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.”
Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend (The Guys Who Got Away Book 1) Page 13