Bellamy frowns, sadness flickering in her gaze. “And what happened?”

  I take a deep, fortifying breath. “She was killed by a driver who was texting.”

  Bellamy pinches the bridge of her nose, then lets go. A tear slides down her face, and she reaches for my biceps, squeezing. “I’m so sorry.”

  “She died right away. On impact, thank God.”

  “Thank God,” she echoes.

  “And after her death . . . well, it was just . . . it was really hard,” I admit, remnants of the pain resurfacing as I tell her details only my closest friends and family know. “I kind of checked out for a while.”

  Those dark days flash before me, along with the long nights, the emptiness, the suffocating weight of missing.

  “Grief is a very hard thing.”

  “I lost my focus. I couldn’t even get motivated to work. I was just sort of floundering.”

  “What changed for you?”

  “My friends saw what was happening and wanted to help. After several months like that, TJ and my sister, my cousins Spencer and Jo, and my buddy Nolan came over and said, ‘We love you, but we’re staging an intervention. It’s time for you to do this. You sold your business for a reason, and that wasn’t to wallow.’ It was the kick in the pants I needed to jump-start Carpe Diem.”

  “They really helped you.”

  “They did. Carpe Diem was my dream. This company matters to me. I’m not doing this for Anna. I’m doing it because it was my vision after I sold Coupled—to provide women a better alternative to online dating. And I’d lost sight of it.”

  “And that really motivates you,” she says.

  “It does. I know you don’t agree with my approach—”

  “It’s okay.” She sets a gentle hand on my arm, her voice soothing. “We don’t have to see eye to eye.”

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  “We’re different,” she reassures me. “That’s just the way it goes. It’s not a bad thing.” Her smile fades, though, and she’s quiet for a long moment. “Are you still in love with her?” she finally asks.

  I sit up, grip her thigh. “No. I wouldn’t sleep with you if I was in love with her.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  I stare at her like she’s crazy. “Bellamy, that’d be wrong.”

  “To her?”

  I shake my head. “To you. To me. Wrong all around. I loved her, yes. I was devastated when she died, yes. But I moved on. I like living. I like doing.” Still, I think I know why she asked. “But I don’t want to be hurt like that again.”

  She hums like it’s a lot to process, and I hope she understands me. “That’s why you don’t date.”

  “Yes. I’m all for romance. I believe it’s possible. But I think it’s best suited to others. Like you.” I squeeze her shoulder. “You believe in love. Neon-billboard-at-night love.”

  “I do, which is crazy, because I’ve been burned.” She bumps her shoulder against mine, shifting the mood with a tiny grin. “But if I tell you, that big old dragon of jealousy will go thrashing around.”

  I growl in answer. “You’ve awakened the dragon.”

  She tap dances her fingers up my chest. “Aw, that’s the Easton I know. Jealous and crazy over past men.”

  “I hate any man who’s ever touched you,” I say, meaning it.

  “Well, then, you’d really hate Braxton. I was with him for two years, and he cheated on me the whole time.”

  I seethe. I grunt. “Who is this jackass?”

  “Just an ex. But even so, I won’t give him power over me by turning off my desire for love. I’ve seen what love can do. I believe in its power. My dad was wildly in love with my mom and broken when she died. But then he met my stepmom, and he fell in love again. They’re crazy for each other. That’s why I know it’s possible, even if you’ve been hurt,” she says, squeezing my hand.

  I want to believe what she’s saying is true for everyone, but the prospect of losing someone I love is too intense, too terrifying. I couldn’t endure that pain twice.

  “You’re probably right, in theory,” I admit.

  She laughs softly. “But theory is not reality, so it’s good that we have this understanding.”

  I gesture from her to me, then to the bed. “Is that what this is? An understanding?”

  An understanding has promise. Maybe we can both have a little something.

  “I think we just made one. You don’t want more. And I do. So, this thing between us—this orgasm thing—will fade out and burn away. And that’s just the way it goes,” she says.

  Wait. Is that all?

  But truly, that’s all it can be.

  “Yes, we have an understanding,” I say.

  “Good,” she says, then her stomach growls. “Can this understanding also involve food?”

  “What kind of food? The kind I can order or the kind I can make?”

  Her eyes pop open. “I want the great Easton Ford to cook me dinner.”

  “You should have everything you want, Bellamy,” I say, and brush my lips to hers, lingering in a kiss.

  Then I cook her dinner, and she leaves a little before midnight.

  I go to bed alone, and that feels a little empty.

  Maybe that’s what understandings are. But alone is safe. And that’s exactly what I want.

  29

  Order of Arousal

  From the Email Correspondence of Bellamy Hart and Easton Ford

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  By the way, you had spinach in your teeth from dinner last night.

  * * *

  Yours in food on your face,

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  And was I right? Were you still turned on?

  * * *

  Yours in maybe I meant to do it,

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  Let’s just say I was both turned on and amused. Would we call that a cousin of schadenfreude? Meaning . . . turned on while secretly laughing at your expense.

  * * *

  Yours in we need a new word for that,

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  I believe that’s called arousement.

  * * *

  Yours in made-up words,

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  A state best enjoyed with a couple more orgasms and a glass of Merlot. Also, you’re welcome for the additional Os.

  * * *

  Yours in multiples,

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  I thanked you last night for them, you greedy man.

  But if you want more gratitude, here goes. I thoroughly enjoyed my Friday afternoon and evening with you. I indulged in cock, a rich red wine, a decadent slice of chocolate cake, terrific company, and that incredible spinach and mushroom risotto. Well done.

  * * *

  Yours in I really did enjoy myself,

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  I see you mentioned everything in order of enjoyment.

  * * *

  Yours,

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  Yes. In ascending order. The risotto was really good.

  * * *

  Yours in last words,

  Bellamy

  30

  Bellamy Hart’s Planning Notes for A Million Frogs . . .

  Time to start over.

  To rip out the pages from the prior notebooks and begin again. But how the hell do I start with someone like Easton? I know how to make a dating profile for me. Been there, done that. Have the scars and the smiles to show for it. I can make one for any of my girlfriends too.

  But for a guy who makes risotto that makes my taste buds sing? Who works with his badass grandma? Who’s familiar with Mrs. Whatsit? And who knew, too, just what to say to me when I felt terribly stuck, and then again when I felt free?

  On the other hand, he’s also a guy who doesn’t want to date.

  He’s a conundrum, and I don’t want to lead anyone on when I make his profile.

  Least of all, myself.

  So, I sit down to write him another letter, a little scared that these have become the best parts of my day.

  Scared, and a little thrilled too.

  31

  All of the Above

  During my run on Sunday morning, I mull over ideas for my meeting with Victoire’s PR department later this week.

  The Twitter chatter has died down. Because that’s how social media cycles work—they reset whenever there’s a new outrage over whether pumpkin spice lattes have a right to exist or a celebrity should have an emotion. Still, Angeline made her wishes clear, and my job is to deliver for the client.

  I’m solo on the trail today—I do my best thinking when I’m not smack-talking with my friends or laying down bets—so I peel off a few miles as the cogs turn.

  I pass a man and a woman running together pushing a jogging stroller, then a pair of women who slow their pace to snap a selfie of a chaste kiss, then more solo runners.

  The inkling of a publicity idea takes shape, but it needs more work, so I file it away, then head home to shower before I meet Spencer and Coco.

  Grandma might not like spa getaways, but she loves her mani-pedis.

  My cousin doesn’t think he heard me right.

  Nor does my grandma.

  So, I repeat myself.

  “Bellamy and I have an understanding,” I explain as I dip my feet into the foot tub, wiggling my toes in the bubbly water. An attentive woman sets up to begin a This Little Piggy Pedi at Daisy’s Nails on Madison Avenue.

  I’ve been accompanying Grandma to her weekly pedicures for years now. This shit is awesome and any dude who tells you otherwise can fuck off.

  Spencer cracks up as he leans back in the cushy chair. “An understanding is a euphemism I haven’t heard before.”

  “A euphemism for what?” I ask him.

  “Sex, darling,” Coco says matter-of-factly.

  I jerk my gaze toward her. “Really?”

  “Hot, up-against-the-wall sex? All-night-long sex? Is that better?”

  “That’s not what I meant by really,” I say.

  “Then what did you mean?” she asks. “Did I get it wrong? Is your understanding with Bellamy for cooking lessons? A fantasy baseball league? A book club?”

  “That one sounds like your speed, E,” Spencer says, turning the rollers even higher.

  “I’m not opposed to sex and book clubs,” I say.

  “Why don’t you let Bellamy know that, then?” Spencer asks. “Ladies love to hear when you reduce them to sex plus a favorite hobby.”

  “Gee, thanks for the tip,” I say drily.

  “He has a point, though, munchkin,” Coco chimes in. “Understandings for no-strings-attached nookie can get a little complicated.”

  “But isn’t that your thing, Coco? Isn’t that what your whole life is about? No strings?” I counter.

  “And I’m nearly eighty years old.”

  Spencer scoffs. “You said fifty the other day.”

  She flashes him a bright smile. “My favorite grandchild.”

  “Forty,” I put in.

  “My most favorite now,” she says to me, then takes a sip and sets her flute on the tray. “The point is this—I know how to have no-strings-attached sex. But understandings are very different when you’re approaching eighty. At my age, you show your cards. You leave the games at the poker table.”

  “And that’s the same for Bellamy and me,” I say. “Everything is on the table. Honestly, I see nothing wrong with this. We’re setting appropriate boundaries. I think it’s healthy.”

  A cough bursts from Spencer. Coco chirps a matching laugh.

  “Laugh away,” I grumble. “But it’s quite mature.”

  “Yes, Easton, you are the height of maturity in your relationships with women. Just like I was before I fell in love with my beautiful wife during our understanding for no-strings-attached sex,” Spencer says.

  When TJ rounds the corner that second, I seize the chance to shift the conversation far, far away. “Did you enjoy your favorite service?” I call out.

  “Did you have a mani?” Coco asks.

  Shaking his head, TJ shows her his palms, shiny with lotion. “I’m a big fan of a hand rub.”

  “How hard was that for you to say with a straight face? Hand rub?” I stretch out those words as I catch his gaze.

  “Virtually impossible. Every time I come here to get a hand rub, my inner thirteen-year-old struggles mightily.”

  “Marvelous self-control,” Coco coos, then pats the empty chair next to her. “Now, come help me with my new birthday plans. You’re just the man I need.”

  TJ scoots up on the leather chair, sitting side saddle. “Are you still going to Vegas, Coco? You want to know the best clubs with the hottest dudes, right?”

  Spencer cocks his head my way. “She’s going night clubbing?”

  I shake my head. “Try to keep up, Spencer. Strip clubs. But she decided to have her party in New York instead at Stallions and Studs.”

  “I love that place,” TJ says with a salacious grin.

  Coco grabs her phone from her pocket, taps on it, then shows him the screen. “This is the menu of dancers at Stallions and Studs. Can you help me pick which ones you think will be the best? Do I want Leo the cop, Jack the fireman, or Jones the naughty professor?”

  My friend smiles. “The answer is all of the above.”

  “Of course! You’re such a dear. Thank you so much,” she says, and the two of them proceed to order strippers for her birthday party. When they’re done, she shoots him a smile. “Now, are you ever going to tell me what TJ stands for?”

  “Coco,” he says with a frown. “I can’t reveal that.”

  “Why not? I’m a vault.”

  “It’s the least sexy name ever,” he stage-whispers.

  “It is pretty un-hot, Coco,” I corroborate.

  “Why does the munchkin get to know?” She pouts, pointing a thumb at me.

  TJ cracks up, then meets my gaze. “E, she calls you ‘munchkin’?”

  I shrug. “She does. Your real name doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?”

  Leaning closer, TJ cups a hand over Coco’s ear and whispers, I assume, what his initials stand for.

  Her blue eyes twinkle. “I understand why you use TJ, and I won’t tell a soul.” She mimes zipping her lips.

  “I’m counting on that,” TJ says as my phone buzzes with an email.

  Immediately, I flip it over.

  Just in case it’s about an understanding.

  32

  Quacks Like a Date

  From the Email Correspondence of Bellamy Hart and Easton Ford

  * * *

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  In light of our bet, I thought it wise to make plans to meet up again. Perhaps for some background research? To make the best online profile possible, I might need to know a few more things about you. Details that go beyond how much you like the way I look with your cock between my lips. (Yes, I’ve known this about you since the night we met. Did you think I believed you were staring at my lips so long for reasons other than blow-job assessment?)

  * * *

  Yours in blow-job lips,

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy with the blow-job lips,

  * * *

  You think so little of me.

  * * *

  Yours,

  Easton

  Dear Easton with the run-my-fingers-through-it-and-hold-on-tight hair,

  * * *

  I assure you, there’s nothing little on that front.

  * * *

  Yours,

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  Assurance appreciated.

  * * *

  But you’re wrong about my appraisal of your mouth. I enjoy all the things you do with it—talk, kiss, suck. Most of all, though, it’s the things you say to me that make me want to kiss off your lipstick.

  * * *

  Yours in now I’m thinking about kissing you senseless,

  * * *

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  Kiss me senseless and shut me up.

  * * *

  Yours in that’s a direct order when I see you again,

  Bellamy