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 Sunshi
ne 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.
Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend (The Guys Who Got Away Book 1) Page 12