Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend (The Guys Who Got Away Book 1)

by Lauren Blakely

  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 n
ot 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.”