In short? Make this move your own.

  Xoxo

  The Lingerie Devotee

  Find me at You Look Pretty Today on Madison Avenue

  18

  PEYTON

  When I walk into Gin Joint on Friday night to see my girls, I check if I have toilet paper on my Jimmy Choos.

  Nope.

  Maybe a leaf fell into my hair? I brush a hand over my head as I make my way to the purple velvet couch Amy and Lola have commandeered in the center of the lounge.

  With the way my two best friends stare at me, like I’m a giraffe walking backward, something has to be amiss.

  I run my hands down my leopard-print skirt, then check my backside. “Do I have lint on my shirt? Dirt on my nose? A sign taped to my back that says I ate two whole chocolate bars for lunch? Because I swear, if Marley ratted me out about my midday Lulu’s Chocolates scarf session, that girl is toast.”

  Amy blinks, holds up a stop-sign hand. “Wait. Your dessert compartment is that big? It holds two chocolate bars?”

  I sit next to her, crossing my legs, answering primly, “It wasn’t my dessert compartment. It was my lunch compartment.”

  Lola bows. “I had no idea it was possible to eat two chocolate bars for lunch. I humble myself before you, O Great Chocolate Queen.”

  I pat her curls. “You may rise now, my subject.” Taking a moment, I stare at them like they’re crazy. “Guys! No, I didn’t eat two chocolate bars.” I lower my voice, cupping my hand to my mouth. “I had one. But seriously. Why are you staring at me with those you’re-so-naughty eyes?”

  Amy gently shoves my leg. “Because you are naughty. Ahem.” She clears her throat, adopts a sultry tone. “But do indulge in a piece of clothing that will make you feel adored when the one you want tugs everything else off you.”

  I shrug as a waitress swings by and asks for my order. I eye Amy’s drink.

  “This one’s called Last Word. It’s delish,” Amy says. “Get it.”

  “I’ll have the same, thanks,” I tell the woman, then return to my friends. “So, what’s the issue with my blog?”

  Lola blinks rapidly. “What’s the issue? You just declared in a public forum that you want Tristan.”

  “No. No, that’s not what I said.” I jerk my head back, shocked they’d leap to that conclusion. “I did not. I was writing about . . . ”

  But I don’t entirely know how to fill in the blank. I was writing about whether romance novel scenes work. About walking up stairs. Was I writing about reenacting desire?

  Or rekindling it?

  Lola does know how to close the thought, it seems, since she jumps in. “You were writing about how you felt. With Tristan.”

  Her statement—bold, possibly true—rings like a gong.

  And with it, a host of nerves descends on me. Nerves I haven’t felt quite like this. Because this time, the nerves aren’t about what I’m doing. They’re about what I’m feeling.

  Or, rather, what I can’t let myself feel.

  I recalibrate. “It was an experiment, and I was writing about it sort of as if I’m an everywoman. I was saying, as an everywoman, you want to feel desired when the guy, or gal, stares at you like they want to ravish you.”

  Amy points at me excitedly. “That’s how he looked at you! Like he wanted to ravish you. I knew it. Called it.”

  She offers a high five to Lola, who smacks it.

  “You’re placing bets on how Tristan looked at me?”

  They nod in unison, twin torturesses.

  “And you guys are my friends, right? Just want to make sure.”

  “We are your people.” Amy pats my knee. “Now, how did it feel when he stared at you like he wanted to eat you up like those chocolate bars?”

  Decadent.

  I wave a hand, wishing I could erase this conversation because it’s treading on dangerous shores. “I wrote about it. It was an experiment. I wasn’t saying he’s the one I want.”

  Lola arches a brow, her expression shifting. “But do you? Do you want him?”

  “Because it seems like maybe you do from those posts,” Amy adds, a gentleness in her tone.

  My throat hitches. My breath comes fast with the swell of rising emotions I do my best to deny. “I was just trying to capture a moment. To write broadly about how a woman might feel if she were in the shoes of a romance heroine.”

  “Did you feel like one?” Amy asks, all teasing stripped from her tone.

  Did I?

  Yes.

  In my bones. In my heart. In my mind.

  But I can’t answer with words. If I speak, the reality might terrify me. I can only nod.

  Lola inches closer. “Does that scare you?”

  Yes.

  But I don’t want to give voice to the fear. I keep the question in my head a little longer, mulling it over, turning it this way and that. Maybe because I don’t want to experience all this strange newness by myself, I manage to whisper, “So much,” as the waitress brings me the drink.

  “One Last Word for you,” she declares.

  Amy gestures to the waitress. “Add it to my tab.”

  The waitress leaves, and I pick up the glass.

  “Why does it scare you?” Amy asks, returning to the question.

  The question I need to figure out how to answer. “For so many reasons,” I say, then I take a drink.

  I don’t want to list them all, because the list would occupy a sheet of paper so long it’d scroll out the door.

  I knock back some of the beverage, savoring the clean, neat taste of the gin, then I turn the conversation in another direction. “The blog is working. Business has been picking up more than I could hope after only a few days,” I say, rapping my knuckles on the metal table in front of me.

  “That’s great,” Lola says with a smile.

  I prattle on about the slight uptick in traffic to the store, and the comments on the blog itself, which is quickly picking up speed. “It’s great to see the strategy working. Tristan said I should put more of myself into the blog, and that customers would connect with that.”

  Amy’s eyebrows rise above her glasses. “I don’t think your customers are the only ones connecting to the blog.”

  “I think he is too,” Lola adds.

  My brow creases. “Did he say something to you?”

  Lola laughs, shaking her head. “He doesn’t have to, Peyton. I’ve seen the way you two are together. How he makes you laugh, and how he pokes fun at you in the most deadpan way. And how you give it right back to him.”

  “Because we’re friends. We always have been,” I say.

  “Right. That’s true. But you weren’t exactly hanging out with him all the time when you were with Gage.”

  “And that’s why I’m glad that we can hang out again now. Like we did in college, and after college.”

  Lola takes a deep breath, as if she’s steeling herself to say something hard. “I’m not trying to side with Captain Infidelity . . .” My shoulders tighten. I can hear the edge in her voice, the slice of tough love she’s about to serve up. “But do you think maybe Gage was onto something when he didn’t want you to spend time with Tristan?”

  My jaw ticks. “I was faithful to Gage. I’ve been faithful to everyone I’ve been with. I would never cheat.”

  Lola squeezes my knee, but I shrink away.

  She’s insistent though. “Peyton, I know that.”

  “We know that,” Amy adds. “You’re a faithful person.”

  “I am,” I insist. But why so strongly? It’s nothing but the truth. “I was faithful mentally, emotionally, and physically in every way to everyone I’ve ever been with.”

  “Of course you were. But you’re also an honest person, and Gage knew you’d kissed Tristan. You told him about the kiss,” Amy says.

  “Yes, because otherwise I would have been keeping it a secret, and there was no reason for it to be a secret. I was honest with him about everything. Telling Gage I kissed Tristan was the right thing to do.”

  “Yes, it was. It absolutely was. And Gage is a total asshat,” Lola says. “But he’s also a human who was probably more jealous than he ever let on. So even if you weren’t thinking of Tristan as boyfriend material when you were with Gage, you were certainly thinking of him that way once upon a time, weren’t you? It wasn’t just a random kiss in college, was it?”

  I drop my head in my hands, the past crawling over me, digging its heel into my back.

  Memories of college, of the times Tristan and I spent together before the dance, flicker in my mind. After he finished work, we’d meet for late-night study sessions for our history class, or we’d share notes for Spanish. On weekends, we’d go to the on-campus diner for milkshakes and fries, then salads the next day because we felt guilty about the fries. Sometimes we went out with our group of friends, and sometimes it was just us. He told me stories about teaching his brother how to make a pizza from scratch then showed me pictures of a young Barrett covered in tomato sauce and flour.

  We played blackjack and made up new rules, and we read articles in The Onion out loud to each other in the snack bar, each doing our best to make the other laugh like a hyena.

  We were friends.

  Except for that one night.

  I’d wanted more than that one night. I thought about him all through winter break, wondering, wanting.

  Was he the one for me?

  After his father passed away, we returned so seamlessly to friendship that it was as if the kiss had never happened. We never spoke of it. He gave no sign he wanted anything more.

  But maybe Gage was right to be jealous of Tristan. Maybe it’s normal to be jealous of any man your girlfriend has kissed.

  I look up, seeing the patience in Amy’s and Lola’s eyes, pure friendship in their expressions.

  “Yes, once upon a time, I wanted more,” I admit.

  A weight lifts from my shoulders.

  But only for a moment. Then it crashes down heavier than before, a looming reminder of the risks.

  Because that was in the past, and this is the present. “But there’s too much at stake now,” I continue. “And sometimes, chances slip by for a reason. I think we were meant to be friends. With friendship, I can’t lose him. A quick romp, a one-night fling—those are too risky. Relationships can go up in flames. Look what happened to me.”

  I waggle my naked ring finger. “Three years with Gage and what do I have? Ten grand I poured into my store, and that’s all well and good. But I loved him, and he hurt me. I care so deeply for Tristan that the thought of losing him makes me physically ill.” I wrap my arms around my belly. “If I even tried to pursue something, acting on whatever this . . .” I gesture wildly, searching for words. “This vibe is, then what if it goes belly-up? What if it turns into the next bare ring finger?”

  “He’s not like Gage,” Amy points out.

  “But that’s not even the issue,” I add.

  “I know,” she says quietly. “You’re not worried he’d cheat. You’re worried you’d ruin the friendship if you let anything happen.”

  “Yes, because relationships are risky, but friendships are solid. Look at us now. We wouldn’t be friends if we’d fallen into bed ten years ago. I need him in my life too much.”

  Amy raises her glass and says, “Let’s drink to friendship.”

  Lola chimes in. “Friendship makes the world go round.”

  “Exactly. I don’t want to lose you ladies ever, and I feel the same about Tristan. If I’m not going to sleep with you, I’m not going to sleep with him.”

  That decision felt right and solid when I said it to my girls. It’s harder to remember when Tristan knocks on my door the next night.

  19

  TRISTAN

  I spend the morning at the restaurant, managing inventory, paying bills, talking to suppliers.

  My sous chef and I devise the specials, and I make small plates during lunch hour. When the rush dies down, I shift back to the office, finish some paperwork, and then pack up for the day, since my sous and the staff and crew can handle the night crowd.

  Besides, I have a scene to attend.

  And tonight’s scene involves turning the tables on her.

  I’m ripping off her panties, and she’s going to wear red.

  Red. Flipping red.

  Which won’t help my resistance.

  Hence, the hour and a half I spend at the gym with the weights.

  And on the treadmill.

  And the elliptical too, for good measure.

  As I leave, Linc walks in with Amy beside him. From the looks of it, she’s showing him how her phone slides into the pocket of her bright-pink exercise pants.

  She removes it with the showmanship of a magic trick. “See? We seriously need to plan a gift book about all the little things in life that bring joy, from pockets to hedgehogs to peeling a clementine in one strip,” I hear her say.

  Linc nods thoughtfully. “What about oranges though?”

  “It’s impossible to peel an orange in one go.”

  I cross their path, stopping to cut in on their conversation. “It’s not impossible. Ever tried a mandarin?”

  Amy blinks. “I stand corrected.”

  “Also, some grapefruits can be disrobed in one fell swoop,” I say, then I realize I just walked into innuendo quicksand.

  I wait for Amy to take the bait, to toss out something like “But how many licks does it take to disrobe a redhead wearing the sexiest pair of panties you’ve ever seen?”

  But she doesn’t say that. What’s stranger is that she says nothing. Amy rarely takes the fifth.

  Linc simply raises a brow. “Have fun tonight.”

  Amy smiles, shooting me a friendly grin. “May the force of romance novels be with you.”

  They walk past the weight machines, and I scratch my jaw. It’s unlike the two of them to resist wordplay.

  It’s almost as if they have some sort of secret.

  Or something they don’t want to say.

  But hell if I can figure out what it means.

  Or if it means anything at all.

  I return home, and as I walk into my building, my phone pings with a text.

  Peyton: Are your teeth nice and sharp?

  Tristan: Yes. I gnawed on a tree earlier today. Hung out with a pack of beavers. Chowed down.

  Peyton: Excellent. So they’re perfectly pointy.

  I reach the stairwell and take the steps two by two as I answer her.

  Tristan: Definitely. Let me guess—you want to test out a scene where the hero rips duct tape with his teeth before he hoists a couch on one shoulder?

  Peyton: Yes. I want you to do lots of manly stuff like that.

  Tristan: Manly stuff, check.

  Peyton: Also, it turns out that not only does the hero in this book like to shred panties . . . he likes to shred them with his teeth.

  I trip.

  My phone flies out of my hand and skids across the concrete landing as I fall on the staircase, tumbling over my own feet.

  My knee smarts, screaming from the impact. Glancing behind me, I see no one there to witness my stumble, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

  Hell, that was more than a stumble.

  That belongs on epic fails on YouTube. That should be a PSA not to text while walking up stairs.

  Or down stairs.

  I push up and grab my phone. Dragging my hand through my hair, I shake off the momentary pain, but I can’t shake off the thought of tonight’s task.

  Testing the rip-ability of panties with my hands would have been challenging enough. A true feat of strength, but not an insurmountable one, since she’d be wearing the “bathing-suit-style birthday suit,” her words. She said she planned to wear a thong under the lace panties I was supposed to tear off her.

  What was I supposed to say to that?

  Thanks, but no thanks?

  My brain was shouting hell yeah to any and all of those options. Aloud, I’d kept it to a simple “Sure.”

  Now, she doesn’t want me to rip her panties off with my hands. She wants me to use my teeth.

  Which means my face will be this close to heaven.

  I don’t know if this is a gift from the angels or a temptation by the devil, but my money is on the latter, especially after she sends me a few hundred words from the scene.

  I’m so screwed.

  I push open the door to my floor, stride down the hall, and unlock my apartment.

  Music assaults my ears, but in a good way.

  A hip-hop song blasts across the apartment, which is filled with the scent of something yummy. Is that cookie dough? Or baked pretzels? Or both?

  Whichever, the smell and the music take my mind off of devils and angels.

  After shutting the door, I head into the kitchen. Barrett is laughing, his back to me, stirring batter in a mixing bowl and shaking his hips while Rachel sings into a spatula microphone.

  Head back, eyes closed, she belts out some Adele-like harmony, layering onto the tune.

  Barrett joins in, stirring and singing and laughing.

  “Hey there.”

  Barrett swivels around, waves a spoon at me. Rachel beams, shouting, “Hi, Mr. Alexander!” over the song.

  Barrett reaches for his phone, lowering the volume. “Yo.”

  I meet our guest’s eyes. “Rachel, you don’t have to call me Mr. Alexander.”

  “I do though. You’re a mister! How are you, Mr. Alexander?” She flashes her bright smile at me, looking like a teenage Anna Kendrick, as Peyton once described her.

  “Excellent. What are you two up to?”

  “We’re baking cookie dough pretzels, and then we’re going to take them to some of the tech crew tonight,” Barrett offers, his grin matching hers. Damn, he lights up when she’s around—I’m talking Broadway-marquee wattage.