“Yeah, because the tech crew needs love too,” Rachel says, offering a palm to high-five.

  He smacks it, snickering, and they have an insider humor going on. Maybe he has manned up? I smile privately, hoping he’ll have his heart’s desire—the girl he adores.

  Rachel returns to the batter, tossing a question over her shoulder. “And what are you up to, Mr. Alexander?”

  “I’m going to see Peyton in a few,” I say.

  “Not dressed like that, I hope?” she asks.

  I glance down at my basketball shorts and sweat-soaked T-shirt.

  “Ladies don’t like basketball shorts, don’t you know that?” Barrett teases, flashing me an evil grin as he lobs my fashion advice back at me.

  I pluck at the shirt. “I’m obviously not wearing this to see her.”

  Rachel wipes a flour-covered hand dramatically across her forehead. “Good. Because I was going to have to go all fashion police on you.”

  “And what exactly are you doing tonight with Miss Valencia?” Barrett asks oh so casually.

  “Just hanging out.”

  They burst into matching peals of laughter.

  Rachel points at me. “You’re blushing, Mr. Alexander.”

  Ah, hell. Am I as red as a tomato? No way. “I’m not.”

  “Hey, handsome,” Barrett says in a torch-singer tone. “Why don’t you put on a corset and go see the one you want?”

  I will never live this down.

  I wave them off and head for my bathroom.

  “Don’t forget to wear something pretty, Mr. Alexander.”

  I shut the door. No wonder he likes her. She’s just like him.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m dressed and ready, wearing jeans and a Henley, my hair a little wet at the ends.

  But am I truly ready?

  Each session with Peyton is a new clue in an escape room, each mystery tougher than the last. Solve it and you can leave with your sanity intact. If you don’t, time runs out while you dissolve into a puddle of lust on the floor.

  But it’s more than lust I feel for her.

  So much more.

  That’s the twist I can’t solve in this Peyton romance-novel-reenactment escape room.

  How the hell am I going to handle being that close to her? What kind of superman human shield do I need to lock in place?

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and remind myself that I’ve seen her in a bikini. I’ve seen pics of her in lingerie. Tonight I’m an actor, and I’m going to take home an Oscar.

  On my way out, I find Barrett and Rachel huddled with his phone on the couch, taking selfies. Looks like they’re messing around with filters, something I will never understand the allure of.

  “Yes. Send that one of us,” she says.

  I clear my throat. “Hey. I’m going to head out. What are you two doing?”

  “Just a group chat with the crew,” Rachel says. “Eli and Chloe, and Maggie and Jacob.”

  “The ones you’re taking the cookie pretzels to?”

  Barrett taps his nose. “You catch on fast, Einstein.”

  I gesture to the door. “And on that note, I’m going to get out of here, which will sorely limit your targets for sarcasm, but I still wish you a good night.”

  Barrett winks. “I wish you a good night with your homecoming date.” He nods at Rachel. “He’s taking Peyton to homecoming.”

  I’m about to fire back with Well, are you taking Rachel? when I remember—I’m the parent. Or the closest thing he has to one.

  Barrett points a finger at me, making a circle. “What is tonight’s test? Will she be testing how you smell? Because I can loan you my aftershave. It’s pretty sex-ay.”

  Rachel grins. “Maybe you should do that thing in the movies where you run across a field of flowers and you catch her in your arms. Have you thought about that for a reenactment?”

  I wave them off. “I’ll make sure to let her know the flower field was your idea.”

  Barrett salutes me. “See you later. If you need cheesy pop music for that big moment, let us know.”

  “We’ll make you a playlist. Maybe some Celine or Mariah,” Rachel calls out as I leave.

  “I’m all good,” I say, then I get the hell out of the firing range of those two sarcasm monsters.

  Their advice is good though. Not the field of flowers advice. But the bring something advice.

  On the walk over, I pop into a bodega, grab a little gift, then use the cool fall air to clear my mind the rest of the way to her place.

  This is an experiment.

  Research.

  That’s all.

  But when I reach her apartment and she opens the door, all those reminders run, hop, skip, and jump away.

  And it’s not because of how she looks, though she’s so damn pretty in a light-blue dress.

  It’s what she says.

  “Listen to this voicemail a customer left for me.” In one smooth move, she grabs my arm, tugs me inside, and hits play on her phone as the door closes.

  Hi Peyton,

  It’s Sandra here! Just wanted to leave a little message! I stopped by your store the other day and picked up some new pj’s. Ah, how I love my satin jammies—they’re the perfect way to end the day. You were so helpful, aiding me in selecting just the right set. You remind me of Mimi. She always had time for every customer, talking to them, getting to know them. She’d be so proud of you, carrying on her legacy. And I know she’d be proud of your blog too. I can see where you get your spirit from!

  P.S. You should stock knee pads for staircase use! It makes it so much more enjoyable! Helps with rug burn too!

  See you soon!

  Peyton sighs happily, brings her hand to her chest, then smiles. “Is it weird that I’m happy that she thinks my Mimi would be proud of me for selling undies well?”

  I smile, shaking my head, my heart warming at how radiant she is over a message like this. The simplest things make her shine. “No. You have a connection with your grandmother. And you don’t just do what you do to make a sale. You do it because it makes your customers feel better about themselves. You make them happy.”

  She points at me, doing a dance with her fingers. “See? You get my love of underwear.”

  Does she have any idea how much? “Yeah, I think I do.”

  “Also, you look . . .” She stops, and her eyes travel up and down my frame. “You look great.”

  The way she says it, it’s as if she’s stripped bare for me, like her voice holds the raw truth of her heart.

  Three simple words. You look great.

  They burrow into me, reminding me this is so much more than an experiment.

  That’s the big problem.

  I hold up the bag I picked up on the way, needing to get out of the line of lust-fire. “I stopped at a store. The first crop of clementines are in. Did you know you can sometimes peel one in a single go?” I ask, making small talk as I cross the few feet into her kitchen.

  “Yes. I love it when that happens. It’s sort of like the satisfaction you get when you perfectly flip an egg or a pancake.”

  “Exactly. Want to try?”

  She’s right behind me in the kitchen, so close I can smell her body lotion. It’s cherry blossom, and I’m going to need another coat of armor. Maybe there’s a spare under the sink? In the hall closet?

  Or possibly I can find it in the clementine trick. Yes, I’m sure my kitchen skills will solve this escape-room clue. Worth trying, at least.

  “Not this second, because I have something for you,” she says, waylaying my plan, and I spin around, surprised.

  She’s holding a gift bag with a silver bow tied around the handles. Because of course she is. Because that’s what she does.

  My heart dares to thump harder, and I have got to get it under control. I take the bag, untie the bow, and peer inside.

  I smile when I see what she’s gotten. “Forest green,” I say, running my finger over the soft fabric.

  “Take it out. Hold it up.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes,” she says, stomping her foot.

  “Fine, fine.” I tug the shirt from the bag, pretending to model it.

  She nods approvingly. “Very you. Now you’re all set for homecoming. And the clementines will go perfectly with my drink choice for tonight.”

  As I fold the shirt, I ask what’s on tap.

  She swivels around, grabs a bottle of tequila, and waggles it. “Shots.”

  Sounds like a good idea. Shots equal more armor.

  She lines up two glasses, and I peel a clementine, all in one neat piece.

  She whistles her appreciation as she pours the drinks, and we lift our glasses.

  “What are we toasting to?” I ask, some ancient part of me hoping she’ll say, To us.

  She licks her lips, takes a breath, and seems to pause on the words. Then, with a rise of her chin, she declares, “To red lingerie and friendship.”

  That less-than-subtle hint is all I need to know.

  Besides, it’s precisely what I should drink to.

  I down the tequila in two seconds, the fiery burn a stark and necessary reminder of reality.

  I pour another shot and swallow it whole, then I grab a slice of clementine.

  She finishes her drink, takes the fruit, and sets her phone in its stand. “I made a playlist. Mood music.”

  I hope it’s not Chris Isaak again. I’m not sure my heart can handle that. “Metal music would be perfect,” I say, dead serious.

  With a roll of her eyes, she laughs and says she’ll be right back.

  As she leaves, Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want to Miss A Thing” begins.

  Well, that’s not exactly Ozzy Osbourne.

  Shoving my hand through my hair, I repeat her words while she’s gone.

  Lingerie and friendship.

  That’s what this is. That’s what it should be. That’s all she wants.

  Now I know. Whatever I’ve been feeling these last few nights is one-sided. Like it’s always been.

  And it’s time for this unrequited shit to end.

  After her five scenes end in a few more days, I’m going to have to mix a drink that’ll make me forget I ever had any feelings for her.

  But I can’t forget tonight.

  Because when she returns a few minutes later, all the air rushes out of my lungs.

  I can’t think. I can’t speak. I am on fire, burning alive.

  Peyton, the woman I fell in love with ten years ago, wears a black satin robe that ends at her thighs.

  Black heels raise her up a few inches.

  And the lace of her bra strap peeks out on one side.

  “I wore the red for you,” she says, so softly, so faintly I’m not quite sure I heard her right.

  I don’t even know if it’s a line from the novel. It doesn’t feel familiar, but hell if I know anything anymore.

  I laser in on the task, my slim-to-nil chance of beating the ticking clock.

  “Do you want me to say the lines?” I ask as calmly as I can, but even so, the words come out like smoke.

  “Yes.” Hers sound like an invitation.

  Lingerie and friendship.

  I repeat it as I walk over to where she stands, poised against the wall.

  “Did you wear this for me?” I fiddle with the satin ribbon at her waist, like the hero does.

  “Just for you,” she whispers.

  Taking a deep breath, I untie the sash, the two sides of her robe falling open.

  I shut my eyes briefly. I have to. She’s so fucking beautiful.

  When I open them, I half wish she’d changed into sweatpants. But she’s the woman in red lace, with a bra that boosts her breasts, panties that should be worshipped, and a soft, supple body I want to have against mine.

  I glance at the panties, noticing the lines for the tiny second-layer thong underneath. Shame. “These are pretty,” I say, raising a brow, like the hero does. “Too bad they won’t be on for long.”

  “Take them off,” she murmurs, and her voice sounds different. Hotter, more sensual.

  It’s a trick. It’s a tease. It’s magic, that’s all.

  Don’t be fooled.

  I say what the hero says. “You know my favorite way to remove them.”

  A smile seems to tug at her lips. “That’s what I want.”

  I kneel before her, and this—this is where I earn my Oscar for resistance. I’d like to thank the Academy.

  Because, seriously? How the hell am I supposed to rip these off with my teeth without touching her? Would have been helpful for the hero to leave a step-by-step guide. Maybe a wiki or a how-to video.

  Oh wait. He got to touch the heroine.

  Lucky fucker.

  I give it my best shot, dipping my face toward her, keenly aware of how ridiculous this is—I’m about to tear off her underwear for the sake of a blog.

  Then walk away.

  Must make light of this.

  I glance up at Peyton and chomp my teeth, pretending I’m an animal about to devour its dinner.

  But she doesn’t laugh. The expression on her face is not one of amusement.

  It’s something else entirely.

  Something I don’t want to name.

  With my arms at my sides, I bite at the top of her panties near her hip, and then briefly wonder what the hell to do with my hands.

  “Put your hands on my ass,” she says, like she can read my mind, or maybe my body language.

  “It’ll be easier that way,” she adds.

  “Right, easier,” I murmur around the panties in my mouth, then slide my hands around her body, cupping her cheeks.

  Holy fuck. She feels spectacular. Soft and smooth and so damn close.

  Too close.

  I’m losing my mind like this. I need to get out of this trap of desire, but it’s a force of its own, shrouding me.

  I try again, tugging at the lace, and she trembles the slightest bit. I hear a tiny hitch of her breath, testing my resolve.

  I need to just get this over with and leave.

  I draw a deep breath, ready to yank with everything I have, but I freeze when I feel her touch my hair.

  That’s not in the script.

  The way she threads her hands through my hair like a lover—that’s not in the scene at all.

  I let myself give a name to the way she looked at me moments ago.

  She looked at me with arousal.

  Now she’s touching me the same way too.

  20

  PEYTON

  There are reasons to resist crossing the line.

  So many reasons.

  And then there is this.

  My best friend, on his knees, about to reenact an intimate scene.

  Maybe I’ll regret my actions in the morning.

  Maybe I’ll regret them in a few minutes.

  But right now? With my playlist shifting to Janelle Monae and him looking at me with you’re-so-beautiful in his eyes, I can’t regret this feeling.

  This wish.

  This wild, powerful, almost painful desire.

  I have to know what it’s like to be touched by someone I trust. How it feels to be cherished.

  And I know, without a doubt, he’ll touch me that way.

  I know, too, that I want Tristan desperately.

  Maybe more than the woman in the book wants her man.

  In this moment, I’m made entirely of emotion. Of desire. My skin tingles, and my body is awash with heat.

  My heart stutters, longing for him.

  I can’t just playact this scene.

  Or perhaps I simply don’t want to.

  I run my fingers through his hair, savoring the soft feel of his thick, dark strands.

  “I wore the red for you,” I say, repeating my words from earlier. My words. They’re not in the scene. They’re only mine, and they’re wholly true. “I know you love red.”

  He stares up at me with so much intensity in his hazel eyes, so much desire. It’s terrifying the way he looks at me. And wonderful too.

  “I do. Love it so much,” he says, his voice low and husky.

  I shudder from the sheer magnitude of this moment. From the reality of what I’m about to do.

  Jump.

  “I know,” I whisper, then I thread my fingers through his hair, curling them around his head, loving the feel of him. I guide him to my thigh, directing him.

  He lets out a shuddery breath, then presses a ghost of a kiss on my bare leg.

  I gasp.

  The feel of his lips is extraordinary. The touch of his hands is utterly erotic. He shifts from cupping my ass cheeks to squeezing and kneading, bringing me closer.

  And, like that, we cross the line of friendship.

  We vault over it as he kisses my thigh, my hip, and moves up my belly. His lips travel across my skin, turning me liquid, transforming me into a molten woman.

  He reaches my breasts, kissing the swell of one, then the other. When he arrives at my neck, his hands are on my waist, and his lips caress the hollow of my throat.

  I shudder, murmuring, gasping all at once.

  I’m in another realm, where passion rules the night and choices narrow to one—the choice is touch.

  He kisses my neck, my jaw, the shell of my ear, his trim beard rasping deliciously across my skin. Then he stops, plants his palms on the wall behind me, and meets my eyes. I’ve never seen someone look at me the way he does. The intensity, the desire is almost too much.

  “Kiss me,” I whisper, desperation coloring my tone.

  “I want to kiss you all night long,” he says. Then his lips meet mine, and I am lost—completely lost in the sensation.

  In the brush of his lips, the feel of his body, the power of his kiss.

  He’s not soft or gentle. He’s all man, all hunger, and he kisses me like I’m the most succulent dish he’s ever tasted. He seals his mouth to mine like he owns me, like he already knows the taste of me.

  Like he wants me with a wild desperation.

  Looping my hands into his hair again, I thread my fingers through the strands, playing with the ends.

  He sighs against my mouth, his body trembling, and I smile inside, knowing he likes how I touch him.

  I want him to. I want him to like everything I do. To feel everything I feel. Lowering his right hand, he cups my jaw, brushing his thumb over my chin as he kisses me.