I repeat my mantra in my head: Friendship and lingerie. Lingerie and friendship.

  After we finish lunch, I say goodbye, then head to WildCare where I volunteer, helping them with their mission to rehab injured birds and other wildlife. As I clean the facility, I compose a series of text messages in my head to Amy, smiling to myself as I devise ways to needle her and wind her up.

  Texting Amy will be a fantastic way to pass the time this afternoon.

  When I’m done, I walk through the park, tapping out a message to her.

  Peyton: Hey, girl! You know that bathing suit I was going to wear to test out bathtub sex?

  Amy: The royal-blue bikini with the white stripe? That’s ghost-pepper hot, so be careful. You might ignite flames in the tub. Best for me to bring you a black Speedo and a bathing cap. Wait. You’ll still look good in a Speedo, you mermaid. New plan—I’m going to bring you one of those full-body bathing suits they wore in those old-timey shots.

  Peyton: I’m wearing something besides a bathing suit tonight.

  Amy: *waits with bated breath* *stares at phone* *googles waterproof clothing options* *decides a rain slicker that goes to your ankles is what you mean*

  Peyton: Nothing. I’m wearing nothing.

  Three, two . . .

  And before I can count down to one, my phone rings.

  “Explain yourself, and leave no dirty stone unturned. Must know everything,” she demands as I walk along the picturesque Terrace Bridge in the middle of the park, enjoying the early golds and bright reds of fall.

  I smile, delighting in the memories of last night that are still wildly vivid. “We might have moved on to a new style of testing. Call it more hands-on research.”

  She shrieks. “Where are you? I need to see you. I need to see your face as you share every gloriously filthy detail with me.”

  “In the park.”

  “What side?”

  “Why? Are you going to triangulate me?”

  “Yes. I bet you’re heading home after WildCare. I’m on the east side. I’ll meet you at that cake shop I like on Park Avenue. Be there in fifteen minutes, ready to divulge every salacious detail.”

  “Cake shop you like? Ames, you’re going to need to narrow it down. You like every cake shop.”

  “I am very picky with cake, and you know it. Meet me at the newest Sunshine Bakery. I will gather Lola, and you will be prepared to narrate a scandalous new tell-all.”

  With a slice of chocolate cake and a cup of tea, I give my confession, but I don’t ask for absolution.

  I don’t ask for anything, because right now, I’m still basking in the afterglow.

  My friends, however, clearly want something.

  “Well, what do you think?” I ask when I finish.

  Lola fans a hand in front of her face. “I think I need to see who’s available tonight in my little black book. I might need to reenact your sex life.”

  “Come to think of it, maybe I should hire you to write a hot new line of naughty books,” Amy says, but quickly she clears her throat. “But, Peyton . . .”

  Those two words hang heavily in the air, signaling advice to come. Warnings I don’t want to hear or heed.

  “Guys, I’m fine,” I say, cutting off her words to the wise before they arrive.

  “I didn’t even say anything yet,” Amy says, holding up her hands in surrender.

  “Listen, my mother already warned me. Be careful and all that. I am careful, I swear. I promise,” I say, practically pleading with them to see this my way—the have my cake and eat it too way. “I just . . . want this. I know we can manage this. We made a plan. We’ll finish out the tests and return to friendship. We did this before. Don’t you remember?”

  Lola furrows her brow, flinching. “You’re not actually comparing a kiss at a college dance to sleeping with him?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am,” I say, because I have to. I have to see this the same way. No, I choose to. “We returned to friendship. It was no problem at that time. We’ll do it again.”

  “That was different,” Lola says firmly. “That was one kiss. This is sex. And it sounds like it’s not just sex for either one of you.”

  But that’s where she’s wrong.

  It’s. Just. Sex.

  It has to be.

  That evening, I run a bath, drop in a bath bomb, and strip. I gave him a key last night, so right on time, he raps on the open bathroom door, walks into the steamy room, and finds me covered in bubbles, ready for the next test.

  25

  TRISTAN

  On Sunday morning, I swing by a farmer’s market I like, pick up some goodies, and grab coffee with some of my friends in the business. When I’m done, I pop back home, make lunch for my brother, and proofread his English paper on themes in dystopian literature. He finishes, turns it in online, then tells me he’s going to join me at the gym for an afternoon workout.

  I flinch, surprised. Barrett’s not a gym guy. But I don’t ask. I’m just glad he wants to exercise. On the treadmill, he jogs and texts and makes Instagram videos. At least I think that’s what he’s doing. His thumb-speed belongs in record books.

  On the way home, we chat about college apps. “Is NYU still your first choice?” I ask, since he changes his mind frequently.

  “I think so. The science department is good, and so is the English department.”

  I smile. “You don’t have to know what you want to major in.”

  “Good. Because every day it changes.”

  “And that’s okay,” I say as we turn onto Madison Avenue.

  “I also like Williams College. And Rutgers,” he says, although he doesn’t sound too enthused about those options.

  “But?”

  He shrugs. “Dunno. Guess I just want to be in New York.” He offers me a small smile, and in it I see what he’s not saying—he wants to be closer to home, closer to his friends.

  I clap him on the back. “I’d love to have you in New York. But wherever you want to go is good with me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, of course. I want you to be happy.”

  He shakes his head. “No, I mean, you’d want me in New York?”

  I laugh, and it turns into a scoff. “Yeah, I would. Not only do I love you, but I like you too, you little punk.”

  He doesn’t answer, just smiles, and that’s answer enough.

  When we pass Peyton’s shop, which is closed on Sundays, my eyes drift briefly to the display. There’s an emerald-green teddy, and I picture her in it, chatting about Amy’s new project while she puts on her makeup before going out with the girls. Or in that dark-purple pair of pajama shorts, standing in my kitchen, drinking coffee and trying to convince me to install an archery range at the restaurant. And in that right there—the leopard-print bra—laid out on the bed, waiting for me, tonight, tomorrow night, every night.

  I blink the visions away. They’re too powerful, too potent for me to linger on.

  I look across the street, a block ahead of us, where I find a couple of guys on ladders removing the banner in front of Harriet’s store.

  And that’s an image she’ll love.

  The sale is over, and my first thought is I can’t wait to tell her when I see her in a few more hours.

  Barrett leaves first, taking off for play practice. A little later, I’m on my way to Peyton’s, walking uptown, when Barrett texts me.

  Barrett: Just gotta ask. You can read, right?

  Tristan: Yes. You can speak without using sarcasm, right?

  Barrett: Wrong. Back to my point, you’re reading these blogs, right?

  Tristan: The food ones? You know I’m a food blog fanboy. Of course I read my favorites. Just a few minutes ago, I found an awe-inspiring recipe for a jalapeño-drenched burger in sriracha sauce. Want one later?

  Barrett: Obviously I do. I want two. But I’m not talking about what you’re drenching burgers in.

  Tristan: Aren’t you at play practice?

  Barrett: Aren’t you at love practice?

  Tristan: It’s a project to help a friend grow her business, and it’s working. See? I’m a magnanimous soul, supporting her in all her endeavors.

  Barrett: Wow. This is going to be harder than I thought. Do you really believe that?

  Tristan: Hello? Play practice?

  Barrett: It’s called a break. I’m taking one, and I’m texting you.

  Tristan: Then I’ll take a break from the sarcasm as I walk to Peyton’s. I always love hearing from you.

  Barrett: Dude, now is not the time to go all bro love on me. What I’m trying to say is this—Henry James said, “To read between the lines was easier than to follow the text.” You need to read between the lines of her blog.

  Tristan: You’re quoting Henry James to me? Your education is worthwhile. God bless lit criticism classes in high school.

  Barrett: Your sarcasm break was record-shatteringly short. Also, you are dodging the point.

  Tristan: Listen, I get what you’re trying to do, and I appreciate it. But you know what happens when you read between the lines? You make something bigger than it is.

  Barrett: This isn’t bigger than it is. This is exactly as big as it is. Time’s up. Back to painting sets. By the way, in my paper, did you notice how dystopian futures are terrifying? And you don’t have to read between the lines to know the hidden message is to live NOW.

  I tuck the phone away as I reach Peyton’s building. I’m sure he’s right about dystopian futures, but that’s not the world we’re living in. This isn’t The Hunger Games, and I don’t need a bow and arrow to get out alive.

  All I need are wits and a healthy sense of reality. I have both.

  Reading between the lines would be as risky as volunteering as tribute. Besides, Peyton isn’t sending me hidden messages in her blog. She’s not writing me anonymous love letters.

  The blog is a marketing vehicle for her store.

  I should know, because it was my fucking idea for her to restart it. To help her store.

  All that stuff she writes in it about wanting and craving and feeling as good as she felt last night—that exists in black and white to drive green.

  Nothing wrong with that.

  She loves that store madly. Cherishes her grandmother’s legacy. Wants to protect it. The Lingerie Devotee is a means to a business end, that’s all.

  I would have to have an ego the size of Casanova’s to think anything else of the tales she tells of late nights with lingerie and me.

  Besides, the woman herself set the rules of engagement when she asked me to be her crash test dummy—I need someone I can practice ripping a shirt off of who’ll also rip off my panties.

  That was it. That was all.

  She needed a willing participant, someone she trusts.

  She’s doing this because of that discount store anyway.

  And with the discount over, the project will end soon too. Not to mention that she only needs five scenes for Amy.

  Best to enjoy tonight for what it is.

  When I reach her place, I laser in on what matters now.

  Figuring out how the hell all those couples in books are banging in the bath.

  Candles flicker on the vanity. Soft music plays from her phone. Steam rises above the tub as she smiles softly from the water. The tiles are cool under my bare feet, but my body temperature is hot, hot, hot from her red hair, slicked back and wet, and the bubbles obscuring her breasts and belly. Her knees poke up.

  “Hi,” she says, and the sound is sweet, inviting.

  “Hey,” I say, drinking in the sight in front of me—this woman waiting for me in the tub.

  Never in my dirty dreams did I imagine I’d walk in on this.

  Maybe because tub sex was never on my fantasy list.

  But it’s on my reality agenda, and I’m so damn glad. Grabbing the bottom of my shirt, I tug it over my head.

  “Look at you. Getting down to business,” she says.

  “Did you want me to do a long, drawn-out striptease? Wait. Don’t answer that.”

  Her tongue lolls out, and she pants like a dog. “Striptease. Yes, please.”

  I shake my head, amused, as I unbutton my jeans. “Hate to break it to you, Gingersnap, but even if you have Chippendales reenactment on your list, I won’t be doing it.”

  She pouts. “Really? Because I was going to add that. Are you sure?”

  I’m not a dirty dancer. I definitely don’t have the moves or the interest in doing a lap dance.

  But when she puts it like that—I’m not sure I’d say no. If she asked me, I’d probably say yes. Fact is, I’d say yes to just about anything for her, only I can’t let on how easy I am.

  I shift the conversation. “Maybe I do need kneepads for this one,” I say, tipping my forehead to the tub.

  She narrows her brow. “Um, do you think you’re going to be on top of me in the tub?”

  As my jeans hit the tiles, my mind assembles the graphic novelization of this scene—in one panel, she’s in the throes of ecstasy. In another, her mouth forms an O in pleasure. In the next one, she’s coming.

  Hmm. Seems that’s as far as I’ve drawn—the endgame, over and over. I didn’t consider the position we’d be in to get there.

  “Because that won’t work,” she adds, gesturing to the tub. “Think about it. Are you just going to bang me while my body is underwater? My head would slam against the back of the tub. Ouch.”

  I kick off the jeans, shed my boxer briefs, and take over the pregame report. “No, Peyton,” I say, walking over to her. “You’re going to ride me. And you’re going to ride me so fucking hard and so fucking good that neither one of us will care how much water we spill over the tub.” Gripping my cock, I run my fist down its length, savoring the wild look in her blue eyes. Her lips part, and she seems to take a shuddering breath as she stares at my dick, transfixed.

  I’d like to say this turning of the tables helps me stay in control of my runaway heart. As if taking the upper hand in our sex play somehow restores my power.

  But it only makes me want her more, since she’s staring at me like I’m all she wants too.

  Then she rises like Aphrodite from the sea, red hair, naked body, beautiful and luminous.

  And for tonight, she’s all mine.

  “Come on in. The water’s nice.”

  I settle into the water, and she scoots around, squeezing in next to me, her bare flesh squeaking loudly against the tub.

  I laugh.

  She chuckles too.

  Somehow she wedges herself into my side, but half her body is above the water now.

  She frowns. “This is cozy.”

  But it doesn’t sound like cozy is good. “And that’s a strike against tub sex.”

  “Call me crazy, but I feel like my tub was designed for one person,” she says, crushing her body closer as she tries to slink under the water more.

  I adjust, making as much room for her as I can, but at six feet and two hundred pounds, I can’t exactly suction myself into a smaller size. “I think most tubs were meant for one, but we’re doing this. We’re not backing down,” I say, playing the hard-assed personal trainer who won’t take no on the final crunch.

  She stares sharply at me. “Did I say I was backing down?”

  “Seems like it, since you’re trying to lie next to me. Get on me, woman,” I say, reaching for her waist and pulling her on top.

  Her eyes widen as I position her, helping her straddle me in the tiny space.

  Her knees slip, and she falls forward, collapsing on my chest. She laughs, pushing up.

  “Kind of a dork, aren’t you?” I tease.

  “You try this. See if you can do it.”

  “I am trying this. And I want this. But I need you to want this too. I need you so damn slippery and wet that you don’t care about anything else but fucking me hard.”

  She gasps, her shoulders shaking.

  There. I’ll keep her in the moment.

  I reach for her face, clasp her cheeks, and pull her to me, sealing my lips to hers.

  My plan, such as it is, is to kiss her soft, slow, and tender. Ease her into this position. Let her melt into a kiss so she can settle in this tiny space. But with her naked and wet on top of me, my best-laid plans fly the coop.

  Curling a hand around her head, I haul her in for a fierce, possessive kiss. I kiss her deeply, my lips owning hers, my tongue exploring her sweetness.

  She sinks into the kiss, all passion and surrender.

  My brain goes hazy, and I’m sizzling everywhere in seconds. The kissing, the contact, the music, the water, the scents.

  Dear God, the intoxicating candy-sweet scent of violet, or whatever the bubbles are. Everything goes to my head, and I can’t slow down. I can’t hold back.

  That kiss in college had nothing on this kiss. This kiss blots out every other kiss in the history of the world as I consume her mouth, putting all my heart, all my body, into this moment.

  She moves on me, sliding her pelvis down to mine, kissing me back the whole time.

  Kissing me the way I want to be kissed.

  By her.

  Because hers are the only kisses I want. Fevered and passionate and full of so much . . . emotion?

  I end that train of thought, fight desperately to stop assigning meaning that isn’t there.

  This kiss can’t be full of emotion.

  It can’t be anything but sex and heat and an agenda.