Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

by Lauren Blakely

  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.