“You have to go?” She scoots up in bed, sitting, wrapping her arms around her stomach.

  I grab my boxers, tug them on. “Barrett will be home by midnight. Well, he’d better be. Curfew and all.”

  “Oh, right,” she says, blinking, nodding. “Of course. You need to be home when he returns.”

  “I do.” I love that she doesn’t ask why, that she simply gets it. Sure, Barrett’s a senior in high school and he can take care of himself. But I don’t want him coming home to an empty house. That’s not how I’m raising him—to fend for himself and set his own rules. I need to set an example for him of how to be a man, and this man has a responsibility.

  To be home when his kid brother returns.

  She slides out of bed, searching for her clothes. She yanks open a drawer in her bureau and pulls on a long T-shirt. But when she turns, and I see the panicked look in her eyes, it cuts me to the core. It reminds me of how she looked when she came to my restaurant after she found Gage in bed with another woman.

  Devastated.

  My heart lurches, and I grab her arm, spinning her around. “Peyton,” I say, and it’s the most desperate her name has ever sounded on my tongue. “Tonight was . . .”

  A revelation?

  Ten years in the making?

  The most intense night I’ve ever had, and I don’t want to let you go?

  She presses her lips together, like she’s holding in all her words too, all her feelings.

  “Tonight was incredible,” I continue, admitting some truth. “You’re incredible.” I draw her close, plant a kiss on her forehead. But she’s tight and tense, and I fear I’ve done the wrong thing. Does she think this is a one-night stand for me? Is it for her?

  But how can it be anything else?

  Still, one-night stand doesn’t feel like the right term for what just happened. Only, I don’t have a clue what category to put this evening in.

  I pull back, needing to reassure her of something that won’t rip me to shreds. “You mean the world to me,” I say, trying that on for size.

  She nods, her shoulders shaking slightly. Her lip quivers. “But . . .? It sounds like there’s a but in that sentence.”

  “But nothing. But everything.” I cup her chin, wanting her to know what she means to me, how I can’t stand the thought of her vacating my life. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose our friendship.”

  “So we’re still friends?” she asks, tentative.

  “Of course. We better be.”

  “And we just do what? Put that behind us?” She flaps her hand toward the bed.

  Oh, how I wish I could read her mind. That’d come in real handy right now. I cast about for something, anything, to save myself, to save us. “We don’t have to put it behind us,” I say, testing that option, as my brain tries to figure out what the hell we do next. Wind back the clock? Or spring forward into more sex? More experiments? I don’t want to get hurt, but I’m dying for more of her. Once was not enough. Because, hell, this isn’t a one-night stand for me.

  “And if we don’t put it behind us, we’d put it in front of us?” she asks, her eyes full of questions.

  Yes. All the way in front of us, forever and fucking ever.

  But that wayward thought stays locked up. “The way I see it is you have two more scenarios to play out,” I say, because maybe that’s the way to navigate through what this is—focus on the research. Yes, this new twist in the experiment is how I can have a little more of her for now, and still have her friendship when it ends. Because it will end. That’s a fact of life.

  She lifts a brow, intrigued, it seems. “What are you saying? That you want to try more scenes?” The words come out measured, but less awkward. We’re returning to common ground.

  I try to keep the mood light, hoping that works. “I don’t think we’re quite done, are we? I bet the book doesn’t end with panty shredding.”

  Her lips twitch, as if she’s holding in a grin. “Or panty shredding that led to sex.”

  “To amazing sex,” I correct.

  She shakes her head, tsking. “No, Tristan. It was earth-shattering sex.”

  “I stand corrected. Happily corrected.” I square my shoulders, pride thrumming through me. “Maybe we should make sure some of the other scenes work too? And that they’re just as toe-curling?”

  She licks her lips, lifts her chin, then waves a hand, erasing the awkwardness. “Exactly. This doesn’t have to change anything. I mean, c’mon,” she says, nudging me with her elbow. “We kissed before, and we’re still friends. We can totally screw and still be friends, right?”

  And that’s a nick to my heart, a small cut with the friends-with-benefits knife. But I can stanch the bleeding. Been there, done that, have the T-shirt.

  Besides, I do want to be friends.

  Always.

  “Peyton, we’re friends. Nothing is going to change that.”

  “Not even a couple experiments, right? And maybe we just needed to get that out of our systems?” Her tone is lighter now. Gone is the trembling lip, the knot of emotions. Maybe I imagined them.

  “Considering it was ten years in the making, we might need to get it out of our systems more than once.”

  Her eyebrows wiggle. “Good point. Once for every three point three three years?”

  I laugh to cover up the hole in my heart. “So, two more experiments and we’re all clear?”

  She taps her chin, like she’s deep in thought. “Sounds about right.”

  Sounds like all I’ll get.

  And since I’m still starving, I’ll take what I can get for now. I’ll take one more kiss for the road too. I move in closer, cup her cheeks, and kiss her, trying to tell her with my lips all the things I can’t and won’t say.

  I want so much more of you.

  Once will never be enough.

  Don’t break my heart.

  As my lips sweep over hers, she melts against me, kissing me back like she’s saying all the same things.

  But I’m probably just imagining it.

  When I break the kiss, I make my best effort to zoom in on the task at hand. “So, doctor of romance novels, what tests are we running next?”

  Maybe I’ve finally said the right thing, because she smiles at me, all flirty and coy again. “I have two things in mind.”

  “Do tell.”

  She stands on tiptoes, whispers in my ear, and I groan as the flash of images in my mind turns wildly pornographic.

  “Same time tomorrow?” she asks.

  “Yes.” I turn away from her, grab my jeans and shirt, and get dressed.

  She taps on my shoulder, looking like a naughty vixen. “But we didn’t finish tonight’s test. I know you need to go, but this is all in the name of romance science.”

  “Science is cool,” I say as she scurries to her bureau, grabs a pair of lacy panties, and pulls them on. She tugs up her shirt, showing me a sexy pair of skimpy black panties. My dick jolts back to skyscraper levels.

  “I love science,” I say as she leans against the wall.

  I stalk over to her, get down on my knees, grab her ass, and bite into the waistband of her panties. I yank them off in one move, as she yelps from the tear of the fabric.

  I stare at the lace tatters on the floor, and then at her face wearing an expression of utter delight.

  She snaps a photo of the carnage for her blog.

  But when I leave, I keep thinking the lace won’t be the only thing ripped to pieces when this experiment runs its course.

  23

  PEYTON

  The Lingerie Devotee: Definitely Do This at Home

  Blog entry

  I can’t believe I am writing this.

  I feel like such a traitor.

  An utter turncoat to all I hold dear in the world of lingerie. But I suppose I must do what all good bloggers do at some point.

  Come clean.

  It is my turn now to confess, and as much as I should hang my head in shame, I refuse to.

  Because, ladies and gents, having your lover tear off your panties with his teeth is exquisitely erotic.

  Even if it breaks my heart to see this little darling in shreds. These lacy numbers are delicate. Luckily I held up intact, without a tear or a scratch. But they didn’t. See? Look what became of my sexy black lace panties.

  How could I do this to them?

  Yet there is something deliciously carnal in this scenario. It’s animalistic in a way—tearing off someone’s underthings with your bare teeth. And that’s what works about the scene. Sure, it can be a bit camp if you let it. But if you set the mood, play the right music, and wear something sensual, then you just might find yourself aroused in all new ways.

  Now, to be clear, I’m not simply saying this so you’ll come to my shop and buy more panties.

  I’m saying this because I want you to feel as good as I felt last night.

  Everyone should feel as good as I felt. Last night was the pinnacle of sensations.

  And if you decide to reenact this particular scene, do follow this piece of advice: commit.

  Have your lover get on his knees, grab your rear, and then treat your panties like a piece of steak.

  Trust me on this.

  Because chances are, your pleasure won’t end there. It’ll last all night long.

  Xoxo

  The Lingerie Devotee

  Find me at You Look Pretty Today on Madison Avenue

  24

  PEYTON

  I toss the birdie into the air, raise my racket, and serve it over the net. It soars. My mom lunges for it, smacks it back. I dive for the prize, whacking it underhand and up over the net again.

  Fast and furious as always, she reaches for it and lobs it to me.

  Back and forth we go for another several minutes until she misses.

  I thrust my arms in the air. “Badminton champion in da house!”

  She rolls her green eyes. “Yes, as a former high school badminton winner, you should take pride that you can beat your fifty-five-year-old mother.”

  I tut her. “Mom. You’re fifty-six.”

  She swats me on the butt with her racket. “And there are ten more spankings where that came from if you say my age again.”

  “Oh please, you don’t look a day over fifty-five.”

  Her racket connects with my rear again as we leave the badminton court, wishing good luck to the next pair ready to tackle the sport.

  “You are a most impudent child,” she says.

  “I’m the worst.” I shrug happily. Because I am happy. Happily counting down the hours till I see Tristan again.

  Six hours and fifteen minutes. Tonight can’t arrive soon enough, but at the same time, I’m more wary than I was before. Because I don’t know where we stand. I couldn’t read him, couldn’t tell what he wanted, if he was feeling the same new and wondrous connection I was.

  Does he only want to be friends with benefits? Friends who needed to get a little lust out of their systems?

  Part of me fervently wishes he felt more. But anything more is too risky, so I shouldn’t even contemplate such possibilities.

  “You okay? You drifted off there,” Mom asks, breaking my reverie as we exit the badminton club.

  “Of course,” I say, quickly collecting my thoughts. “Just thinking about an order I placed this morning. For a second, I thought I forgot something in it,” I say, fashioning a cover-up for my wandering mind.

  “Is business going well with this new blog series? I know it’s early days, but can you tell?”

  “There is definitely an uptick in sales,” I say with a smile as we head to our favorite cafe for Sunday lunch. “It definitely seems to be helping bring a little more attention to the shop. Even Jay and his wife are getting into it,” I say, mentioning my brother.

  “Your brother is wearing lingerie now? To each his own.”

  I laugh. “Who knows? But check out this text from him.”

  Jay: In case you’re wondering, the guy who placed the order for three new bustiers this morning was me.

  Peyton: You’re going to look so pretty in that leopard print one especially.

  Jay: Thanks. I was hoping it’d match my skin tone.

  Jay: Also, they’re for Holly.

  Peyton: Yeah, I figured. What with them being a petite and all. Unless you planned to wear the bustier on your leg.

  Jay: Make that your next blog post. Unusual uses for lingerie.

  Peyton: Maybe you should write it for me.

  Jay: I’ll have it to you this evening. No photos though.

  Peyton: Consider that a general rule of thumb for you, dear brother of mine.

  Jay: Duly noted. Also, rush shipping please. As in overnight.

  Peyton: They’re already with Fedex. Good luck making babies!

  Jay: Was it that obvious?

  Peyton: Yes.

  I close the text app. “Maybe you’ll have grandkids soon, thanks to my blog.”

  She gazes heavenward and clasps her hands. “Please let my daughter’s blog inspire my son to give me grandkids to spoil.” Then she looks to me. “I’m glad the blog is working so well. It’s hard to look away from it, after all. You’re really putting it all out there.”

  I turn to meet her gaze as we reach the next block, curious what she means. “I am?”

  “Yes, it’s incredibly open and honest. Readers and customers are connecting with that, I imagine.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I have to wonder if Tristan is too. He must be.”

  I tense. “How should he connect with it?”

  She stops outside the cafe. “How do you want him to connect with it? That’s the question.” Her eyes lock with mine, overwritten with motherly wisdom.

  I swallow roughly. “Mom . . . is it obvious?”

  She smiles softly, petting my hair. “That you have feelings for him?”

  I wince, then admit the truth, since she’s seen through me already. “Yes.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” She wraps an arm around me and tugs me close. “It’s obvious to me because I know you so well. I know who you are, what you want, what you need.”

  “And what is that?” I whisper.

  “You want love. Great, beautiful, soul-searing love.”

  “Mom, stop,” I say, as my heart catches in my throat. “That’s too much.”

  She runs her fingers down my cheek. “You’ve always wanted that. And you’ve always trusted so easily. That’s why it hurt so much when Gage showed his true colors—because you did love him. You did trust him. And he broke everything that mattered to you.”

  “He did.” But my voice doesn’t wobble this time because Gage is in the past. “But I’m over him. I’ve completely moved on.”

  “I can tell completely,” she says with that sage look only a mom can give.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Because you’re falling for your best guy friend, and anyone who knows you the slightest bit can see it.”

  I freeze as cymbals clang in my ears. As she bangs the gong. I could deny it. I could backpedal. But I am cellophane to her, and always have been.

  “How?” I press. “How is it obvious?”

  She looks to the blue sky, then recites my own words. “I’m saying this because I want you to feel as good as I felt last night. Everyone should feel as good as I felt. Last night was the pinnacle . . .”

  “You can’t just quote me back to me.”

  “But I can, and I did.”

  “That was about—” I cut myself off before I say “sex” because I can’t just admit to my mom that we had sex.

  She laughs deeply. “Wait! Do you think I couldn’t read between the lines? Sweetheart, I know you slept with him.”

  My jaw drops, and I am the definition of aghast. “Mom!”

  She waves off my outrage. “I don’t know that everyone else could tell you have feelings for him. But it seemed obvious to me.”

  “It did?” I ask, worry striking a chord in my heart. Could he tell? “Do you think he knows?”

  “I’m not sure. Men don’t always see what women see. And certainly not what mothers see. But I know you, and I’ve seen you with him. Like I said, there’s a vibe.” She pauses, searches my face. “But what did you think would happen when you decided to experiment like this with a man who’s longed for you for a long while?”

  I jerk my head, like she’s speaking in limericks. “Longed for me?”

  She sighs. “Peyton. You two—you have this thing.”

  I shake my head, denying, vehemently denying. “It’s just chemistry, that’s all. He doesn’t want more. He said as much last night,” I say, recalling the punch to the heart at his words. You mean the world to me. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose our friendship.

  That’s what matters most to him—keeping the status quo.

  And it matters to me.

  “And I don’t want to lose him,” I continue. “Mom, don’t you see? There’s too much at stake.”

  She takes a deep breath, nodding. “What are you going to do, then? Stop these experiments?”

  I glance away. “Yes, soon.”

  She chuckles. “After you sleep with him again?”

  I cover my ears. “Mom, stop talking about sex.”

  She removes my hands from the sides of my head, laughing. “Sweetheart, be careful. Or be bold. But you can’t have both.”

  But she’s wrong. I can be bold and I can be cautious. I know how to protect my heart, and it’s by using my head. Last night, Tristan and I set the boundaries for our explorations. We picked an end date. We decided on the agenda.

  We used our heads.

  There.

  Besides, we both want the same thing—to come out on the other side the way we started.