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, y
ou’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?”
Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend Page 11
