I can’t have a future with her, but maybe I can rewrite the past. “I wanted to see you again, Juliet.”

  She inhales, exhales, like she needs more breath for this. “Yeah?” There’s hope in her voice. Such a dangerous thing.

  “I did,” I say, with regret in mine. “But what could we do? I was moving across the country to New York.”

  “And I wasn’t,” she says, wistful.

  I could stop this conversation, but maybe we need this—an admission that it ended too soon, before either of us wanted it to. Since we reconnected when I returned to San Francisco, we’ve been friends and co-workers, but we never truly acknowledged that week.

  “I couldn’t string you along,” I add.

  She says nothing. Just sort of hums thoughtfully.

  “I wanted to though. Not string you along. But see you more. Again and again,” I say into the reflection, forcing myself to face the truth of how I felt back then. I felt so much more than I told her. Than I told anyone.

  “Me too. I wanted that too.”

  My heart thumps, missing what never happened. But at least that week no longer hangs unspoken between us. I squeeze her hand tighter. “How’s your head?”

  “A little better. You mobilized quickly to heal me.”

  “I hated to see you sick. I want to make it better.”

  She smiles. “The doctor in you.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not the doctor in me,” I say, firm and clear.

  She takes off the mask, sets it on the pillow, turns her gaze to me. “No?”

  My breath hitches. Her bright eyes on me are turning me inside out. “It’s just you.”

  She sighs softly, then curls up in my arms. “How was it? Seeing your dad?”

  I snort. Then scoff. “He wants me to give a speech at his retirement party this weekend.”

  “Will you?”

  “I said yes,” I say. “And he invited everyone. All our friends.” Wait. She probably knows that. He said his assistant invited her. But what if I could do it first? “Have you checked your email?” I ask with some urgency.

  “No.”

  “Good.” I don’t want him to be the one to invite her. That RSVP belongs to me and me alone. “He’s going to invite you, but I want to instead.”

  “So you’re beating him to the punch?”

  “Yes. Will you go with me?”

  She hums, then shoots me a quizzical look. “Will you be pretending to be one of my dates?”

  I growl. Then knit my brow. Then breathe hard through my nostrils.

  She laughs. “That’s a no.”

  Damn straight. “Go with me. Just me.”

  “I’ll go with you. Just you.”

  I wrap my arm more tightly around her, tugging her against the crook of my neck. “I got you flowers too.”

  “I saw. I put them in a vase in the kitchen. That was sweet of you. They’re fiery.”

  Like you. I saw them and thought of you. Everything makes me think of you. But I can’t say any of that, or I’d be a dick who can’t back up those words. Instead, I keep my reply simple. “The guy ahead of me in the store was getting flowers. That reminded me the market had them.”

  There. I’m not totally revealing I’m obsessed with her.

  “I like them. And the body spray and the bath bomb. And I know I’ll like the sandwich.”

  And that was a lot of gifts. Might as well slap a billboard on me that says I’m too into you. “Funny story. The guy who was buying the bouquet was also buying a box of cereal,” I say, deflecting once more.

  “Someone was optimistic,” she says, amused.

  “That’s exactly what I thought when I saw it,” I say, then kiss her forehead. Fuck it. “And I couldn’t wait to tell you.”

  Soon, I undo my slacks and take off my shirt and stay the night with her.

  In the morning, when she’s off doing yoga, I finish painting. Then, I get ready to take her on a date as Dashiell.

  That guy has no idea how lucky he is.

  23

  NEVER BEEN KISSED

  Juliet

  At the go-kart check-in counter that afternoon, I peer at the wooden sign listing the rules, then touch my wrist.

  Shoot.

  I turn to Monroe. Or Dashiell I should say. “I didn’t bring a hair tie,” I say with a wince. One of the rules is Tie up long hair or tuck it into your collar.

  “No problem,” he says, in a kind of hipster cool that matches the outfit. He’s decked out in jeans and a plaid button-down, left open over a white T-shirt. The cuffs are rolled up on the button-down, showing off those forearms I can’t ignore. With his ink, he definitely looks the part of the cool, laidback brewer. He reaches into the pocket of his jeans, fishing around. “Here you go,” he says, handing me a black elastic hair tie.

  My lips part in surprise. “You brought one?”

  He gives a no-big-deal shrug. “Scanned the rules last night when I found the place. Wanted to make sure we could do it.”

  Instant grin. “Thank you,” I say, then loop it around my hair. With that done, and helmets in hand, we head to the outdoor track. “Thanks again for paint⁠—”

  But I stop myself. He’s not Monroe, who finished the bedroom this morning while I was out. He’s Dashiell, the ball-playing brewer who likes dogs and deep conversations, and I’m supposed to use this first date to practice my getting-to-know-him skills for a grade. I backpedal and try again. “So, are you a big fan of go-karting?”

  Ugh. That’s so basic. I need to talk better on this first date.

  “I’ve gone a few times. But what about you? This is your first time?” he asks quickly—no, smoothly—shifting gears.

  Sheepishly, I nod. “Yes. It is.”

  He stops in his tracks. “Shit. My bad. I should have asked you first.”

  Whoa. He’s playing the sensitive brewer. Interesting. Kind of clever. “It’s okay,” I reassure. “I like trying new things.”

  He hooks a thumb toward the parking lot. “You positive? We can do something else. Mini golf, roller skating. There’s a sweet roller rink a few towns over that plays retro tunes.”

  Like the kind you like?

  But I can’t say that since he’s not being Monroe right now. “I swear I’m good with this.”

  He wipes his brow exaggeratedly. “Whew.” We reach the track. “Now, I don’t want to be a mansplainer or anything, so just kick me in the shins if I get toxic. But here are a few good guidelines,” he says, and I fight like hell to rein in a grin. He’s nailing the emotionally aware side of this guy. I’m not even sure the real Dashiell is this thoughtful. Or that there were green flags in his bio to suggest he was. But it’s endearing to see Monroe play this part, so I listen as he shares some tips.

  Then I strap on my helmet and hop into the go-kart.

  An hour later, I’m beaming as I rip off my helmet. “That was so fun,” I say, pulse still racing as I offer Monroe/Dashiell a high-five.

  “You did great. You’re a natural,” he says, smacking back. He gives a hopeful smile. “Burger and a brew?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  We head to the outdoor burger shack next to the go-karts, then grab a picnic table once we have our food—a veggie burger for me, and a chicken patty for him.

  We shoot the breeze for a bit as we nosh, then he sets down the remains of his sandwich and asks, “So, you’re a breakup party planner? That’s fascinating. How’d you get into that?”

  I reach for a napkin, then wipe the corner of my mouth. “I’d always loved celebrations growing up. Any kind of party was my jam. But I didn’t know exactly what it would entail, so after I spent the summer working in a bookstore and sending out my resume, I landed a more typical job at a marketing firm.”

  The summer I met you again.

  “Then I got kind of lucky with a client,” I add.

  “How so?”

  “She was a party planner who wanted us to market her on social media. I worked with her closely and she took me under her wing and became a mentor of sorts when I was ready to make the jump to do it on my own. At first, I thought I would do the more typical events—award ceremonies, graduation parties, fancy birthday fiestas. But I did one divorce party, and I was hooked. All because of the guests. The women had the best time.”

  We’re surrounded by other go-karters at picnic tables, but the way Monroe’s eyes are locked on mine, it’s as if we’re the only ones here. “Was that the moment you knew it was what you wanted to do?” he asks.

  I can still recall that party at a wine bar, the camaraderie, the sheer friendship and support palpable in the room. “Absolutely. It felt right,” I say, enthused by the memory. “I started to plan more parties and then it just took off.”

  “What kinds of breakup parties do your clients want?”

  “I’ve done so many kinds. I did a party where the guest of honor wanted to redecorate her home. We started by putting paper on her walls and her guests wrote their wishes for the next phase of her life. It was kind of beautiful,” I say, emotion gripping my throat briefly as I picture that party and the women who came together to help their bestie move on to the next phase of her life. “Another was a makeover theme. We hired makeup artists and all the guests had super glam makeup done and then went out to sing karaoke in their best sparkly outfits.”

  His smile is as festive as that night was. “And did that help her move on?”

  Proudly, I nod. “I actually had lunch with that client a few weeks ago. She met a new man and she’s happily dating again.”

  Like me.

  At least, I’m happily dating now. As in…this second.

  Because this is the best date I’ve been on in a long time. So good in fact, that I call a timeout. “Jumanji.”

  Monroe dips his face, chuckling. When he raises it, he doesn’t look any different though. But what did I expect? A transformation? “Yes, Juliet?”

  Ah, there’s that controlled, dry sense of humor I know so well. “I’m having a good time. Dashiell is so open and interested. Attentive and curious,” I say, trying to figure out what’s going on.

  “And what’s the problem?”

  “I don’t actually see this guy’s flags?”

  Monroe nods a few times, his expression hard to decipher. With a sigh, he shrugs. “I stopped acting half an hour ago.”

  “You…did?”

  “I never heard the story of how you started your business, so I guess I got into it. Broke character.”

  Warmth floods my chest. Chased by something deeper. An affection that feels big and boundless. “You were just enjoying my story?”

  “Don’t say that like it’s such a surprise,” he says.

  I rewind to the beginning of the Dashiell date. “Were you role-playing at the start with the hair tie?”

  His eyes blaze. They’re almost hard. “No. That was me. I don’t fucking know if this guy would remember to get you a hair tie. But I would, so I got it last night.”

  It comes out rough and intense like sandpaper, and yet it has the opposite effect on me. It feels like sweet heat, and it melts me. I can’t resist him. I lean in for a kiss, then catch myself just seconds before my lips brush his. “I didn’t mean to break the rules⁠—”

  “But I do,” he says, curling a hand around my head.

  Kissing me hard.

  Passionately.

  He grips my face, murmuring against my mouth, groaning.

  God, the sound is so borderline feral that I surrender. I lean my head back, and he reads all my cues, dipping his face and kissing my throat right next to my ladybug necklace.

  Before I know it, I’m moaning in a way that’s quite inappropriate for an outdoor burger shack. I maneuver a hand between us, pressing it to his chest.

  He stops the kiss with a hard shudder. A dark look in those blue eyes. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, and we race out to the parking lot.

  Once we’re in his car, he can’t keep his hands off me. He’s kissing me ravenously, like he’ll go mad if he can’t touch me.

  I’ve never been kissed like this, and I don’t want to be kissed any other way again. I can’t keep my hands off him either. One palm slides down his firm chest. The other travels to the steel outline in his jeans.

  Monroe lets out a heady breath as I stroke him. Then headier as I grip his hard length. I should wait till we’re back at the house. But I’m so keyed up that I rub my hand harder, driven by his grunts, his groans.

  And by this new desire gaining speed inside me. It’s a desire I rarely feel, but it’s consuming me now as I fondle his covered cock.

  He breaks the kiss, grabs my chin. “What are you doing to me?”

  I smile. Maybe a little wickedly. But also…boldly. “Well, I was definitely hoping to do something to you.”

  He lifts a brow in question. “What’s that?”

  I palm him some more, drawing out more of those needy grunts. “I have this thing…”

  “Okay?”

  “I haven’t really loved giving blow jobs ever, but I’m definitely into your cock.”

  His eyes widen in surprise. I’m not sure if it’s over the blow job admission or my avid interest in his dick, but I power on. “And I’d like to suck you. But…”

  He swallows, then asks in a careful, controlled voice. “But what?”

  There’s no pressure in his tone, just the razor’s edge of curiosity.

  I flashback to Monday morning when he teased me about bike riding. “You said the other day you were good at teaching. And, fine, we were talking about riding bikes, but it got me to thinking, especially since this whole—” I stop before I say experiment. This thing feels like so much more, and yet it is just that. “Since this experiment is about teaching.”

  A dark cloud passes over his eyes, but quickly it fades, replaced by a flickering flame. “And…?”

  Chin up. No shame. “I want you to teach me to give a blow job you’d really like, but one I’d like too. Would you be my blow-job coach?”

  He guns the engine, while I seize the moment, plugging in my phone and calling up a tune.

  In seconds, Akinyele’s “Put It In Your Mouth” blasts through the air-conditioned car.

  Monroe drives faster—maybe too fast. He whizzes past a sign for a road construction detour and then slams on the brakes as we hurdle toward the blockade.

  24

  LOLLIPOP TEACHER

  Monroe

  “Fuck me,” I groan from the center of my law-abiding soul. Okay, mostly law-abiding. There were those months in college when I hosted an underground poker game. But the money I nabbed from the rich frat guys? Worth the risk.

  In the rearview mirror, a big, bearded guy in a hard hat and orange vest trudges toward me, his expression stern as a school principal’s behind aviator shades. Shit. “I should get my license and registration,” I say.

  Juliet ends the racy song but gives me a doubtful look. “They don’t need license and registration at a construction site,” Juliet whispers, gently rubbing my arm in apology.

  “Right, right,” I say, shaking my head then peering behind me. The guy looks pissed.

  “But still, I’m sorry,” she adds.

  I wave a hand dismissively, exonerating her. “I’ll take a thousand pissed-off dudes. Hell, I’ll take a thousand speeding tickets for being your⁠—”

  I swallow blow-job coach, instead flashing a smile at the man frowning into my window.

  “Did you miss the sign back there, buddy?” Doesn’t sound like we’re buddies.

  “I must have,” I say, contrite.

  He flaps an arm toward said sign. “It did say slow down. We do work here.”

  And I am an asshole. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

  He peers through the open window again, all business. “No one was hurt, but maybe it’s time for you to stop texting and driving, ya hear me?”

  I wasn’t texting. I was racing to have my dick sucked.

  I give him an apologetic smile. “Yes, sir. I will.”

  Briefly, I weigh what to say next. Obviously, I deserve the reprimand, but I also need to know whether to turn around and go back the way we came or drive around those cones up ahead.

  Then, my own voice fills the car.

  “And this is your host Monroe Blackstone right along with Juliet Dumont on⁠—”

  What the heck? That’s our last episode of the podcast. Juliet jumps to stab the end button on the display. “My bad, sorry!”

  The construction worker whips off his shades, studies me, studies her. Then, in slow motion, his frown turns upside down. “Oh man! Seriously? Seriously? It’s Heartbreakers and Matchmakers in the flesh?” He taps his chest. “Big fan of the pod. And I’m telling you, I called it.” He’s punching the air triumphantly. “I can’t wait to tell my woman.”

  I’ve never been recognized. Based on the way Juliet’s jaw is hanging open—a good look—she hasn’t either.

  “That’s great! We’re so happy you like the show,” she says, quickly recovering.

  He points at her excitedly. “We placed bets, too, on the poet date last week.” He curls his hands around the open window. “What happened with Mister Likes to Discuss Song Lyrics and Grapes? Was it a combo date? An extend-a-date? Gimme the tea.”

  A laugh bursts from Juliet. “He told me I was too old. Even though I’m only thirty and he was over forty.”

  The construction worker flubs his lips. “What a dick.”

  “I know, right,” she says, so good with people. “But, tell the truth—did you bet against me?”

  He sets his hand on his chest. “No way. Honestly, Dara and I both bet on you. You’re the reason we’re together,” he adds, sweetly.

  I tilt my head. “Is that so?”