

Fitz laughs, then his mirth subsides. He peers at us like we’re a science experiment as he strokes his beard. “You’ve thought about that, right? You have to have a game plan?”

Oliver gulps. “Sure . . .”

But the word goes on forever, and Stella shakes her head and laughs. “You guys need a plan.”

“An exit strategy,” Fitz adds.

“My cousin Christian said the same thing,” Oliver adds.

They’re totally right, and I cycle through the options. “I guess I figured interest would die down after a while, and we’d quietly say we were better off as friends.” It’s not a far-fetched idea, though a plan based on what other people do is risky. “Sort of like those dating reality shows. They never stay together, and no one really cares after their season is over, right?”

“True,” Oliver says. “They just move on to the next thing. We can do that, no problem. Just move on, and no one will think twice about it.”

“Or—” Stella holds up a finger. “Just tell everyone Oliver is terrible in bed.”

“Ouch,” Fitz declares. “Way to wound a man.”

“Yes, exactly,” Oliver says, recoiling. “Spreading such spurious lies.”

Stella shrugs, and I cringe a little, knowing where this is going. “I’m just saying there’s no way you can be great in bed. It goes against the Third Law. You’re too cute.”

I stare hot coals at her. I don’t want Oliver to know that Stella and I have discussed this, or that I’ve even thought about how this law might apply to him.

Fitz arches a brow in a check out my smolder way. “Hate to break it to you, ladies, but I’m even hotter than Oliver, and I’m pretty much a god in bed. And that’s my law—be awesome in the sheets all the time.”

Stella pats his leg. “Sweetie, I have no doubt you’re a prize in the sheets. But Stella’s Law focuses on a different type of plumbing.”

“Oh, well. See if Oliver can handle the pipes, then,” Fitz says as a fit guy walks by, giving the hockey star a lingering gaze with his piercing green eyes. “Speaking of, I have to go practice some laws.”

He leaves, and Oliver looks at Stella and me expectantly. “So, ladies, tell me all about this law of plumbing.”

I scowl at Stella. She offers an it was inevitable smile.

Oliver cocks his head and prompts again, “So, you have a law about how I’m bad in bed?”

I slam a hand on Stella’s thigh, squeezing it to make her stop. “No one said you were bad in bed, right, Stella?”

Oliver points at the accuser. “She did. Did you not just hear her with that vicious character assassination? And I thought my cousin was bad. But, Stella,” he says, clutching his heart, “you are cruel and hurtful.”

Stella simply shrugs. “That may be true, but the evidence suggests you’d be terrible in the sheets.”

“How?”

Her brow knits. “Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

Oliver grabs his phone and turns it to selfie mode. He smiles at the screen. “Yes. And I have nothing stuck between my teeth, so what is it?”

“You’re too pretty,” she says matter-of-factly, then lifts her glass and takes a drink.

“Too pretty for what?”

“To be good in bed. Look, it’s a law like gravity. It’s not your fault. You were blessed with extraordinary genes, and now you have to live with the consequences.”

I wave a nothing to see here hand, my chest tight as we edge closer to a place I don’t want to travel. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Oliver swings his gaze my way. “Nor do you. You haven’t taken this car out for a proper drive. We’ve only kissed. And you said I was a great kisser.” His eyes narrow. “Or were you just taking the piss out of me?”

My eyes go wide, and I shake my head. “No. That was true. You kiss extremely well.”

Oliver raises his chin at Stella and clears his throat. “See? She vouched for me.”

“She’s never slept with you though. Good-looking men can still be great kissers, because that’s an entry point. But beyond that, women fall at their feet, and the hotties never have to work for it.” She stretches an arm across the table and ruffles his hair. “Look, Oliver, I hate to break it to you. But there’s no way you can be anything but bad in bed.”

“And you will never know that I’m an Olympic-caliber fucker.”

I try to suppress a laugh, but the chuckle bursts from me. I can’t help it. “Oliver, are you a gold-medal fucker?”

He crosses his arms in something pretty close to a sulk. “Maybe you should find out and then vouch for me.”

Stella glances from Oliver to me and back. “Well, if you do, let me know. But my money is on bad in bed.” With a wink, she rises, tosses some bills on the table, and gestures to the door as she yawns. She waves goodbye and takes off.

Oliver points at her, stabbing the air. “She’s wrong. She’s completely wrong.”

“Of course she’s wrong. I’m sure you’re great in bed. Fireworks, the whole nine yards.” I try not to blush, not to let on how much I’ve thought about what he’d be like between the sheets.

How often I’ve wondered if her theory is true.

How I’m wondering it right now. Because he’s looking at me with serious bedroom eyes.

Sex is written across his green irises. It’s all he’s thinking about. He’s gazing at me like he wants to prove things to me.

And his stare is making me hot.

This is dangerous. Too dangerous.

We agreed not to go there. Not to tango on the physical side.

And there’s no need to now. Not for a stupid theory that’s just for fun. Not for a friend who’s giving him a hard time.

But Oliver won’t leave the topic alone. He leans closer to me across the table. “Do you think I’d be bad in bed?”

“Oliver, what does it matter? I already said you’re a good kisser. I can’t possibly know how you are in bed.”

“But what do you think?”

My chest heats. My cheeks are hot too. “Who cares what I think?”

He grabs my arm, his fingers circling my wrist, sending a ribbon of fire through my body. “I care.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not lazy. I work hard. I want to please the woman I’m with. I want her to feel good. I want her to feel fucking fantastic.”

Dear God, I already do. His words send sparks sweeping across my skin, leaving a pulse beating between my legs.

Defuse the situation, I tell myself. “I need to go.”

He pays the bill, and we make our way outside, where there’s an awkward moment again. We stand on the street, phones in hand. This is where we call separate Lyfts.

He lives on the East Side.

I’m on the West.

There is no reason for us to share a car. There is no reason for us to spend any more time together.

Except he’s not moving to go.

Neither am I.

“I’m not that tired,” he says, his eyes still searching mine for something. Permission? An answer? An invitation?

“Nor am I,” I say, a little breathy as I wait for something too. Maybe I’m the one wanting an invitation.

“We could work on that list of dates for the article. Do some research.”

A smile pulls at my lips. “We could.”

“Go to a diner. Or a coffee shop. Or back in the bar.”

“Or you could come over,” I suggest. “We could go to my—”

“Yes.”

In seconds we’re in a Lyft, heading uptown to the home I share with my grandmother.

This will be safe.

Nothing dangerous will happen.

I’m not going to jump him with Maggie in the house.

We’re simply going to sit in the living room, have some popcorn, and plan some dates.

Maggie might even help.

But when we reach my place, a note from her on the kitchen table says she’s gone to Connecticut to visit a friend and won’t be home tonight.

The air feels heavy.

My skin tingles with possibility.

With Oliver a few inches behind me, I set down the slip of paper, and say, “She’s not here tonight.”

His fingers graze the back of my neck. “About that law . . .”

26

Oliver

There are things you should do and things you shouldn’t do. And then there are things you quite simply have to do.

This is the latter.

Touching Summer is no longer optional.

Because those ladies are wrong, and I’m going to prove it.

I can’t let her think I’m some sort of conceited jackass in bed. That I don’t care about a woman’s pleasure. Hell, a woman’s pleasure is literally all I care about.

Pretty much most of the time.

Ninety-five percent of my brain is allocated to libido. To making a woman arch her back, curl her toes, grab the sheets.

And that allocation is earmarked all for Summer now.

As I stand behind her and run my fingers across her neck, my focus zeroes in on one thing only—showing her how good I can make her feel.

Because I can’t stomach her thinking I’d do anything other than bring her uncommon bliss.

“That law should be stricken from the books,” I say, as I gently move her blonde locks over her shoulder, revealing her neck, prime real estate for kisses that’ll drive her wild.

“Is it unconstitutional?” Her voice is breathy, needy.

“Yes. And I intend to show you why.” My fingers trail along her neck. Her gorgeous, enticing neck.

“Tonight?” That one question seems to charge the ions between us, crackling with electricity.

It reverberates in the silence, waiting for an answer.

I am a man on a mission.

I bend to her, brushing my lips across her skin, answering with a “Yes.”

She shivers, emitting a sexy “Ohhh.”

Grinding against her, I continue my travels, mapping her neck with my mouth. Kissing her shoulder. Dusting my lips across her exposed collarbone, a location on a woman’s body that doesn’t get the attention it deserves. “I think I’ll worship your collarbone for a little bit as I make my case,” I whisper, kissing her there, inhaling her scent—something sweet, maybe vanilla, maybe honey. I don’t know, but it goes to my head, making my mind hazy with desire.

“You’re presenting some compelling evidence, counselor,” she whispers.

“I’m only getting started. But here’s Exhibit A.” I run my fingers through her hair as I kiss her neck, running my other hand down her arm, sliding past the short sleeves of her blouse, traversing her skin as the little hairs on her arm stand on end. I inch closer, my chest to her back, as my hand glides down to hers, palm touching palm. There’s a hitch in her breath, and it sounds like an invitation. And it’s one I desperately want to accept. My body heat rises as I move in closer and thread our fingers together, clasping her hand. She clasps back, squeezing tightly.

And that, right there, is another line.

Or maybe everything is a line, and I’m hell-bent on vaulting each damn one.

I kiss her neck harder, driven, determined to make her feel incredible.

She’s trembling in my arms, and that’s what I want. I nip my teeth against the flesh of her neck, setting off a chain reaction. She groans, a rumbly, sexy sound that fills the silence, that hooks into my body and drives me on.

I spin her around, grab her face, and drag her to me, pressing my hard-on against her body. “I know I said I shouldn’t kiss you again, but that was temporary insanity. I can’t not kiss you.”

Her lips part, and her eyes spark with lust. “You’re right. But I’m not going to take your word for it.” She grabs at my shirt. “I want more hard evidence.”

Oh hell, she is dirty, and I love it. “Then here’s Exhibit B.” I push against her, letting her feel the outline of my length.

She moans, and her fingers tighten around the fabric of my T-shirt, twisting it as she rubs against me. “I need to know if that law should be overturned, overruled, whatever you lawyers call it. Show me.”

“I’ve got quite a case to present,” I murmur as my hands loop through her hair, the lush, blonde strands sifting between my fingers. “Also, for the record, there was not a single chaste thing about kissing you. It was never pretending. It was always a turn-on.”

“A rush, a total rush,” she whispers, barely a breath.

Then I cross all the lines, crushing my mouth to hers and devouring her lips.

Kissing her hard, possessively, like she belongs to me. My lips claim hers, my tongue flicking across her delicious mouth, the taste of her lip gloss so damn arousing. It’s understated and sexy, like everything about her. The sporty tomboy has turned out to be wildly feminine underneath, and the scent of her, the feel of her, sends a new wave of lust crashing over me.

Because this kiss is different.

It’s not our first. But it’s a whole new kind.

We kissed in the park.

We pecked at the wine tasting.

We went at it in the diner.

We made out for the Jumbotron.

Every other time, there has been an audience. Every other time, we’ve pretended it was pretend.

Now that it’s only us, I’m learning it was never pretend for me. That I was only fooling myself. Because every time, I felt something.

Something unexpected.

Something that surprised me.

Maybe that something has always been there, and I had no clue until I touched her.

I can’t say for certain. All I know is I’m kissing her for real now, kissing her like nothing else matters beyond these four walls. My hands tighten in her hair, and my tongue explores her mouth, and my body craves more and more contact with her. More closeness, more connection.

Maybe their comments earlier about me being bad in bed flipped a switch. Maybe they drove me to break the promise I made to Summer outside the jewelry store. Or maybe they gave me the excuse I’d been looking for to get closer to her again.

But they’re not the reason I’m kissing her.

They aren’t why I’m scooping her up in my arms.

And none of that spurs me into carrying her to her bedroom, kicking the door closed, and setting her on the edge of her bed.

As my breath comes hard, I gaze at the woman I’ve known more than half my life.

The woman I took to prom.

The woman who’s been my rock.

The person I’ve depended on.

And holy shit, I really want to get naked with her all night long, damn the consequences.

I don’t want to do it to prove a point. I want to do it because I want her.

I want Summer Clarke so damn badly.

I cup her cheek, meeting her gaze, ready to tell her that this thing between us—and I don’t want to define it—is so much more than a stupid point to prove.

That it’s turning into a strange new sensation in my heart.

But she speaks first while she’s tugging at my shirt, pulling it up, trailing her fingers against my abs.

“Oliver, show me,” she whispers in the voice of a seductress. “Show me how good you are in bed, as good as I’ve imagined.”

My brain short-circuits.

All the wiring fries, and I can’t form coherent thoughts.

Because she’s pictured this.

Knowing that throws accelerant on a roaring fire.

I ignite, and the flames lick through my body as I pull off my shirt the rest of the way, letting the corner of my lips curve up in a grin. “You’ve pictured me?”

She nods, dancing her fingers down my stomach, over my abs. “I have. I shouldn’t, but I have, and every time, you’ve made me come.”

Holy fuck.

She is a goddess of dirty dreams.

She’s a kitten and a vixen and a daring, bold woman all in one.

She runs her fingers back up to my chest, making my brain pop. My skin sizzles.

I don’t need to form intelligent thoughts after all. Telling her this isn’t about ego, that I’m not making a case—those protestations don’t fit in the heat of this moment.

Not when she wants this purely physical connection.

So I home in on that.

I undo her blouse, slipping one button through its hole, then the next, then the next. Her shirt falls open, revealing soft, creamy skin and a pale-pink bra holding in those beauties. She shrugs off the shirt, letting it fall to the floor. We toe off shoes, and then I climb onto the bed with her, lying down, sliding under her so I can kiss her like that.

It should be weird, kissing my best friend with her lying on top of me.

Kissing in her bed, half-undressed, knowing everything’s coming off so very soon.

But it’s not weird.

It feels inevitable.

It feels like it’s about damn time.

And it’s utterly fantastic to finally give in.

I’m not sure how long I’ve wanted her, whether these feelings are new or they’ve been there all along, just waiting.

But I know, right now, my desire for her runs far and deep.

I bring her close for another devouring kiss. She tastes sweet and sexy as our lips collide in a hungry, wild crush.

My hands slide to the back of her bra, unhooking it. She sits up on me, lets the lingerie fall to the bed, and I stop everything because I have to look. I have to feel.

My God, she’s spectacular.

I cup her breasts, moaning my appreciation. “You are fucking beautiful.”

She smiles, kind of shyly, as she arches her back. “So are you.”

“But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You think I can’t make you feel good.” I tease her nipples, lifting my head up from the pillow to draw one delicious teardrop breast into my mouth, sucking on that diamond point.

She gasps, and it turns into a long, lingering groan. “Oh God. That feels so good. You do make me feel good.”

“Good. That’s what I want.”

Except, for her, this might merely be an exploration. An exercise. A test.

But as I flick my tongue across her nipple, I decide I can’t fucking care about the why right now. All I care about is that this doesn’t stop.

I bite gently then switch to her other breast, lavishing attention on it too.

She wriggles as I touch her, bowing her back, seeking out my mouth.

I answer her movements, licking and sucking and kissing as the girl next door writhes on top of me. As I play with her breasts, she moves up my body, straddling me now, rocking her hips against the outline of my cock.

“Oliver,” she whispers, a needy plea. “More, please, give me more.”

I thrust up against her as I kiss her breasts, licking as she gasps, as she seems to chase her pleasure.

And soon, her hips are rolling, her pelvis rocking, her tits bouncing in my face.

Her breath comes in short, sharp bursts.

“Don’t stop.”

“I have no intention of stopping,” I murmur against her chest as my hands guide her, gripping her, working her over as she seeks her release.

Because that’s what she’s doing.

And this is a fucking revelation.

Summer loves it when I kiss her breasts.

Summer gets wildly aroused from me biting her nipples.

Summer is so turned on, she’s panting, moaning, and riding me clothed, looking perilously close to climax.

And then she does.

Her mouth falls into an O.

Her moan rises higher.

Her body rocks, thrusts, then shudders.

Beautifully.

“Oh God, oh God,” she pants, then cries out, collapsing onto me. The sight of her coming is honestly the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

So hot that I flip her to her back, strip off her jeans, then meet her gaze, my fingers stopping at her pale-pink knickers. “Summer,” I say.

“Yes?” Her tone is feathery. She’s still floating on her orgasm, it seems.

“I need these off. I need to be inside you. Tell me you need it too. Please fucking tell me you need it too. I’m desperate for you.”

She nods, blinking, then sits up, grabbing at my jeans. “Take these off. Now.”

Maybe we ought to be having a conversation about what this means, or what happens next, or how we navigate friendship and fucking.

But I don’t want to ruin the moment.

She yanks at the button on my jeans, and I fumble at the zipper, working it open. Before I push my pants down, I grab my wallet, fish out a condom, and set it on the bedside table. Then I shed my jeans as she helps us along by slipping off her pink lace.

She’s naked, and she’s gorgeous.

And I’m so damn hard. My cock throbs as I push down my boxer briefs, freeing my erection.

She licks her lips, her eyes never straying from my dick.

And hey, I don’t mind the eye-fucking.

I don’t mind the ogling at all.

I grip my cock, sliding a fist over it, showing her what she’s doing to me. “You are so fucking sexy.”

“So are you,” she says, her eyes hooded, her tone so sensual. She moves her body like a cat stretching out, then she glides her hand down her pelvis. “I don’t think you’re bad in bed so far, but I think you should prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

And there it is—I was right about what she’s after. Why she’s doing this.

Proof.

But I’m not trying to prove anything. What drives me is pure and simple want.

It’s too strong to fight. It’s overwhelming. It’s fierce and dangerous, like a wild animal finally set free.

Part of me thinks it’s for the best that she’s not on the same page. That it’s safer.

And this may be simply an experiment for her, but she seems to be enjoying every second of our lab test. She arches her hips, such a desperate thing.

And it’s so arousing that my dick throbs insistently.

“I will make sure beyond any reasonable doubt that you come hard for a second time, maybe even a third. Sound about right?”

She moans. “Sounds perfect.”

Getting on the bed, I wrap my hands around her ankles, opening her legs.

But she shakes her head. “Let me be on top.”

“What the lady wants.” I flop onto the mattress as she shifts, straddling me. I reach for the condom, open the packet, then roll it down my length.

With avid eyes, she watches me, a wild sort of hunger in her gaze. It’s something I’ve never seen there before. Something I never expected from her.

But it’s incredibly erotic to experience her like this.

To see my friend come alive in a whole new way in the bedroom.

As she settles her knees on either side of me, I don’t need any proof to know I want so much more than one time with her.

Because I’ve been wanting her for a long, long time.

How did I not realize it sooner? I’ve been craving this, denying this. Moments over the last few years flash before me. Snapshots of the flush on her chest, my gaze on her lips, our bodies nearly touching.

The way I felt.

How I reacted.

I shoved all those wants away each time, ignoring, denying.

Pretending.

That was where I was truly faking it.

Now, here I am with her for real, and I’m pretty sure my want is so much more than physical.

It’s hitting me in a much deeper way.

And evidently, like a stupid idiot, it took me getting naked with her to learn I really, really like her.

On a whole lot of levels.

Even if she’s only feeling it on one level.

I’ll have to take what I can get.

27

Summer

I hardly feel like me.

Gone is the outgoing, upbeat, peppy, positive Summer.

I’m suddenly this wildly different woman.

I’m lust-drenched and dipped in desire, rolled in it from head to toe like a sugar coating.

As Oliver sheathes himself, I’m vibrating with desire.

I’m enrobed in lust.

I can’t entirely believe I’m doing this.

I’m about to fuck my best friend, and a part of me wonders why we waited so long to cross this line.

Here in my room, everything about us together feels . . . undeniable, like maybe all our touches, all our teasing, and all our kissing was always pointing right to this.

He grips my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh as I position myself over him. I take his cock in my hand, and I breathe out, hard. It’s a relief and a thrill all at once to touch him at last. To touch the man I’ve been crushing on for years.

And the only way—literally the only way—I can get through the sheer intensity of this moment is to act like it’s just a game, an experiment.

But it’s so much more.

It’s a deep and potent longing to know him like this when I’ve craved it for so long.

As I curl a fist around his length, I’m lit up, because this is heady, this is real, this is me touching my best friend and knowing he wants me the same way I want him.

And I want us to feel everything together. I rub the head against my wetness, my eyes squeezing shut at the first enticing feel of his cock against me.

Then I rise up, and I slide down onto Oliver Harris, the boy who took me to prom, the man who I’m taking to bed, the person I enjoy the most in this world.

“Oh God. Oh my God,” I groan as I sink down, settling onto his shaft.

He growls, a long, carnal hum of approval. “Summer. You feel fucking incredible.”

“God, so do you.” It’s all I can say, all I can feel as I adjust to his delicious length, to the feel of him pulsing inside me.

If I say anything more, I’ll say too much.

I’ll tell him I’ve wanted this for reasons that go beyond his beautiful face, his carved body. For reasons that live inside me. Because he’s the person I’ve laughed with, depended on, turned to.

And he’s this beautiful man beneath me in bed.

A friend and now, for the most unexpected of reasons, a lover.

Those roles are supposed to be separate. Opposite sides of the ring. But they’re crashing into each other and doing crazy, dangerous things to my heart.

It’s hammering. It’s expanding. It’s reaching for him.

Focus on the physical.

Yes, that’s what I need to do.

I start to move, to seek a rhythm, find a pace.

Moving my hips, I roll back and forth, up and down, taking him in, out.

I plant my palms on his chest, and he guides me with his strong hands.

“That’s right, cupcake. Use my cock. Use it to make yourself feel so fucking good.”

Sparks race across my skin. He’s a dirty talker, and I love it. Love discovering this side of him.

“More. Give me more dirty words,” I pant. His voice sends shivers across my skin, hot, decadent tingles that feel so damn good.

“Fuck me hard, cupcake. Like you know you want to,” he urges, moving me up and down on his thick, hard cock.

Sparks of pleasure ignite in my core, fireworks exploding into the night sky as I rock my hips against him. “I do. I do want it hard. I do want it good.”

I’ve never spoken like this during sex.

I’ve never wanted to. Never tried.

But it’s heady and thrilling to say out loud all the filthy things I feel.

“Then that’s how you’ll get it. You are going to get it so hard and deep you’ll be feeling me tomorrow. Now let me see those beautiful tits bounce up and down,” he says, rocking under me, fucking me from below. He pistons his hips, driving into me and consuming me with pleasure. I can’t stop moaning, because the threat of bliss is close, so deliciously close.

Oliver slides a hand across my waist, down my belly, heading straight for my clit. The second he touches me there, I cry out. I toss my head back, yelling his name.

“Oliver, God, Oliver! Yes, yes, yes.” His name is hard to say during sex. All those syllables. But I want to feel it on my tongue. I want the reminder that he’s doing this to me. My friend, my rock, my confidante. That even if this is a game, a slipup, a moment in our pretend love affair, I want it to feel as real as I’ve imagined it.

So many times.

Countless times.

And now, as I’m chasing the edge, I start to understand why.

As he pumps into me, my belly tightens, a swirl of pleasure coiling inward, gathering strength, and then, out of nowhere or out of everywhere, the pleasure in me shatters into a thousand diamonds as I detonate.

I shake as ecstasy rattles through me, expanding, crashing over me, into me, under me as I call out his name again.

The second I come down from the high, he pulls out, flips me to my back, and hikes up my legs on his shoulders.

Oh my God. I can’t move. I don’t want to move. I want to be owned.

He’s fucking me so good.

Such a hard, wild fucking.

And I love it. I love watching him take me. Feeling him ride me to the edge, my legs hooked over his shoulders as he pumps hard, fast, deep.

“You’re so fucking wet. So fucking sexy. Love the way you grip my cock. Love the way you feel. It’s so fucking good.”

“It is. It’s so good.”

“So sexy. So goddamn sexy. Come again for me. Want you to come again.”

As he drives into me more furiously, his moves send me soaring over another cliff, and I come hard for the third time. I cry out, then I beg, “I want you to come.”

But I don’t really have to ask. His body stiffens, and then he grunts, “Coming,” and collapses onto me.

He’s panting, moaning, and saying my name over and over. Whispering it. Then my new nickname, spoken quietly in my ear. “Cupcake.”

It’s a slow, soft murmur.

Like he’s delighting in it.

And I am too, as aftershocks reverberate in me while Oliver kisses my neck. “That was so much more than being good in bed,” he whispers.

I know, I know.

My throat tightens, and I press my lips together because I don’t dare let a true word escape. That this was so much more than a test, a theory. That it was so much more than sex.

But if I admit any of that, I might lose my heart to him, and if I lose my heart, I could lose him.

The person I depend on, turn to, need.

So I say something else that’s true. “It was. You broke all the laws, Oliver.”

28

Summer

This isn’t the first time we’ve spent the night. There was that Saturday a few years ago when we were all up late—Stella, Henry, Oliver, and me—playing Would You Rather and showing off our drink-mixing and drink-downing prowess. My grandma was out of town, and we all crashed in the living room in an epic late-night fiesta of drinks, food, and fun that made us feel like we were in college again.

Another time, I was at his apartment, binge-watching Friends from College on Netflix—or cringe-watching, really, since that show is like a train wreck you can’t turn away from—and I conked out five minutes into the final episode.

I woke the next morning covered in a navy-blue blanket, one arm hanging over the side of his couch. We finished the episode over coffee and bagels, lamenting the show’s cancellation.

But this is not that.

This is not either of those.

This is something else entirely.

I’m not even sure how he or we made the decision for him to stay over last night, only that there was yawning and stretching, and a great many I’m so tireds involved.

Now, it’s Saturday morning, and he’s sound asleep on his stomach, the sheets riding low on his waist.

His back is exposed, and as I push up on my elbows, I’m tempted to trace long, lazy lines down his spine to where the curves of his perfect, round butt cheeks peek above the sheets.

Dear sexy ex-boyfriend indeed.

He’s the sexiest.

And the riskiest. Because my heart clutches as I gaze at him, swelling with new emotions.

Or maybe not so new ones.

Maybe ones that have been present for years and became even stronger last night, activated by touch.

Or maybe activated by new moments too.

I flash back on last night outside the jewelry store, the way he apologized, then later at the game as we talked about our families.

Those moments brought me closer to him.

Made me feel more connected to my best friend.

I lift my hand, running it through the air as if I’m touching him. The desire storming inside me is so much more than physical.

It’s not only coming from my body—it’s coming from my heart, my mind.

And that’s why I have to get out of bed, have to get away from him.

If I stay here, I’ll pepper him with kisses. I’ll run my fingers across his warm skin. I’ll try to cuddle him.

My God, if I cuddle him, I’ll give away all this aching in my heart.

And I can’t.

Just can’t.

Last night has to be just sex.

Because I remember how he looked at me in the diner yesterday after we broke the kiss.

Like he’d already lost something.

I remember what he said later when he apologized.

I left because I didn’t think I could stop kissing you if I stayed, and I care about you too deeply to jeopardize our friendship.

The memory singes me, and I bolt out of bed, grabbing jeans, panties, a bra, and a shirt. Like my hair is on fire, I rush to the bathroom, take a quick shower, brush my teeth, and get dressed. I can’t risk our friendship. I can’t hurt it.

Ten minutes later, I’m out of there, heading into the kitchen to start some coffee.

I’m not a yoga person, and I don’t meditate. But I know the value of breathing, so I practice my breaths, telling myself that nothing can jeopardize the years of depending on each other.

Because I won’t let it.

As the life-giving beverage brews, I hear sheets rustling and feet padding on the floor. Then the toilet flushes, a sink runs, and a door opens.

Clad in only jeans, Oliver walks into the kitchen with gorgeous bed head and a happy grin.

My heart trips on itself, wanting to run to him and fling itself at his feet.

Must. Calm. Down.

“Good morning,” I say, all cheery and full of zest.

I’m not Summer the Sex Vixen anymore. I’m the cheery, sarcastic friend. I draw a circle in the air to encompass him, especially the hair. “I’m entering you in The Best Bed Head Ever competition. Because that all-the-strands-sticking-up look is adorable.”

I fix on a smile.

There. I sound like a sassy friend, not a lovestruck lover.

With a what can you do shrug, he drags a hand through his tousled hair, strides over to me, and drops a kiss onto my cheek. The minty scent of his breath drifts past my nostrils. He must have found my extra toothbrush and brushed his teeth when he woke up. Another point in his favor.

He lifts his face. “Morning.”

Gah.

Even the way he says Morning is making my heart do handsprings. What is wrong with me?

I straighten my spine and gesture to the coffee. “Want a cup?”

“There is only one correct answer to that question.”

I smile and pour him a mug, looking away and focusing on the role I’m playing. That role means steering the ship of us back into Buddy Harbor.

“So,” I begin, drawing a deep breath. “The verdict is in.” I spin around and hand him his coffee.

He arches a brow in question. “It is?”

I nod fiercely, making a big deal of this moment. Because friendships cannot be jeopardized with things like epic, earth-shattering, soul-searing sex.

“Good-looking men are not selfish lovers. Law abolished.” I make a big sweeping gesture with my free hand, like I’m striking down a statute.

He blinks, his brow furrowing. He takes a drink of his coffee, the crease in his forehead still present. “Oh, right,” he says. Then his expression shifts, like he’s clearing something up in his head. When he looks at me, he flashes that fabulous, famous smile—the one that melts hearts and panties, and might very well be doing a number on both those things of mine right now.

Damn him for being so damn pretty.

And kind.

And funny.

And caring.

Because that was what I saw last night. For all his cocksure charm, all his jokes about sizes, he’s the same guy in bed that he is out of it.

A good man.

He blows out a long stream of air, like he’s relieved too. “Glad to hear that. That law. Super important to strike it down.”

“Right?” I force out a laugh. “I couldn’t have Stella bad-mouthing your abilities. I had to know for sure, though, since she wouldn’t take my word for it.”

“Right, right,” he says, nodding as he drinks again. “Wouldn’t want that.” His voice tightens, goes a little crisper. “Maybe it’s time to let Twitter know too. I’m sure they’d be delighted to learn that I’m not only a spectacular kisser, but that I’m great in bed as well.”

My brow knits. Is he mad?

He sets the cup on the table and turns to head for the bedroom. In my alarm and confusion, I grab his arm. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it.”

He laughs, but it sounds bitter. “Nor did I. Hell, it’s great news. Let’s host a parade. Let’s tell everyone that the guy you all thought would be rubbish in the sack is a stellar shag.”

“Oliver,” I say, turning desperate. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not posting anything on Twitter. I was just . . .”

I was just covering up how I feel for you.

He waves a hand. “Whatever. It’s fine. I love being judged for completely unimportant shit.”

He doesn’t add like how I look, because that would be cocky.

And right now, he’s not cocky.

But he has been judged—unfairly—and that’s partly my fault.

I don’t let go of his arm, squeezing tightly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to judge you. I think you’re amazing. As a person, as a friend, as a . . .” I flap my hand in the direction of the bedroom.

A small smile plays on his lips. “Thanks.”

“And I would never say something online about . . .” I don’t finish that sentence either—how good you are in bed. That seems trivial, and this moment feels bigger, more important.

So I do the thing I ought to do—apologize again. “I’m sorry for judging you on your looks. You’re gorgeous, and I maybe assumed something that was stupid to assume.”

He laughs, and it sounds self-deprecating. “I sound like a total arse now. It’s all good. We’re good, I swear. I didn’t mean to get cranky.” He takes a beat. “But would you tell Stella your grade for me?”

The question comes out almost sheepish, like he’s embarrassed to ask.

I want to tell him the truth. That I would tell Stella as my friend. That I would tell her because she’s the only person to see through this facade of mine. Because she knows how I feel for Oliver.

Oh, how I want to find her, flop onto a couch, clutch my heart, and say it was amazing because it was him.

But I can’t, and I won’t.

“No,” I say. “It’s private.”

He shakes his head, like he’s clearing it. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said any of that about judgments and whatnot. I didn’t mean anything bad by it.”

I let go of his arm. “I didn’t mean to make it seem like it was only about that, Oliver. I didn’t sleep with you to test her theory.”

“You didn’t?” For a second, it sounds like he’s holding something precious in his hands, like a hummingbird, like hope.

I square my shoulders. “No. It wasn’t about a law.”

“No. It wasn’t about that for me either,” he says, his voice stretched thin.

In it I can hear fear—fear of loss—like I heard the other day. I go with an answer that’s true but won’t hurt my heart—or his.

I meet his eyes, willing myself to stay strong. “I think we just got caught up.”

“Yes!” His eyes blaze. Well, then. “All caught up.”

“It was a moment. And we just gave in.”

“Yes, precisely. Just a moment,” he says, practically punching the air in agreement.

Admittedly, my silly heart wishes he weren’t agreeing so easily. But my head knows this is for the best.

“We’re not going to do it again, obviously,” I add.

“Of course not. We know better.”

I swallow past the stone in my throat. “We do.”

“Yeah, we sure do.” Then he picks up the cup, takes another deep drink, and peers at the clock. “I should get out of here. I have lots to do.” He scratches his head and repeats, “Yeah, lots to do.”

I don’t answer. I just savor the view one last time.

I’ll see him like this again, surely. At the pool, he’ll be wearing less.

But it’s not so much what he’s wearing or not wearing.

It’s why. He’s still in a half-dressed state from last night, from us, together. It’s not just bed head—it’s bed head from sleeping next to me. It’s shirtlessness from me undressing him last night.

It’s a sleepy, sex-rumpled, morning-after look, and I put it there.

I want to put it there again.

But I can’t.

So it’s better if I just let him leave.

“Yeah, I have so much to do too. The gym and planning. Maybe I’ll even add a pole-dancing class and all sorts of fun stuff.” The words tumble out to fill the awkward silence. “Plus, we have dinner tonight with your client, and maybe we should take pics for one of those The Dating Pool dates before we go? I’ll pick one and text you where to meet.”

“Sounds brilliant.” He heads to my room, grabs his clothes and shoes, then walks to the door.

I follow him, and as I open it, my grandmother walks back in.

“Oh, I didn’t know you had company,” she says. “Hi, Oliver.”

“Good to see you, Mags. I’m just taking off. Summer, I’ll see you tonight.”

When he leaves, it feels like he takes a piece of my heart with him. My grandmother tilts her head, shooting me a curious look.

“There’s something you need to tell me. I see it in your eyes.”

A lump rises in my throat. She knows me so well.

My shoulders sag as she shuts the door, and then I sit at the table and tell her everything.

Well, I leave out the three orgasms, but I tell her that I think I’m falling for him.

“What do I do?”

She pats my hand. “Sweetheart, I honestly don’t know.”

29

Summer

Time to focus on the gym.

On the goal that I’ve been working toward for years.

I am this close to nabbing the financing I need to make this happen, and all I have to do is nail this feature piece for The Dating Pool.

I power walk around the park with Mags, where we discuss the follow-up email from The Dating Pool, with its short list of possible dates. We debate the merits of each, and settle on a few fab ones. Ones that will make the piece sing, and hopefully guarantee the magazine pays me the full amount for the article I’ll write.

Then we catch up on her triathlon training and her friend Octavia’s Tinder woes—she did not swipe right on a dog, but she is suffering from a severe lack of interest in men her age.

“She finds them dull. She likes a captivating young mind,” Mags says.

“And what about you? Anyone new on the horizon?”

“Me? I like ’em thirty-five or younger,” she says with a wink, and I’m pretty sure she’s taking this walk with me to keep my mind off Oliver. News flash—it’s not entirely working. I’m faking it, pretending I’m not thinking about him.

But I do always love chatting with my grandmother.

“Cradle robber,” I say with an exaggerated cringe.

“But I do prefer to meet men the old-fashioned way. IRL.”

“You can just say ‘in real life,’” I tell her as we power walk along the Bethesda Terrace.

“If I don’t use the lingo, you’ll never learn it,” she says sweetly.

“Hey! I know the lingo.”

“Sure you do,” she says with a wink, then she squeezes my shoulders when we reach Fifth Avenue. “Good luck with your meeting.”

She spins around and breaks into a jog. I smile as I watch her go, loving her spirit, her get-up-and-go-no-matter-what-ness. I’m glad she’s so fit at her age—seeing her energy reminds me why I do what I do.

Or what I’m trying to do, at least.

I head to a café and meet with some of my instructors for the classes I want to add at the gym, crossing my fingers that this dating piece will do the trick and make my dream come true.

When I’m done, I say goodbye, grab a coffee, and google my favorite options from the short list The Dating Pool sent over. Checking the time, I pick the best one for tonight, then open my text app and tap out a message to Oliver.

Summer: I know you hate classes, but . . .

Oliver: Please tell me we’re not going to learn to knit hats or make booties. Or candles. I draw the line at candle making.

Summer: Candles? That’s the line in the sand?

Oliver: A man has to have some lines.

Summer: Then you’ll love where I’ve drawn this one.

Oliver: Can’t wait.

Summer: You do know I can hear the sarcasm even through text messages?

Oliver: I wasn’t trying to hide it.

Summer: See you at five on Perry and Hudson, then we’ll go to your client’s dinner, and we’ll have a hostess gift that’ll be perfectly unique.

Oliver: Lawyers are generally known for giving great hostess gifts. We’re often praised as a collective group for our excellence in that area.

As I drink my coffee and reread the thread, a pang pulls on my heart.

This should be a good thing—that we can return so seamlessly to the way we’ve always been. We are a rubber band, snapping back into friendship shape.

But in a way, it feels off, like this isn’t who we are anymore.

Or maybe it’s not who we could be.

I had a taste of that last night, and I want another drink.

But I sigh and close the app.

30

Oliver

In the grand scheme of things, I have nothing against pink. I mean, it’s not my color. I don’t wear it. I don’t decorate with it. Not that I decorate anything, for that matter.

Point being, pink is fine, except when it’s not fine. Except when I’m surrounded by it.

“I feel like I’m swimming in a Pepto Bismol bottle,” I whisper to Summer as the pink-haired instructor with the world’s cheeriest smile hands us aprons at the Cookie Academy.

“It does have a rather strong Candy Land-slash-My Little Pony vibe,” Summer whispers, tying an apron around her neck.

I fasten mine at the waist, then gesture to myself, reaching for humor and normalcy. “Domestic god is a good look on me, right?” I lift a brow and give her my best smolder. “You’ve always wanted to see me in an apron—admit it.”

Wait—

I frown, second-guessing myself.

Was that flirty?

Yeah, that was flirty.

I shouldn’t be flirty with Summer if we’re going back to the friend zone. And we are, since we’ve agreed that last night was not the norm.

But this is a cookie-making class. Cookie dough won’t be tempting. It’s not like we’re making sensual massage oil. Now that would be a class I could get behind.

“You look absolutely dashing.” Summer pats me on the shoulder as we set out ingredients on the pink counter. If she’s feeling awkward after this morning’s let’s-never-go-there-again decision, it’s not showing.

At the front of the kitchen classroom, the instructor cups her mouth to make a megaphone. “Who’s ready to make the best cookie batter ever?”

“We are,” shouts the couple behind us.

“Woot, woot,” shouts another.

I groan inside. Classes should not include a cheering section.

The instructor sings out her instructions, and we set to work mixing and measuring, Summer taking pics as we go.

“I think The Dating Pool included this date idea on its short list because it’s highly Instagrammable.” She snaps a shot of me measuring sugar.

“Isn’t that the main criterion for a date these days? Because who will believe you had a date if you don’t post pics on social media?”

When Summer laughs, I take it as a sign that this is where we’re supposed to be. No, not this pic-friendly, cotton-candy-pink cookie school. I mean the friendship we’ve managed to pull out of the sex nosedive. We’re flying at cruising altitude into the friend zone so damn easily it’s like we live there.

This proves last night was a blip. Just a bump of turbulence.

“We’re adorbs,” she says. Now she’s snapping a shot of us working our KitchenAid blender—pink, of course. Then she pauses. “Wait. How about a kiss? What’s a photo op without a kiss?”

“Things I ask myself every day.” I drop a chaste one on her cheek.

This is our frequency, this saccharine cute and absolutely fucking awful class where we stir up a concoction we could make at home. But in this day and age, we need a course in everything so it can be chronicled for social media, thus proving we’re having the best time ever.

All I want to do is rip off this apron, bring her close, and kiss her senseless.

Toss her over my shoulder.

Carry her out of here.

I want to strip her, touch her, have her.

Tell her how I feel all night long, and then in the morning tell her that I want to do it again and again.

Instead, I’m shaking rainbow sprinkles into cookie dough batter while pretending I don’t want to do any of that with the woman next to me.

I sneak a glance at her—the girl next door who’s become the woman I want.

Become so much more than a friend.

The strawberry shortcake instructor swings by, checking out our mix and clapping approvingly.

“I’ll take a picture of you guys, since you’re so cute,” she chirps.

We pose, flashing toothy, too-big smiles, cheerily stirring our batter, peppering each other’s cheeks with kisses.

My life has become a series of social media moments, chronicled for The Dating Pool piece, one fake moment after another with my fake fiancée.

* * *

When we leave to make our way to Geneva’s dinner party, Summer’s brow is furrowed, and she seems lost in thought. I look at her hand by her side, wanting to take it, knowing I shouldn’t.

Why did I think it would be a good idea to sleep with her to prove a point?

That was a stupid idea.

“You okay, Summer?” I ask as we walk along Perry Street, wanting to keep things light between us. “Are you thinking deep, cookie-inspired thoughts about the state of the world?”

She shoots me a dubious sideways look. “Did cookies make you think deep thoughts about the state of the world?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Do tell,” she prompts.

I choose the safest of my insights. “When did everything turn into a class? There are pickle-making classes, yarn-twining classes, how-to-tie-your-shoelace-into-an-origami-frog classes. Everything is a class.”

“I wouldn’t mind learning how to tie my shoelaces into a frog,” she counters, but her tone is more curious than challenging. “Why do you dislike all these trendy classes so much?”

“They’re pointless. People take them, but they never actually go home and make pickles, or candles, or piña coladas. They take them knowing they’ll never make pickles or piña coladas.”

She shrugs and smiles. “Who cares, as long as the class itself is fun.”

“You liked that?” I hook my thumb back toward the Cookie Academy.

“Yes. I had a good time.”

“But you could do that at home,” I argue as we reach the next block, heading toward my client’s West Village home.

“True, but I don’t very often, and sometimes it’s fun just to get out of the house. To do something other than dinner and a movie, or dinner and drinks. You wouldn’t want to do that if we were dating?”

That stops me in my tracks—the if. The question of dating her. The possibility I haven’t let myself ponder.

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“What would you want to do, then?”

I answer easily. “I would probably take you to, say, a hockey game. Or maybe to your favorite diner. I would take you to Central Park, since I know you love it. We’d wander through it and try to find a corner of the park you haven’t explored. But if we couldn’t, we’d just go to all your favorite places because they’re mine too.”

The scenarios roll off my tongue. I know them well. I know her well. “I would go for a run with you, something else we both enjoy. I would ask you what new music is on your current playlist, and you’d tell me you just downloaded the playlist from Sex Education, and I’d say, ‘That’s a brilliant show,’ and you’d say, ‘I know, I love it, it’s amazing.’ And then we’d debate which one’s better, Sex Education or Schitt’s Creek, but we’d literally never decide.”

I stop for a breath, trying to read her brown eyes. But they’re not flashing kiss me now at me in neon. Instead, they’re gentler, and that softness in them, a vulnerability, even, hooks into my heart and tugs.

I don’t know what to do with that look or these feelings except to stand on this corner with her. Talk to her. Be with her. Go into that party tonight as if it’s a real date, not a date for show.

Mostly, I just want to know where she’s at.

“What do you think?” I ask.

“Those things all sound like great dates too,” she says slowly, absorbing what I’ve just said, and almost as slowly, she lets a grin spread across her pretty face. “But I also had a great time with you just now at the cookie class. I pretty much always have a great time with you, Oliver.”

I fight the impulse to draw her near, to bring her into my arms. “Yeah, same here. I hate stupid classes, but I always have fun with you. I guess part of me is just tired of the charade,” I say, but the desire to touch her is stronger than the will to stop, and I finally yank her in close for a hug. She snuggles against me, her face in the crook of my neck.

And that feels too good.

Too right.

And a little too tempting. As a couple walks past us, I close my eyes and inhale the scent of her hair, sweet vanilla reminding me of last night, taunting me with a tonight that won’t happen.

I breathe her in on the streets of New York, doing my damnedest to stay very still. To not cross a line again. To make sure we’re on the level.

Even though it’s hard.

Maybe too hard to keep to myself.

“You smell really, really good,” I whisper, and a bit of weight shifts off of me.

“So do you,” she says softly into my neck. “Maybe beautiful guys just smell better.”

I laugh. “Yes, it’s our secret cologne.”

She takes a beat. “Actually, it’s just you. You just smell really good, Ollie.”

Then she draws a shaky breath and pulls back. “But if we keep doing that, we’ll get all caught up again, and we said we wouldn’t.”

“Right. Right. We did say that.” Part of me loves that she feels the same slippery slope I do.

Another part wants to send us both tumbling down that hill.

We start walking again along the block and spot a couple staring at us. One of the pair, a woman with dark hair and gray eyes, offers me a tentative smile and seems embarrassed. “America’s Best Boyfriend?”

Summer chimes in, “This is him.”

“Can we take a pic?”

“Sure,” she says, snuggling up against me.

The woman snaps a picture, then her eyes drift down to Summer’s left hand. “Gorgeous ring.”

“Thanks so much,” Summer says, and the couple turns to leave, saying they’ll hashtag us.

I look forward to the day I’m not a hashtag.

* * *

A little later, we reach Geneva’s block.

“I feel a little guilty going in there,” Summer says softly.

“Because it’s a charade?”

She smiles softly. “Yes, to be honest.”

“Same here. I guess I’m not as Machiavellian as I thought.”

“Did you think you were?”

“I’m a lawyer. I have to be a little Machiavellian. The ends justify the means and all.” I puff up my chest and put on my best dickhead voice. “I’m an asshole. I can do this.”

She laughs, then her laughter fades. “But in this case, I do think the end justifies the means. Maybe I’m Machiavellian.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I think it’s stupid that you were judged for what I said. I think it’s stupid, too, that I judged you for being”—she waves her hand at me—“for being pretty.”

I flutter my hand across my chest. “I’ve always wanted to be pretty.”

“You know what I mean. It’s ridiculous. Society judges women based on looks, and, frankly, on a million other things too. And then we turn around and judge other people. The internet judged you. Your client judged you for a letter I wrote about how awesome you are.” She’s winding herself up, building a head of steam. “It’s insane. I mean, so what if you had truly broken my heart. Does that mean you’re a bad lawyer?”

“Probably means I’m a good lawyer.”

“But see, that’s the thing—the letter was supposed to be a thank you,” she says, turning to me, touching my arm. “It was supposed to be between us.”

I take a breath, thinking carefully before I say the next thing. “Then why didn’t you just tell me?”

She’s quiet, the cogs in her brain whirring. “Because I don’t think I realized what it was at the time. I wrote it from the heart, and it felt like a secret, something only we would know.”

Her confession feels like the true secret. She’s telling me something private, something meaningful.

I stroke her hair, tucking some strands behind her ear. “Then next time, just tell me.”

She raises her hand to clutch my wrist, but not like she’s stopping me—more like she’s clinging to me. “I’ll do that. I promise. And I’m glad you’re not mad at me.”

I lean in closer, press my forehead to hers. “Do you want me to pretend I am? To fake being mad?”

She laughs. “Don’t fake that. I’m sorry you have to play this game because of me.”

But maybe I don’t mind the game after all. I slide my hand down her hair, savoring the softness, and consider saying fuck the world and kissing her.

Instead, I let go.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m having a blast with you. Let’s go inside and fake it—and give her this infernal cookie-batter hostess gift.”

Once inside, we give Geneva the batter, which delights her.

“I’ve never had someone bring me cookie batter,” she says, her eyes shifting from Summer to me. “I suspect this is your fiancée’s doing.”

“It absolutely is.”

We mingle with her guests, as well as Jane, and I feel nothing but honest as I take Summer’s hand, thread my fingers through hers, and introduce her as my fiancée.

She looks like she belongs to me.

She feels like she belongs to me.

And when I hold her hand during the cocktail hour, I don’t think anyone can tell otherwise.

Geneva introduces me to some of the other partners at her media firm. “This is my attorney, Oliver Harris. He’s tops at contracts and business, and he looks out for me like a tiger,” she says. “And this is his fiancée, Summer.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Summer says to a tall woman with horn-rimmed glasses.

“And you as well,” the woman answers. “How long have you two been engaged?”

“Two weeks.” Summer gives the story that we practiced after the bacon-wine almost-fiasco.

“Congrats. And when is the wedding?” the inquisitor continues.

“In ten months,” she says, squeezing my hand. “We’re getting married in Central Park. We’ve always loved it there.”

“Right.” I pitch to sell our story. “We had our first kiss there.”

“Oh, how romantic,” Geneva puts in. “Where in Central Park?”

Summer meets my gaze, her brown eyes twinkling. “By the carousel.” She touches my arm. “Do you remember what I said in high school about kissing at that spot?”

My mind is a blank—a white slate of nothing. Then, like the sun rising, the memory returns. “Right. On one of our visits there. You said you wanted your first real kiss to be there. And I just laughed.”

“Why did you laugh?” Geneva asks curiously.

I don’t look at Geneva. I look at Summer and speak the truth. “Because I knew then, on some level, I wanted her first kiss to be with me.”

“Ohh! That’s so lovely.” Geneva clasps her hands to her chest. The other woman coos.

And Summer just smiles at me, only me. “I wanted it to be you too.”

I have no choice. I step closer, sweep my lips across hers, and kiss her the way I want to now.

Well, not entirely. I’d like to kiss her with no one else around. But here in the middle of a dinner party, I’ll take this.

Nothing about it feels fake. Not the gust of breath that escapes her lips. Not the slightest murmur she gives. And not how she responds.

But because we’re not alone, I end the kiss after a few seconds, reorienting on the present moment. “And we did kiss there for real, several months ago, when we started dating.” I pick up the thread of our fake story. “Because I realized after all these years that it’d always been her.”

All the hands flutter over all their hearts.

Summer’s eyes widen, shining with what might be the threat of tears, but she, too, gets back to the story. “So, earlier this week, we recreated our kiss for fun. To celebrate, you know?”

“Yes, of course,” Geneva says.

The other woman adds, “And did you know then that you were in love with her?”

“It took me a while to figure it out,” I say, and Summer visibly trembles at the comment. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, the way it moves through her body. The way her breath ghosts across her lips.

“But you figured it out,” Geneva says.

As I meet Summer’s gaze, I speak the full truth when I say, “Yes, I did.”

* * *

We’re quiet later as we leave, heading down the stairs to the street, where Summer waits for her Lyft.

We don’t say a word. It’s strange for us. But she breaks the silence eventually, gesturing to my client’s home. “Are you going to feel as bad as I will when you tell her we broke up?”

“Yes.” But not for the reasons she thinks. Not because I feel guilty. I don’t fucking care about appearances anymore.

I say yes because I feel like it’s already happening—the breaking up—and it does feel bad.

The feeling is magnified when the Honda pulls up to the curb and I open the door and say good night.

She waves faintly from the car, the look in her eyes a little sad.

It probably mirrors mine.

Last night really was just one night.

Once she leaves, I don’t call a cab or a Lyft.

I start down the block, but I’m not alone for long. A familiar voice calls out, “Care to walk a woman home, love?”

I turn around and wait for Jane, coming from the party. “If I must.”

We turn uptown. “Seems like your little ruse is going well.”

“Is it though?”

“You had everyone eating out of the palm of your hand,” she remarks. “Maybe you missed your calling as an actor.”

“Maybe I did.”

She pats my arm. “Or maybe you should just let Summer know you actually have feelings for her, like ManCandyFan thinks you do.” She takes a breath, showing me her phone.

@ManCandyFan: He’s so in love with her.

@TheThird: Is he though?

@GossipLover1andOnly: Yes. It’s beyond obvious.

For a second, I close my eyes, letting the comments sink in. By and large, the internet is pretty stupid. But Jane isn’t. So, I open my eyes and meet her gaze, asking her opinion, since she knows me well.

“You think I have feelings for her?”

“Yes. And that perhaps you have for a long time now.” Then she hails a cab. “Time for me to go.”

“Thanks for leaving on that note.”

“What better note to leave on than giving you something to think about? Especially when I need to get home to feed Daisy. She’s quite demanding when she’s hungry. Cats. What can you do?”

“Feed them, I suppose.”

When she’s gone, I walk up the street, trying to remind myself why I never pursued anything with Summer in the first place. Why I never let myself examine all those things I felt for her but couldn’t name.

It’s because she’s practically family.

Because she’s part of my life.

Because I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.

Only, none of those reasons hold as much weight as they did a week ago.

* * *

The next morning, I meet up with Logan and Fitz to play paintball in Central Park.

“I had an epiphany last night,” Logan announces.

“You’re joining a monastery?” Fitz asks.

“You’re dying your hair all the colors of the rainbow?” I put in.

“You’re going to Vegas and betting everything on red?” Fitz says.

Logan rolls his eyes. “No, dickheads. It’s about the strategy. I had it all wrong. It’s not about crushing the other team. It’s about how fucking awesome we are.”

I shoot him a skeptical look. “Is this an empowerment moment?”

“Yeah, because I don’t know if I’m ready to sing ‘Let the River Run’ with you cats,” Fitz says.

Logan gives him the side-eye. “Did you just reference Working Girl?”

“Yes, does this surprise you?” Fitz asks. “One, Harrison Ford is in it. Two, I grew up with three sisters and a single mom. We watched it together.”

I snap my gaze to Logan. “More to the point, did you just recognize a Working Girl reference?”

Logan ignores me and proceeds with “As I was saying—Amelia and I were talking last night, and she said I was going at it all wrong.” Amelia is his daughter, and I appreciate the image of her telling him he was all wrong. “She said the point of the game is not to crush the enemy but to have fun. And I realized I’ve been focused on the wrong thing—on some stupid revenge on the guy at Lehman. But you know what? He can have my ex. I am done being angry, and I am letting it go. I just want to have a blast and move the hell on.”

Is he serious? I pull back to study him, and yes, he absolutely means what he’s saying. This is a huge step for my friend, and I smile, happy for and proud of him.

“That is big of you.”

Logan simply shrugs. “Time to move on. Also, my daughter is brilliant, so I should listen to her.”

“Sometimes kids have the best advice,” I agree. I wonder what Amelia would tell me to do about all these feelings I have for her Aunt Summer.

The advice she gave Logan is kind of all-purpose, and maybe I should apply it broadly. So I decide to follow the kid’s wisdom for the moment.

Just have fun.

Right now, though, we play, and Logan doesn’t obsess on crushing the competition to settle a pointless score. He seems happy, and like that—playing as a team, playing as friends—we win.

Afterward, as he packs up his gear, I tell Fitz, “Bet he meets someone new and is arse-over-elbow in love before we know it.”

Fitz claps me on the back. “My bet is you’re next.”

I scoff, dismissing that with a wave, then tell them I’ll take them out for breakfast. But over eggs and toast, I’m still thinking about Summer and the story of how we fell in love in Central Park.

Then I shove it out of my head because it’s time to play pretend with her again.

31

Summer

“Thrifting?” Oliver arches a brow as we walk to A Taste of Champagne, a consignment shop on the Upper West Side, then he shakes his head like a dog shaking off water. “You’re really taking me thrifting?”

“It’s apparently a very popular thing to do on a date.”

“For who? Teenage girls?”

“Well, the cookie-dough class seemed tailor-made for teenage girls, and women who were once teenage girls do most of the date planning these days, so I suppose, yes, dating trends are driven by teenagers.”

“Can we go to the mall next?”

I swat him and tell him no as we head into the vintage shop. As I comb through racks, he snaps pictures of me while I hunt for a cute jacket.

Focus on the date, I remind myself.

Focus on the article.

Don’t focus on memories of last night and the swoony words that fell from his mouth as he spun the story of how he fell in love with me.

Swoony words were part of faking it.

Who knew Oliver was such a good actor?

But he is. He’s a great actor.

I find a rack of short sequined dresses, labeled The Bridesmaid Dresses You Really Want. I sort through them, paying undue attention to the sparkles to keep my mind off all the things I can’t have.

Like him.

Because relationships suck. I don’t have time for them, and they just distract you from your goals anyway.

So there, I tell my brain.

Really, I should tell my heart, which beats too fast for him.

“Thrifting is fun,” I say as I sort through clothes, ever the cheerleader.

“Why does it need a name like thrifting? It’s just shopping,” he says.

I shoot him a look over a rack of red dresses. “See? You’re being all negative again.”

“No, I’m being honest. It’s not like this is a new thing. Is it supposed to be a fresh fad because we gave it a new name? It’s literally bargain-hunting.”

“Why do you have to be the fun police?”

“I am not the fun police. I am the fun ringmaster. And I’ll prove it to you with our next activity. Did you see the link I sent you earlier? Today is a very special day at Central Park. Once a year. Swan boats.”

“Yes. I did. I love that the park just started that,” I answer, then return my attention to the dresses, where I spot a sapphire sequined mini dress with spaghetti straps. “This is perfect. I’ll try it on, and can you take a pic?”

“Yes, of course, and then we’ll Snapchat it to all our friends, like Madison and Hannah and Taylor,” he says, imitating a teenager.

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re having a good time even though you don’t realize it.”

He laughs, waving a hand toward the dressing room. “Let’s see the dress, Cassidy, and then we can show Grayson.”

“Fine, but don’t forget to tag Braxton, Jayden, and also Carson.” I snatch the dress and saunter into the changing room.

“I’ll get it on Instaface straightaway. And then ChatterSnap.”

“You do that.” I shrug out of my cotton sundress and pull the snug little number over my head, yanking it down to my thighs, where it ends. Glancing at my shoes, I laugh out loud. “My yellow flip-flops look so cute with this sexy number, Jarret.”

“All right. Show me, Isabella, and then we can post it for the squad.”

I swing open the door, announcing myself with a “Ta-da.”

Oliver’s jaw drops. He blinks then rubs a hand over his chin. “I love thrifting.”

“You do?”

He nods, looking mesmerized. “I’m getting it for you. Wear it all day.”

And I say yes.

* * *

A bearded man chewing on a straw unties a swan boat, pats the railing on the dock, then tells us to get in.

We step into a plastic swan paddleboat on the lake in Central Park. Normally, the park only has gondolas or rowboats, but once a year it’s Swan Boat Day.

“No rocking. No swan boat bumper cars, and no making out,” he barks at us.

“Aye-aye, captain,” Oliver says, backing the boat out of the dock, the churning of the paddles beneath the boat like a roller coaster chugging uphill.

I push hard with my yellow flip-flops as we pedal around the lake at top speed—maybe three miles an hour. We cruise past other boaters, enjoying the sun and the water.

“Is this too teenager-y for you, Mr. I’m So Sophisticated?” I ask. “Are you sure it’s not your fun police duty to arrest us?”

“It’s more fun than shopping,” he says as we pedal through a sunny patch of water, past another group of boaters.

I wave to them before turning my narrow-eyed gaze on Oliver. “But you seemed to be having fun shopping. You made me get the dress.”

He eyes me from top to bottom, his green eyes shimmering with a hint of desire. He’s not trying to hide it, and that heats me up, especially when he says, “Well, it looks good on you. I had no choice.”

“No choice? Really?”

“When a woman looks this good, she can’t not wear the thing that makes her look this hot,” he says, his eyes locked on mine.

His words and his gaze make my stomach flip as tingles spread down my chest.

“See? You have your laws, and so do I.” The way he says it, all low and sexy, makes my pulse speed up.

I shouldn’t like this, but I do. God, I do.

I like knowing he’s still affected, still attracted to me, even though we laid down the rules.

We made our choices.

But it feels like the choices are making us.

And try as we might to reroute back to friendship, we keep tipping into the danger zone.

Soon we reach a quiet corner of the lake where it feels like it’s just us. He stops pedaling, and we soak in the sun.

Maybe it’s best to remember those choices. To remind ourselves of why we’re here. So I try. “We made it through last night. We survived.”

“Yes, the cookie batter. Don’t remind me.”

I set a hand on his arm. He tenses, then, after a moment, relaxes. “No, I meant we survived moving past the sex.”

“We did,” he says, pushing out a laugh. “Because I used my patented mind eraser.”

“What’s that?”

He mimes sweeping. “I just get out my broom and sweep the memory into a corner and pretend it never happened.”

“Really?”

“Men are simple, right?”

“I don’t know. I think you’re complicated.”

“Trust me. I’m not. I’m pretty straightforward.”

“So, if I flash my boobs, are boobs all you’re going to think about?” I ask, challenging him.

“I’m sorry. What did you say? I stopped thinking.” He lets his gaze drift playfully down to my chest. “Nice dress.”

“But see, I don’t believe that. You pretend you are shallow, but deep down you think about things like friendship,” I say, as he looks me in the eyes again. “You think about life and death and your parents, and you think about your clients and fighting for them and doing the best you can.”

He looks at me, quiet and studying. “True. Yet sometimes I’m still playing the same loop. Food. Sex. Money.” He takes a beat. “Sex.”

And I might be playing that last one on a loop too. But I’m still trying to make a point, one related to sex, and to all the other things I like about him. “I don’t think that’s all you care about. You care about security. Reliability. Dependability. If you didn’t, we’d be sleeping together again.”

He stares hard at me, his jaw ticking. “Is that why we’re not sleeping together?”

I stare back, feeling the mood shift. My skin is hot, my breath comes fast, and the sun beats down. “Isn’t it?”

“At the moment, I’m honestly not sure.”

Heat roars in my body. “I’m not either. Going back to how we were sounds good in theory . . .”

“But theories can be wrong,” he says, his eyes dark, glimmering with lust.

But I don’t think it’s only lust I see. I think there’s so much more.

No, I know it.

My tingling chest is the proof.

My aching heart is the verification.

And my wild need is the driver.

Of me.

Because here on this sunny day, in this quiet nook of my favorite place on earth, I do maybe the craziest, most daring thing of all.

I shift out of my seat, climb onto his lap, and straddle him. Then I kiss the breath out of my best friend in a paddleboat.

32

Oliver

I’m a pretty open-minded guy.

I’ll try nearly any position. I’ll break out toys, props, and loads of dirty talk.

I’ll give the woman what she wants.

And if the woman wants public sex, sure, that can be arranged, short of an arrestable offense.

I just never put a paddleboat on the list of places I’d want to try.

But then, I never expected Summer to initiate paddleboat sex.

Here she is with her knees spread and her dress riding up, grinding against me.

When in Rome . . .

I cup her face, drag her close, and kiss her.

Without any cameras, without any agenda, without anything to prove.

There’s no reason but desire, and we kiss hard and hungrily in the lake at Central Park, and it feels like where we’re supposed to be.

I trace her lips, parting them with my tongue then stroking inside her mouth. I tug her closer, kiss her harder, our lips marauders. We plunder and suck, tongues tangling, bodies pressing.

She grinds against me, pressing on my cock, like iron in my jeans. And she’s relentless, a woman after her own pleasure, like she was the other night.

And the source of it is me.

It’s a thrilling and addictive feeling, knowing I’m the one she’s chasing like this.

That’s how we kiss.

Like we can’t get enough of each other. Can’t get enough lips, tongue, skin. My fingers curl around her skull, gripping her tight, slamming her against me.

Her hands skate into my hair, her fingers roping through the strands as she brings me closer. She’s panting, moaning, and nothing on earth is sexier than this woman revealing her desires to me.

For me.

And with me. I slide my hands down her back, along the crazy sequined dress and down to her ass, cupping her cheeks.

A groan rips from my throat as I squeeze her tight, firm ass. Yes, she was naked on me the other night, and yes, she was naked in bed, but it still feels like the first time.

Like I’m just discovering all her curves, all the softness of her body.

My hands slide lower, reaching the edge of her short dress. She feels too good. I break the kiss, panting. “So glad you got this dress.”

“Me too.” She breathes out hard, then lifts up and grinds back down on me, sliding against my cock, humping me.

Lust sizzles down my spine, radiating out through my whole body as she stares wickedly at me, a wanton, gorgeous woman eager for pleasure.

“I want you again,” she whispers, her voice all smoky and sexy.

It’s the hottest sound I’ve ever heard, and I can still barely believe it’s coming from her.

From my friend, who’s shown me so many sides of herself over the years—except this one.

“I want you again too. Right now, Summer.” I bring my mouth to her neck, kissing a decadent path to her ear. “But we really need to get to my place where I can strip you to nothing, worship your body, and make you come over and over.”

“Yes. That. Let’s do that now.”

She slides off me a few inches, setting her feet down, hunting for her flip-flops. As she roots around for her shoes while tugging down her dress, she stumbles.

Tips.

Pitches.

Right off my lap.

Everything happens in a heartbeat.

One second, she’s grinding on me. The next, she’s toppling off the side of the boat and into the lake.

33

Summer

How to instantly become a social media sensation? Fall into the lake while humping your fake fiancé.

Once I pop up from the murky depths of the lake, he’s fighting like hell not to laugh at me.

I’m soaked, head to toe, and covered in algae or Central Park Loch Ness guts. Take your pick. Both are fetid.

“I’m a sea monster!” I say, skimming my hand over my soaking wet and utterly disgusting hair.

Oliver kneels on the edge of the swan boat, offering his hand as he cackles.

“You’re evil! You’re laughing at me. You’re a terrible fake fiancé.”

He rolls his eyes as he tugs me up by my hand. “I’m an amazing fake fiancé. Get back here, you sea monster of mine.” His tone is playful as he pulls me up out of the brackish water. I sling one foot over the edge of the white plastic boat then haul myself up the rest of the way, his hand an anchor.

I am an ungraceful, sopping, smelly mess.

I shove the strands of wet, tangled hair from my face.

“I told you not to do that!”

I jerk my gaze to the bearded man who rented us the boat.

He’s on the shore, pointing at us, flapping his arms. “I told you the rules!”

“Gee, thanks. I wanted to fall in the water. It was on my bucket list. Go to Central Park, ride a paddleboat, and fall in the cesspool known as this lake,” I shout back.

“I meant no making out, lady. Serves you right,” he yells.

Oh, well. He might have a point there.

He’s not the only one watching us.

He’s flanked by spectators with their cameras trained on our boat. Natch. After all, what’s funnier than a girl falling into a big pond in the city?

I do the only thing I can. Smile and wave. Just smile and wave.

I park my butt in the plastic seat next to my fake fiancé, and we pedal to the shore, where the bearded man glowers at us, telling us to never come back again.

“That won’t be a problem,” I assure him.

As we get off the boat and walk away from the dock, Oliver peels off his T-shirt and hands it to me.

My brow knits. “You’re giving me your shirt?”

“Well, your clothes are a little bit wet.”

I run my eyes up and down his carved chest. “Guess I get a nice view and a shirt. It is my lucky day.”

“Play your cards right, and you can get a shower at my place too.”

And let me tell you, I practically run out of the park for that chance.

* * *

I peel off his gray T-shirt then my wet sequined dress, dropping them onto the tiled bathroom floor.

I wiggle my eyebrows as I unhook my soaking wet bra. “I’m sexy wearing Central Park lake water, don’t you think?”

Oliver smiles as he stretches past me to turn on the shower. The water runs, and he unbuttons his jeans then unzips them. “Let me tell you something, Summer. Your sea monster perfume isn’t going to deter me from fucking you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I shiver from his words, from seeing this side of Oliver Harris, from hearing him say fuck as it applies to me. It’s surreal, but heady too, to experience him like this—wanting me, staring at me, heat and abandon in his eyes.

Even in my swamp creature state, all matted hair and stinking of pond scum, he still gazes at me like I’m not just the object of his desire, but like I’m precious too.

Like fucking isn’t just fucking.

Like it’s so much more.

That’s how I feel too. And I want to tell him and tell him soon.

But first, I need to de-skunk myself.

I let my bra fall to the floor as steam curls from the shower. I peel off my damp panties, hold them up on my fingertip, twirl the cotton fabric, then toss them to the floor as well.

I step into the shower but keep my eyes trained on my best friend. I’m tempted to make a joke, maybe about swamp monsters or sea creatures, but the look in his eyes stops my breath.

Intensity flashes across his irises, a deep and powerful longing in his green gaze.

My heart stutters, then it pounds relentlessly as he pushes his jeans to the floor.

His boxer briefs go whoosh.

His cock springs free, happy to see me in my Central Park state of decay.

“Nice to see you too,” I say as I lean my head back under the water, letting it stream over me.

He steps in, closing the shower door behind us.

I shudder at his nearness, at the way he can’t take his eyes off me.

And at my own spiking pulse.

But I also want to get clean.

Seems Oliver wants that too, because he reaches behind me for the shampoo, pours some into his hands, then washes my hair. He’s tender and gentle, running the shampoo all through my strands then rinsing it out.

I squirt some into my hands and return the favor, loving the feel of his hair between my fingers.

We’re quiet, besides saying the occasional hi, and that feels good, and lots and lots of mmmms.

I don’t trust myself to say anything else. To not blurt out some great, immutable truth. Some pronouncement born from years of admiring him from afar, from endless days of maybe, possibly crushing on my best friend.

Fine, maybe it was more than a crush.

Maybe it’s becoming real, so damn real, but I don’t trust that this new reality will last beyond the here and now.

So I let myself wordlessly enjoy the moment.

He reaches for his shower gel, pours some in his hands, and then lathers up. He rubs along my arms, and I inhale deeply, loving the attention, the care.

He moves up my arms to my shoulders, soaping me, then down my breasts to my belly.

After he squirts more soap, he bends, kneeling on the tiles as the water pounds over us. He soaps up my legs, from my ankles to my knees to my thighs, cleaning all the dirty water off me.

Then he runs his hands up the back of my legs and looks up at me. “I swear this is all I’ve thought about since the other night,” he whispers, and presses his face to my thigh, brushing a kiss against my skin, water droplets sliding down his nose.

“Same here,” I confess, my voice feathery, my need palpable.

“Maybe I am simple, Summer. I just want to touch you again. I want to kiss you and have you and fuck you,” he says, then a rumble emanates from his throat as he turns his face from my leg to my center, pressing his lips against me where I ache for him.

Flicking his tongue against my wetness.

“Oh God,” I gasp the second he makes contact.

And because I’m helpful like that, I widen my stance, spreading my legs a little more.

He groans against me, licking and kissing.

Desire floods my body. It lights up my veins. It spreads across my skin as he cups my ass and licks me in his shower. I lean back against the wall, and I’m glad I do when my knees wobble as his tongue sweeps across all my wetness, all my desire for him. Kissing, licking, sucking.

The sounds he makes are a dirty song, a carnal tune of lust and passion, the notes insanely sensual.

“If this is simple, I’ll take it,” I whisper, my fingers tangling in his hair.

He hitches my right leg onto his shoulder, and yes, standing is harder now, but he’s got me, and so has the wall.

And this is on.

It’s happening.

And I’m awash in pleasure.

He’s relentless, kissing and worshipping, and soon pleasure crests in my body, a wave rising up, rushing to the shore. I let go of his hair, grab at the wall, and shudder. A long gust of breath escapes my lips.

I rock against him, losing myself to the moment, losing my mind to this connection.

And nothing feels like we’re getting swept up in a moment or a mistake.

Everything feels like we’ve been building to this.

It’s the last wall between us coming down, coming down gloriously.

As the desire tightens in my belly then bursts, I gasp and cry out, coming hard.

I wobble, and he reaches for my hips, steadying me as he rises. He wraps his arms around me and tugs me close, our wet, naked bodies pressed together.

“Hi, Oliver,” I whisper.

“Hi, Summer.”

“You’re quite good at that,” I say.

He presses a soft kiss to my lips. “Because it’s you.”

“Or maybe because it’s you.” I slide a hand down his chest, reaching for his cock. He groans, all growly sexy as I wrap a fist around him. I stroke him, gripping and pumping and wanting.

So much wanting.

But so much more than wanting.

As he thrusts into my fist, his breath hot and staggered, I take another step, a bolder step.

Maybe the riskiest one of all.

I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know how to make us work. I don’t know what happens tomorrow. But I want him to know this is more than just sex for me.

I let go of him, run my hands up his chest, and meet his gaze. “Would you make love to me?”

His lips curve up. “I thought you’d never ask.”

34

Oliver

You think you know someone.

And maybe you do.

Maybe you know how they like their coffee, or that they snort when they laugh too hard, or that they’re a little bit stubborn—or maybe a lot—but still the most positive, upbeat person you’ve ever known.

And maybe you need that part of them, needed that part of them for ages, because you haven’t been inherently upbeat since life changed you.

And you know that about yourself.

But then, you get this person naked and you learn about her other side.

I’m learning that Summer luxuriates in her body.

That when she’s toweled off and dry, she settles into my bed languidly, stretching her hands over her head, her body on beautiful display.

Sure, I’ve thought about having her here, but always in a truncated way where my brain doesn’t let me finish the thought. Where I force myself to swipe the images away.

Now the images are real as she parts her legs for me, slides a hand between them, and glides her fingers through her wetness.

Fuckkk.

I don’t know that I can withstand the hotness, but I’m willing to try. I am goddamn willing to try as I climb onto the bed with her, grab her ankles, and spread her legs wide.

“Let me taste you.”

“But you already did,” she says with a smile.

“I am ravenous, it seems.”

She lifts her hand, runs her fingers across my lips, and I draw them into my mouth, sucking hard, savoring once again the delicious taste of her.

“You dirty, sexy woman. Enticing me with the way you taste so fucking good.”

“I think you like being enticed,” she whispers as a shudder moves through her, gliding along her skin.

I shake my head. “No. I love it.”

I reach for a condom in the nightstand, open it, roll it on, and then push her knees up higher and higher still.

Then I notch the head of my cock against her and push inside.

“Oh God,” she gasps, her back bowing, her eyes fluttering shut.

And that’s another thing I now know.

How the girl next door looks when I fill her. When she takes me in all the way. She looks spectacular, all sex-drunk and needy, her lips parted, her knees hiked up.

Open to me.

I move in her, swiveling my hips, pushing deeper, pulling back, then plunging in again.

Her hands slide up my chest. “This feels so good,” she whispers.

“Feels amazing,” I murmur as pleasure crackles along my spine. “Feels fucking incredible.”

Her arms loop around my neck, her fingers playing with my hair. Even that touch ignites sparks across my skin. “Because it’s you,” I tell her as I pick up the pace, moving faster, listening to her body.

She arches her back, moving with me as we find our pace.

When we do, I bend closer to her, my lips dusting across hers. My shoulders are tight. Tension, exquisite tension, radiates through my muscles as I fight off my own release, focusing on her, only her.

And on the words I just said.

Because it’s you.

Only, that’s not entirely true. This is spectacular, the sex, the connection, the unholy pleasure.

But not because it’s just her or me.

“No, Summer. Do you know why it’s so good?”

“Why?” she asks as she gasps, her voice cresting to a needy cry.

As I move in her, I pull back to look at her face. Her brown eyes are glittering with lust and something else.

Something deeper.

Something far more powerful.

Something that lasts.

I bury my face in her neck, whispering against her ear, “Because it’s us. That’s why it’s so good. Because we’re so good together.”

“Ohhhh,” she calls out, rising up, her hips bucking, her voice catching, her sounds reaching the ceiling. Then she’s losing control, and it’s beautiful—absolutely beautiful and erotic to watch her fall apart beneath me.

And I follow her there, chasing my pleasure to the other side of bliss too.

Soon, I’m lying next to her, panting, sated, drawing lines with my fingertips down her warm skin when my phone rings.

I have half a mind to ignore it, until I realize it’s Jane’s ringtone.

I grab the phone from the floor and answer. “Hi, Jane. What’s going on?”

She clears her throat, and a pit forms in my stomach. “Well, love, it seems that America’s Best Boyfriend is now America’s Fakest Boyfriend.”

35

Oliver

That pit? It becomes a cavernous maw as I read. It’s like rubbernecking, and I can’t stop.

This time, it’s worse. Far worse. Because there’s a GIF someone made of Summer splashing water at me, saying, “You’re evil! You’re laughing at me. You’re a terrible fake fiancé.”

And that’s all it takes.

@ManCandyFan: NO!!!! It was all fake???? They were fake dating? They were faking us? No, no, no.

@LovesListsofMen: Do you mean YES???? It means he’s single.

@GossipLover1andOnly: Single and going right back on my Single and Hot in the City list.

@ManCandyFan: Put him at the top. But also, NOOO!!!! They were such a cute couple.

@CheetahNoah: They seemed real to me. So real. I don’t know about this new intel. Are we sure? Like, really sure? Super sure?

@MenAreJerks: He’s a douche. This proves his douchiness.

@PeopleAreJerks: Um, hello? She’s a douche too. She’s just as bad. They both lied to us. They totally lied. And I’m sad, sad, sad, but not surprised.

@ILoveJerks: I love liars. They are so hawt.

@IloveCockyJackholes: OMG, yes. Liars are like the hottest guys ever. They lie, and they look good lying. And he sure looks delish lying.

@DownwithDouches: Look at this picture of them eating cookie batter. I hate them.

@ILoveJerks: Would eat cookie batter off his chest. Even with raw eggs in it.

@MenAreJerks: I would eat it off her chest.

@DownwithDouches: Also, her ring looks fake. I bet it’s cubic zirconia.

@FanofNietzsche: What did I tell you about jerks? Jerks are always the hotties. And jerks always win. And he won. The hot jerk got the hot girl, and they hoodwinked us all. Once again, it’s the universe’s way of reminding us that nihilism is alive and well.

@QuestionEverything22: Or maybe that they are pranksters?

@DownwithDouches: They pranked us! Let’s start a movement to stop pranksters. Also, I zoomed in on her ring from the hockey game. TOTAL FAKE, like they are.

@HZRedhead: Ahem. We stopped the pranksters. You’re welcome.

@TheThird: Yes. You see, we had a feeling, Hazel and I. We sensed they were faking it. So we followed them. And then we caught them on camera. They tried to trick us all. But guess who’s getting the last laugh?

@HZRedhead: We are. We’re cackling as we sit in a coffee shop writing this and smooching and enjoying the satisfaction of exposing two douchey jerk canoes who tried to trick us all!

@ManCandyFan: Umm, aren’t you married, @TheThird?

@TheThird: Happily divorced and enjoying my new girl. We fell in love as we took down the fake fiancées. NO ONE should lie about love.

@HZRedhead: Love is beautiful and true. Like you.

@TheThird: No, like you. <3

I yank on boxer briefs one-handed while scrolling, slack-jawed, through my phone.

“The internet must end,” I say.

“Like my dreams are ending. This is terrible,” she says, hunting around for clothes in a hurry, finding her purse where she stashed her sundress from the thrift shop. She tugs it over her head, then borrows some boxer briefs from me and retrieves her wet dress and underthings from the bathroom. The briefs on under her dress are kind of an odd look, but, hey, desperate times.

And they’re definitely desperate when I see there’s a message from my newest client on my phone. It’s three words long.

Is this true?

And another from Helen Williams Designs asking me to call her.

Then Summer wags her phone. “Look at this.” Her breath catches, and her face twists in a wince as she shoves the screen at me.

It’s a message from The Dating Pool.

The note is terse, to the point.

This email is to inform you that both the Best Dates piece and your winnings from the essay contest have been canceled, your entries disqualified.

And one from her mother too. She thrusts that at me next.

Honey, are you all right? My book club is forwarding me a lot of strange tweets. I told them that I would know if you were engaged or if you were faking it. So let me know which it is. Love you, Mom.

“I need to go.” Her voice cracks, and she covers her mouth with her hand.

“Yeah, I need to deal with this too.” I scramble to get dressed, cursing as I tug on jeans then a shirt. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Not a single bit of it.”

She freezes. “What?”

“The whole thing. It’s a fucking shitshow.”

She swallows roughly then nods. “I didn’t mean for any of it to happen either. None of it.” She grabs her purse and says, “I’ll talk to you later.”

Then she marches out, stopping at the door to turn and offer a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”

“It’s my fault,” I argue, but the door’s falling shut behind her.

Out in the hall, her phone rings, and I hear her ask, “What’s going on, Roxanne?”

36

Summer

“You’re stuck on a stripper pole?”

I rub my ear in case I’m hearing things. Because that just can’t be. How can Roxanne be stuck on a stripper pole? How can anyone be stuck on a stripper pole?

“I’m not stuck,” she says diplomatically.

“Who is, then?” I ask, swiping at the tears pricking my eyes, zeroing in on the Mayday call instead.

“It’s more like the pole is stuck.”

“In your apartment?”

“In the activity room,” she confesses in a hushed voice.

“How is there a stripper pole in the activity room?”

“I had it installed. As part of the bingo revolt.”

“Oh my God,” I groan, rushing to the stairwell and racing downstairs so I can get across town. “I’ll be there in five.”

Once outside, I call a Lyft, which speeds me through the park to Sunshine Living.

I run to the second-floor activity room, blinking when I find Roxanne, a seventyish man named Michael, and a woman Roxanne’s age, tugging at a silver pole.

“Ah, Summer!” Roxanne rises, a little wobbly, setting her puma head cane down. “Be a dear. You’re so strong and young. Can you help us move this?”

I shake my head in disbelief. This is my life? I’m carrying a plastic bag with a sopping wet bridesmaid’s dress inside, and now I have to uninstall a stripper pole, plus the internet hates me, my dreams have been crushed, and the man I love thinks we are a mistake. He didn’t mean for any of it to happen. He didn’t mean for us to happen.

But first things first. Dropping the bag, I rush to the crew who are pulling—to no avail—at a stripper pole installed in a silver base. After a quick assessment, I figure out they were unscrewing it the wrong way. Grabbing the screwdriver, I slide the tool into the base and detach the pole from it, holding tightly so it doesn’t fall. Once it’s detached, the pole comes apart in two pieces.

Roxanne guards the entrance to the activity room, then mouths, Coast is clear. Let’s take it to my place.

I hand her and her friends the pole pieces. “Maybe that’s where it should have been installed in the first place.”

“Live and learn,” she says, then stomps off with her friends.

I sink down on the couch, grab my phone, and stare at my messages, trying to decide what to tackle next.

But really, there’s nothing to tackle.

I can’t undo The Dating Pool’s decision.

I can’t convince them to requalify me.

And I can’t prove we didn’t lie. We did lie. We were fake, and we won’t ever be real.

But I can at least return my mother’s call.

“Sweetheart. I’m at Mags’s place. Where are you?”

“I’m on my way,” I say, crying for real, and there is nothing fake about these tears.

37

Oliver

“So this is true.”

The words are clipped, crisp.

I pinch my nose, nodding as I slump down on my couch. “Yes.”

I tell Geneva the truth. There’s no point in lying now. “It’s all true that it was all fake.”

She sighs. “I’m soooo—”

I take the liberty of filling in the blank. “Disappointed. Yeah, I’m disappointed in myself too.”

“Yes. I thought I could trust you as my attorney.”

“Of course you did. That’s why you hired me.” A weight sinks onto my shoulders, dragging me down. There is no point backpedaling now. No purpose in covering it up. The proof’s there on social media, where all truths and lies are exposed.

The ring, the comments, the offhand joke between Summer and me post-paddleboat hump. Those people who took a picture of us on the street last night were probably sent by our crazy exes. More proof that exes are crazy.

But even so, I deserve this.

I tricked a client.

“And I suppose that’s what is most surprising. I would expect you, of all people, to know the value of trust,” she says.

I hang my head, dragging my hand through my hair. “You’re not wrong. It was a mistake. It seemed like a way to save face at the time, but I should have told you the truth when you first called me. I wanted to help you with your deal. I want to take care of my employees and my aunt and everyone else. So I said we were engaged because it seemed easier.”

She sighs heavily. “I suppose what’s so strange about it is that . . .” She takes a beat to think, or maybe to mull over what to say. “It seemed so real. Last night, the things you said to Summer, the way you looked at her. I suppose it made me believe in love again. Like it was possible to get hurt and then get back up and try again. When you said—”

“‘I realized after all these years that it’d always been her.’” I repeat my words from last night. Words that make my chest feel lighter. Words that fall from my lips so easily.

“Yes.” There’s a smile in her voice. I can hear it. “When you said that, Oliver, I was so sure you meant it.”

I sit up straighter, recalling last night, remembering how my heart thundered when I looked at Summer at the party. How it ached when I put her in the car. How it sped up when we were in the paddleboat, then the shower, then the bed, only an hour ago.

“I did mean it.” I’m speaking the whole truth now.

“What?”

“I did. It was all fake, and it was all true too.”

She’s quiet, humming softly then asking carefully, “What do you mean?”

“It started as a ruse. It started because you didn’t trust me. So I thought it’d be safer if I was involved with the woman who wrote the letter, so it wouldn’t be a character indictment. And Summer’s my best friend. I’ve known her for seventeen years. She’s been by my side through everything. I know how to make her laugh, I know how to comfort her when she cries, I know what makes her happy—the park and exercise and her grandmother and trying new things—and I know her dreams. And I want to help her achieve them.”

There goes my heart again, pounding mercilessly against my rib cage, trying to find her, to see her. “And I suppose I didn’t truly realize all of this until we faked it. But I also think maybe a part of me knew I had feelings for her and just didn’t see what was in front of me. After all, I never wanted to invite Emily to prom. I only wanted to go with Summer.”

Geneva sighs happily. “Oh my God, that’s so sweet.”

Then I freeze, remembering something else I said, not last night, but just an hour ago.

I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.

Those words could easily have been misinterpreted.

Shit.

I picture Summer’s face, the hurt in her pretty brown eyes, and I’m sure they were.

There’s a voice in my head, loud and clear, and it’s not my sister’s voice, though I suspect she’d tell me exactly what I need to do right now.

And I know she’d be right, because my own voice is telling me the same thing.

“Excuse me, Geneva. You’re not the one I should be saying this to. Summer is.”

I hang up, grab my keys, and leave.

38

Summer

I am a stubborn girl.

I know this about myself.

But when I walk into my apartment and find not just my roommate but my mother, my niece, and my twin brother, I let all the tears rain down.

I head for the couch, nosedive into it, and cry in my mother’s lap. Amelia crawls up next to me, crouching by my side. “Don’t cry, Aunt Summer. Everything’s going to be fine. I swear.”

And that makes me cry a little harder—her sweet six-year-old faith in the world.

“Tell me why you’re so sad, honey,” Mags says.

“Yes, tell us. What can we do?”

Amelia snuggles on my lap. “I’m all ears. That’s what my daddy says to me when I want to talk to him. He says, What can I do?”

Logan ruffles his daughter’s hair, then plops down on the couch next to all of us—four women and a guy.

“I’m in love with Oliver Harris.” I choke out the words past the prickly, complicated emotions that clog my throat.

Logan snorts.

I shoot him a sharp stare. “What was that for?”

“Tell me something I don’t know. I came here to see if you were okay, and this is what you confess? Something we’ve all known for years?”

“Thanks a lot,” I mutter.

My grandmother smiles, petting my hair. “Ignore him, honey.”

“Yes. We all do,” my mother says.

“I like Oliver,” Amelia chirps.

“Me too. But it’s a mess, and he said the whole thing was a mistake, and it is a massive mistake. Just look at what happened. I lost the prize money. I lost the chance to write the feature piece. I lost Oliver.”

My mother tuts. “Did you lose Oliver though?”

I make a show of looking around. “He’s not here, and he said it was all a mistake.”

“It’s hard to believe it’s a mistake when you seem like such a great couple,” she says diplomatically.

“But we’re not. This isn’t some cheesy romance where everything works out perfectly. It’s real life.” I swipe my hand across my face, swallowing these dumb tears. I draw a deep, fueling breath, one that I hope masks all this pain in my heart, this wild ache for Oliver. An ache that won’t be soothed. “It’s fine. I don’t want a relationship. I’m not interested in one. It doesn’t remotely make sense in my life.” I hold my chin up high even as my lower lip quivers.

“Relationships never entirely make sense, dear,” my mom says softly. “Did you think it made sense to me when I met your father?”

I furrow my brow. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”

She tucks a finger under my chin, tilting my head so she can look me in the eyes. “I just loved him. It wasn’t always convenient.”

I straighten my shoulders. “Well, I don’t have time for a relationship. I’m trying to grow my business, and it’s going to be even harder now. I’ll have to start over.”

“You can do both.”

I stare at her and point out a truth of my whole life. “But you didn’t do both.”

Her brow knits. “What do you mean?”

“When you quit working to help with Dad’s business. You always made comments about how you left your job at the bookstore. You didn’t really want to leave it, did you?”

“Sweetheart. I did want to. I chose to,” she says, rubbing my shoulder.

“Why did you always say that, then? To me? To us?” I gesture to my brother and then to me.

Logan simply smiles, his grin telling me he knows why she did it.

“Because I was proud of my decision,” my mother says. “I brought it up because it was what I’d wanted to do. I was glad I made that choice. I stood by it then; I stand by it now. And whatever you decide, I hope you have no regrets. There are too many other things to regret in life, and I don’t want your career to be one of them.” She squeezes my arm then lets go to tap my chest. “But I don’t think the way you feel now, this hurt in your heart, has anything to do with your career.”

Mags squeezes my other arm. “It doesn’t at all.”

And Amelia shoots me a sad smile. “Just be happy and tell Ollie you love him. Sheesh.”

Logan scoops up his daughter. “You are full of brilliant advice.” He meets my gaze. “And as Oliver’s good friend, let me tell you something, Summer. You might need to spell it out for him—how you feel—because he doesn’t always believe when good things happen.”

My heart crawls up my throat. “You think he wants this?”

Before I can say anything more, my phone buzzes. It’s Oliver. I answer it the second it rings, but he speaks first.

“It’s Ollie, and I’ve come to fix something stupid I said earlier.”

“Yes.”

Logan walks down the hall and holds the door open for me.

Rather than wait, I rush out, down the steps, and into Oliver’s arms, where he waits on the stairwell.

39

Oliver

She’s flying down the stairs, her blonde hair a sheet behind her, a huge grin on her gorgeous face. I stop on the landing, my smile taking over my entire being as I drink in the sight of the woman I love madly.

“It wasn’t a mistake. Nothing was a mistake,” she blurts out.

“I know. I meant it all. I wanted it all to happen.” Words tumble out in a rush, and I reach to catch her and tug her into my arms.

She’s wrapped around me in an instant, arms, legs, and then lips on mine.

“I meant it all, Oliver,” she says between kisses. “I wanted it all to happen. When I said I didn’t mean for any of it to happen, I meant everything going wrong. But not everything that went right. And we’re right.”

I run my arms up her back, holding her tight, thrilling at the feeling of her, at the truth of her words. “We are so right together,” I agree, happiness taking over my chest, sunshine flooding my veins. “I love you. I am in love with you. And I never wanted to ask Emily to prom. I always wanted to ask you.”

The smile that takes over her face is radiant. Beautiful. Magical. And all for me.

“I was hoping you’d say that. I wanted that. I think I started falling in love with you that night all those years ago,” she says, all soft and sweet and so sure.

“I definitely did. But I’m a simple man. It took faking it for me to realize how real it all is. How real everything is with you. I don’t want this to stop. I want it to keep going, on and on, always.” I press a kiss to her lips, savoring the chance to imprint her with the full truth of my heart. “Because I’m in love with you, Summer. Madly.”

She slides off me, planting her feet on the ground, cupping my cheeks. “I am so in love with my best friend. Will you be mine?”

I laugh, shaking my head in amusement. “I’m not letting you go. So yes, I’ll be yours, and you’ll be mine. And let’s not fake a thing ever again.”

She slides her hand down my cheek, stroking my jawline. “I was never faking a thing with you.”

I close my eyes, brush my lips to hers, then claim her mouth in a possessive, greedy kiss that’ll turn filthy if we let it.

So I stop, running a hand through her hair. “After all these years, it’s always been you.”

She rises on tiptoe, kissing me tenderly. “And it’s you for me.”

Then she takes my hand, leads me up the stairs, and kicks everyone out, including her grandmother.

It’s fine by me.

I have plans for her. For her body. Her heart. Her mind.

But I’ll start with her body. Even though I had her mere hours ago, I want her again, and she wants the same thing. We go to her room, strip down to nothing, and I bring her close to me then slide inside her, making love to my best friend.

40

Summer

A few weeks later

“Hmm. What would taste good with an order of humble pie?” I ask as I peruse the display at Stella’s Cookie Shack.

“Personally, I highly recommend the cherry chocolate chip cookie as a chaser when you have to eat crow,” Stella says with a wink.

“Make it a double, then,” my mom says.

Stella plucks two cookies from the case, slides them onto a plate, and hands it to us. We head to a white table in the back of her shop, settling in with the sweets.

My mom picks up a cookie. “A toast.”

I pick up the other one. “Yes, let’s toast to the end of my stubborn streak.”

She scoffs but says nothing.

“What?”

“You’ll be stubborn again. But I’m glad you’re not being stubborn now.”

I give her a soft and very genuine smile. “Me too. Also, thank you, Mom. I truly appreciate you doing this for me.”

Setting down her cookie, she stretches her hand across the table and squeezes mine. “I love that you’re pursuing your dream. I love that you saved so much of the money. And I love your commitment to doing this. It’s a beautiful thing to bring health and fitness to the older generation. I’m proud of you.” Emotions swell in my chest as she clasps my hand more tightly. “But I’m especially proud that you’re allowing me to help. Thank you for letting me.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Thank you for making this happen.”

We finalize the details of her gift to me.

I wanted it to be a loan, but she said she wanted to give it to me, no strings attached.

And I decided to take it.

With grace, at last.

It seemed more important to move forward than to dig in my heels.

And that means my gym opens in less than two months, and I have a ton to do.

I couldn’t be happier.

41

Oliver

Later that day

She’s staring at me shamelessly.

She doesn’t even pretend not to.

As I reach the ladder at the edge of the pool, my gaze locks on Summer, on the naughty glint in her brown eyes.

She watches unabashedly as I climb up the ladder and out of the pool.

And I watch her too.

My girlfriend looks gorgeous in her workout clothes.

But then, she looked stunning in a sopping wet sequined dress.

“Feel free to check out the crown jewels.”

She wiggles her brow. “I am. But I’ll give them a more thorough inspection tonight.”

“Excellent. You be sure to give a proper review, okay?”

“Count on it.” She offers me a towel then snatches it back.

“No towel for me?”

“Nah. I’m going to check you out a little bit longer.”

“Feel free.”

With a smile, she hands me the towel, and I dry off. “How was your workout?”

“Amazing. Roxanne came with me. We did a Zumba class here. And she’ll do the water aerobics I’m teaching tomorrow.”

“And then pole dancing? Have you signed her up for that?”

“Not yet. But I will,” she says, then she glances at the clock. “Do you have a few minutes? I was hoping I could borrow your brain to review my gym plans.”

“Always. I always have time for you.”

42

Oliver

Several months later

I pace in my office, finishing a call. “Yes, we can absolutely add that clause into the contract.”

“Oh, good. That’ll make a huge difference with the next acquisition,” Geneva says.

“Almost as big a difference as in the last partnership.” As we talk, I check out the crowds below, New Yorkers scurrying by on Park Avenue.

“Yes. That deal was top-notch,” she adds. “I’m glad I stayed with you.”

“As am I.”

We wrap up and say goodbye, and I hang up the phone.

When I turn around, Jane’s standing in the doorway. “Still have her eating out of the palm of your hand?”

I shrug like it’s no big deal, when, in fact, it’s a huge deal that she stayed.

I didn’t chase her. I didn’t beg. She decided to stick around on her own, telling me that the work was good, that she appreciated me owning up to the ruse, and that if I lied to her again, she’d have my head.

That seemed fair and reasonable on all counts, so we finished the first deal and started working on a second one.

“Besides,” Geneva had said. “It’s your personal life, and honestly, you’re free to do what you want with it. I shouldn’t have cared so much or taken it so personally.”

“Don’t think twice about it,” I’d told her, all too happy to move on.

I meet Jane’s green-eyed gaze. “Aren’t they all eating out of my hand, Jane? Aren’t they all?”

“Ah, there’s that cocky nephew of mine.”

“And you wouldn’t have me any other way.” I glance at my watch. “And on that note, I need to meet the fellas.”

“Don’t stay out too late.”

“I promise to be good.”

I leave, catching a Lyft to Chelsea, texting my cousin in Paris on the way, who can’t stop reminding me that falling in love with Summer was exactly what he meant by an exit strategy.

Christian: When are you going to admit I was right about everything?

Oliver: You were right. There, are you happy?

Christian: Yes. And I suspect you are too. Happy, that is.

He’s right on that count. He’s completely right.

The car pulls over to the curb, and I thank the driver, then get out to meet Logan and Fitz for drinks. Summer’s teaching a kickboxing class at her gym now, but I’ll see her tonight when she comes home.

Since she lives with me now.

I open the door to Gin Joint, finding my mates quickly. They’re toasting to all sorts of good news.

I order a beer, then join them.

“So, we have loads to celebrate tonight,” I say.

“Yes, how good of you to grace us with your presence. Maybe you’ll have something to celebrate soon,” Logan deadpans.

“Maybe I will, but let’s start with you.”

Fitz raises a glass and stretches his free hand across the table to knock Logan on the shoulder. “To this cat finally getting on the apps. The ladies of New York had better watch out. They don’t even know what’s coming their way.”

Logan takes a drink. “Speaking of, remember that woman I told you guys about at lunch the other day?”

My ears prick. I know who he’s talking about. I also know what went down and it’s way more complicated than he ever expected. “The Snoopy lunchbox woman?” I ask just to make sure who we’re discussing.

“She’s the one,” Logan says, heavily. “Her name is Bryn, and she is the sexiest, most captivating, most off-limits woman I’ve ever met.”

“Did anything else happen since you and I last talked?” I ask.

“Yeah, stop holding out on me, bro,” Fitz says. “I want all the deets too.”

“It’s quite complicated,” I say, like a warning.

Logan scratches his jaw. “Crazy complicated,” he says, then catches Fitz up to speed on the details.

“Whoa. I do not envy you there, Logan. Good luck with that. It actually sounds mega complicated,” Fitz says.

“And you?” I ask Fitz. “What’s your news?”

“My little sister was just accepted into the art program of her dreams—in London. So I’ll be taking her over there in a few months, helping her get set up.”

“Say hello to the homeland for me. And don’t forget to check out The Magpie. Some of my mates over there were raving about it. It’s their favorite local bar.”

Fitz taps his temple. “I’ll file that away.”

“Supposedly, the bartenders are good-looking.”

He arches a brow. “Tell me more.”

I laugh. “You’ll have to figure out that part on your own.”

“Maybe you’ll meet someone with an accent just like Oliver’s who’ll sweep you off your feet,” Logan chimes in.

Fitz laughs. “Not gonna lie—I do love a hot British accent. But getting swept off my feet? I don’t think so.”

I shrug. “It can happen to the best of us, mate. After all, tomorrow I’m going shopping.”

43

Oliver

A few weeks later

Another satisfying last meal is on the books.

We leave Melt My Heart on a Sunday afternoon and wander through Central Park, the afternoon sun warming our skin, the birds chirping.

“I’ve decided,” I announce as we walk along the path.

“And what did you decide?”

“The grilled cheese at Melt My Heart wins.”

She shoots me an oh really look. “What about that sandwich makes the cut?”

I drape an arm around her, loving that I can, that I have the freedom to touch her as we walk and talk. “It meets the most critical requirement. It says something about how I lived my life.”

“It says you loved carbs and cheese? Get in line. Me too.”

“Carbs and cheese are the hallmarks of a well-lived life.”

She laughs as we near the carousel. “Words to live by.”

The carnival music grows louder as the merry-go-round comes into view. “But in this case,” I say, returning to the reason we’re here, “I believe what it says is this.”

I stop, take her hand, and meet her gaze. “I hope it says that the grilled cheese sandwiches we just devoured are the last meal we’ll have before . . .”

I drop down to one knee, take her hand, and finish the thought. “Before you become my fiancée for real.”

She gasps, her hand covering her mouth. “Ollie.”

“Summer, I’ve been falling in love with you since I was seventeen, and I plan to keep falling in love with you for the rest of my life. Will you marry me? Because I would love for my best friend to become my wife.”

Her smile is worthy of a million social media posts. Of a thousand Instagram likes. Of all the BuzzFeed lists ever made.

But it’s just for me.

No cameras.

No pictures.

No Twitter.

And that’s how I want it to be, as the woman I love falls to her knees, throws her arms around me, and smothers me in kisses.

Well, I could get used to this.

When she breaks the kiss, she says, “Yes. In case that wasn’t clear—yes.”

I take out a box from my pocket, slide a diamond solitaire on her finger, and kiss the hell out of my very real fiancée.

Epilogue

Summer

A few months later

Dear Sexy Ex-Fiancé,

I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again.

Exes are exes for a reason.

But not always for bad reasons.

You’re an ex now for the best of reasons.

Because you’re graduating. You’re moving on up and kicking all of those old titles to the wayside.

You’re no longer the guy I crushed on. You’re no longer my pretend ex-boyfriend. You’re definitely not my fake fiancé. And you’re about to leave your position as my real fiancé.

Today, you become my husband.

And as I write this on the morning of our wedding day, I can’t wait to walk down the aisle and say, “I do.”

But fair warning.

I might jump into your arms.

Who am I kidding? I will definitely jump into your arms.

It’s what I’ve been wanting to do for so many years.

And you know what I’ve learned from falling in love with you when we were younger?

That every day gets better. Every day, I love you more. And every day, I love knowing you.

Once upon a time, I wasn’t ready to give my all to a relationship.

That changed with you.

And I want it all with you.

There is a world out there and so much to see. I want to see it with you. Always with you.

So, thank you for being the sexiest ex-fiancé of all. Now, it’s time for you to move into your new role, so let me say this . . .

Dear Sexy-As-Sin Husband—I’m going to love you for the rest of my life.

THE END

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Every bartender should follow one simple rule—don’t go home with the customers.

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Also by Lauren Blakely

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Contact

I love hearing from readers! You can find me on Twitter at LaurenBlakely3, Instagram at LaurenBlakelyBooks, Facebook at LaurenBlakelyBooks, or online at LaurenBlakely.com. You can also email me at laurenblakelybooks@gmail.com