Or in eighth grade when you ran for Chief Fun Officer on a platform of two junior proms, the second one including a carnival, because who doesn’t love a carnival?

  But this idea? This outstanding, fantastic idea that’ll make your dreams come true?

  Watch out, Summer.

  You’re going to end up with a soaking wet bridesmaid’s dress, a swan boat incident you’ll never live down, the disappointment of your entire family, plus the crushing heartbreak you’ve sought to avoid for decades, and also . . . a pole.

  Yes, that kind of pole. The kind of pole everybody whispers about when they see it in someone’s basement. A “Do they really do that with that?” pole.

  I wish I could tell you it’ll all work out.

  But, as I stand here now, clutching the wet remains of the dress while figuring out what to do with this pole, I don’t have an earthly clue how any of this will resolve.

  Because of all the harebrained schemes you’ve whipped up, this one doesn’t just take the cake. It bakes it, frosts it, and serves it up in all its three-tiered, royal-icing glory.

  You’ll look back on other cringeworthy moments in your life—like that time you boldly updated your Twitter feed after four martinis, or your shame over the wrong placement of the apostrophe in ladies’ night—and they will pale in comparison.

  It’s worse, even, than when Mom found you practicing volleyball indoors when you were fourteen.

  In the living room.

  And you had to give up all your allowance to pay for the chandelier.

  And the vase.

  And the picture frames too.

  Of all the things that seemed like good ideas at the time, this letter, this contest, this ruse wins the prize.

  So it’s up to you, Past Me, to avoid this jam we’re in now. Because I don’t have a clue what to do from here.

  Sincerely,

  Future You

  1

  SUMMER

  Ten days ago

  I am about to be busted.

  Embarrassingly so. And—I hang my head in shame—deservedly so.

  But, for the record, I don’t regularly check out guys’ packages.

  That’s not my thing. I don’t really think that’s any woman’s thing. I’m pretty sure gawking at the goods doesn’t rank alongside knitting and candle-making in my female friends’ hobbies. Or, at least, not that they’d admit in public.

  Except . . . I am doing it, and I can’t stop.

  It’s just that . . . seriously? Tiny little bathing suits?

  They’re impossible to look away from.

  I literally have no idea how anyone is not supposed to notice a guy’s, ahem, outline when he gets out of a pool wearing only a Speedo.

  How do Olympic diving judges focus on their job, or women across the beaches of Europe focus on anything else? Clearly, that’s why truly sophisticated European women always wear huge designer sunglasses.

  Since you’re supposed to avert your gaze.

  That’s what I’ve tried to do for the last minute.

  I 100 percent averted my gaze as Oliver reached his sinewy arms for the metal ladder. As he rose out of the water. As he stepped away from the pool.

  Because that’s the proper social protocol.

  But it’s really hard to keep your gaze averted the entire time when you’re having a conversation with a guy while he’s wearing nothing but a Speedo.

  And when he’s dripping wet.

  I mean, all those droplets of water are taking their sweet time sliding down his tanned skin. Along his pecs, over the grooves of his abs, and just a little farther.

  This is resist-tasting-the-cookie-batter hard. This is don’t-sing-along-to-“Bohemian Rhapsody” hard.

  Just. Can’t. Do. It.

  Also, there are extenuating circumstances here in the form of Oliver Harris. His form is an extenuating circumstance.

  Six foot one. Built like the statue of David. Face carved by a sculptor too.

  Did anyone look away when Daniel Craig got out of the water in his first James Bond film?

  I rest my gaze.

  I mean, I rest my case.

  I snap my gaze up, meeting Oliver’s eyes. Those damn green eyes that are twinkling with mischief.

  “So, does that work for you?” I ask, adopting the most casual tone I can. The kind of tone that says, I was so not looking at you as I totally focus on scheduling a get-together to discuss my new business venture.

  His grin twitches.

  Then, my longtime friend, in all his wet, toned, nearly naked glory, simply arches a brow, points to his irises, and dryly says, “You do know my eyes are up here?”

  Dammit.

  Caught red-handed.

  I improvise, pointing to the pool behind him. “I was just looking in the shallow end. I was sure I saw Mrs. Wilson’s rose-gold bracelet at the bottom. She thought she lost it during the water aerobics class I just taught.”

  So plausible. I could invent excuses for a living, surely.

  He nods slowly, an I call bullshit nod. “Right. Did you want to go have a look? Pop into the water? Organize a search party?”

  I tap my chin as if considering all three, then shake my head. “It was just wishful thinking. I looked pretty closely after class.” I sigh forlornly over the missing jewelry.

  Magnanimously, he offers the goggles in his hand. “I insist. It’s Mrs. Wilson’s prized bracelet after all. Let’s have another go, shall we? I’ll help you. We’ll be like scuba divers searching for buried treasure.”

  I’d give him points for holding his ground if he wasn’t holding it against me.

  But I maintain the oh-so-innocent facade as I gesture to my jeans and sky-blue blouse. “No. I’m already dressed for work. Busy day at the residence. Thank you though. I’ll just let Lost and Found know to keep an eye out.”

  He hooks his thumb toward the glistening water. A few solo swimmers power up and down the freestyle lanes. “Want me to jump in? Have a quick check?”

  I wave him off. “No worries. I’ll find it later.”

  “Are you sure? Might give you a better view of my arse. I’d appreciate an appraisal.”

  And the sexy Brit wins the battle of wills.

  I have no choice but to give him the all-the-way-to-Jupiter eye roll. “No need. I made my assessment that time you streaked naked across my backyard when we were sixteen. It’s a five, maybe a six on a good day.”

  He peers over his shoulder at the backside in question, then parks his hands on his hips. “I beg your pardon. This is a top-notch arse here.”

  I cross my arms and chuckle at the way he set up my victory shot. “Yes, indeed. I am definitely checking out a top-notch arse.”

  Like a cartoon character muttering curses, he says under his breath, “Touché, woman. Touché.”

  He steps toward me, shrugs a muscled shoulder, and gives me a smile from his cache of them—this one I’ve dubbed the disarming one. “Truth be told, I don’t mind if you gawk at the crown jewels. I wouldn’t tell you to look away from the works of art if you were at the Louvre.”

  “Less like masterpieces and more like Velvet Elvises and paintings of dogs playing poker.”

  The corner of his lips curves up. Why is it that infuriatingly good-looking men all have lopsided grins? Is it a standard feature when they’re assembled in the too-hot-for-words factory? Is it a custom order, or part of the Unfairly Handsome Package?

  “Summer,” he chides gently. “You’ve been doing it since we were fourteen.”

  Back then, I might have given in to the urge to swat him, but I don’t now. Instead, I grit my teeth, dig my heels in, and remind myself that even though he is the living, breathing embodiment of cocky male in the city, he is also the guy who has saved me many times.

  And I’ve saved him more than once too.

  But at the moment, I need to save face. I march to the nearby bench and grab one of the pieces of white cardboard they call gym towels here. Returning, I hand it to Oliver, raising my chin. “There. Now no one can admire the goods, such as they are.”

  With an I’m about to give it right back to you chuckle, he takes the towel and pointedly refrains from wrapping it around his waist.

  The cheeky fucker.

  He drapes it over his shoulders then saunters to the side of the pool and leans against the wall, beckoning me. I follow, of course, because I need something from him.

  Desperately.

  “Tell me exactly what it is you need me to do this time,” he says. “Escort you to the wedding of a jackass you once dated? Train with you for a 10K to benefit Alzheimer’s? Or just look absolutely fantastic when I get out of the water?”

  I huff. How can he be so endearing and such an ass at the same time? “Do you practice that, Oliver?”

  He arches a brow. “You mean being the knight in shining armor? Or the way I always manage to get your goat?”

  “Both,” I say with a laugh.

  He scratches his jaw. “It’s a unique talent, I suppose. Being devilishly charming at all hours, no matter the circumstances.” Then he tugs me in close, roping an arm around me. A very wet arm, soaking my work shirt. “You know I’m just teasing you. You are literally the most delightful person to tease because I never know what you’ll do. Either you look like you want to clobber me, or you laugh and go along with it. Keeps me on my toes.”

  I wriggle away from him, eyeing the wet splotches on my blouse. “Devil is indeed the appropriate word.”

  “And you’re such an angel?” His green eyes flash me a pointed look.

  “You know I’m not.” I shift gears and gesture toward the women’s locker room. “But I need to get to work. I have to complete some of the final paperwork for the new fitness center, and I’m hoping I might be able to borrow your brain tonight. Pretty please?”

  He rolls with the topic change. That’s the thing about Oliver and me—we’ve worn so many hats with each other that we exchange them with ease. “My brain is always available for the borrowing. See you after work. Can we go to the Melt My Heart place?” He puts his palms together in a plea, adopting a doe-eyed look that makes me laugh.

  “Since when do you like specialty shop franchises you’d normally mock?”

  He affects a serious expression. “I’m considering it for my last-meal list.”

  “You’re back to that?”

  “I was off it for a while, but it amuses me, so I’ve returned to it. Don’t you have things you do that amuse you?”

  I tap his nose. “Yes. Talking to you. See you later.”

  As I head to the women’s locker room, he says my name. “Summer?”

  I turn around.

  He raises an arm, leans to the side, and stretches, his muscles glistening as he moves, his abs looking lickable, his torso gleaming, toned and smooth. “Let me know when you find that missing bracelet. I’m sure Mrs. Wilson is terribly worked up over it.”

  I rein in a revealing smirk, holding tight to my lie. “Of course.”

  He heads to the men’s locker room, and I do not stare at his butt until he leaves my line of sight.

  I do not stare at his butt.

  I do not . . . oh hell, the man just has a great ass.

  Like, Louvre quality.

  It’s only exceeded by his commitment to besting me, since he calls out, “Oh, hello there, Mrs. Wilson. Can I help you find your bracelet? What’s that? You left it in my locker? You naughty bird, you.”

  2

  SUMMER

  I’m about to leave work that evening when I hear the click of a pair of Mary Janes on the hardwood floors.

  The clearing of the most aggrieved throat comes next.

  Then the voice, brimming with consternation at all that she finds wrong in the world—in a nutshell, everything. Literally, everything.

  Look, it’s not like I disagree. The planet has a lot of knocks against it these days. But, glass half full—a lot is right in the world too.

  “Excuse me, Miss Life Enrichment Director.” Roxanne says my title precisely the way such a title should be said—dripping with mockery.

  Because seriously?

  Couldn’t I simply be the Activities Director? Or, if we need to be cutesy, perhaps Lifestyle Leader?

  Nope.

  Sunshine Living has gone over-the-top twenty-first-century workplace in dubbing me Life Enrichment Director. The title is almost as mockable as my friend Bethany’s—she’s the Chief Flavor Officer for a small-batch ice cream shop in the Village. I’m as ripe for ribbing as the guy in my building who is a Sales Ninja at an electronics store.

  I turn around in the hallway of the assisted living home, flashing Roxanne an I’m ready to listen smile.

  I swear the woman gets better with age. Every day she looks more glamorous. Her hair isn’t gray. It’s platinum.

  Her face isn’t wrinkled. It’s wise.

  And I swear her spine is straighter than her gold-tipped cane with the puma head top.

  She stabs her cane against the floor, banging it petulantly. “Summer, I’m bored. Simply, utterly bored.”

  I gesture to the activity room fifty feet away, pasting on my cheeriest grin. “Bingo!” I declare, like I’m announcing a room full of puppies to cuddle. “It starts in ten minutes. It’s going to be a rollicking good time,” I say, even as I wish I could strangle the game of bingo.

  Bingo is an affront to the very idea of fun and games. I wish I could make a bonfire of every bingo card in existence as an atonement for ever offering it as a pastime.

  But bingo is what the boss wants in the Sunshine Living facilities throughout the tristate region, including here on the Upper West Side. “Everyone loves bingo, and no one gets hurt doing it, Summer. Get it going around the clock. Safety first!” he barked when he hired me a year ago.

  It’s hard to enrich the lifestyles of residents when you work for the Stickler in Chief, who refuses to implement anything close to fun. Not since a septuagenarian suffered a Siamese-inflicted injury during a field trip to a local cat shelter. In the cat’s defense, everyone knows petting cats is just asking for a scratch.

  Roxanne fires laser beams from her eyes. “Let me ask you a question, Summer. Are you trying to kill me? No, I’m serious. Do you actually want me to die today? Because bingo is murder.”

  I laugh. “No. Of course not.” Then I glance around, and once I’m certain Travis is nowhere around, I step closer, dropping my voice to a whisper. “But you should know death by bingo sets in after twenty-four hours, so it’s good to avoid it.”

  She chuckles the slightest bit, the sort of inviting laugh that says we’re on the same page. Sort of. “My point exactly. Who in their right mind actually likes bingo? Nobody here wants to play bingo. We only do it because we’re bored. In fact, I’ve already lined up cohorts to protest the never-ending bingo offerings in this place.”

  “The bingo revolt is upon us?”

  She narrows her eyes. “Consider yourself warned.”

  I nod solemnly, then speak from the heart. “Roxanne, I’m trying. I swear, I’m trying.” I don’t add that there’s so much red tape at Sunshine Living that I need a machete to cut my way through the overgrown jungle of bureaucracy here. You don’t go around dumping your work woes on your customers. So I put on my best Happiness Hero hat, and say, “I submitted a number of proposals for new activities. I have some great ideas I want to implement, like Zumba classes, macaron tasting, and Riverside Park walks. I’ve put them in front of the board, and I’m really hoping they approve my plans.”

  My plans rock. They are compelling and well-written, and they spell out all the bennies. Only a total fun-slayer like Travis would shoot them down. But I’m hopeful that the other board members put more stock in common sense and, oh, say, data and research.

  A sliver of a smile seems to tug at Roxanne’s lips. “Zumba, you say?”

  I execute a few zippy Zumba steps. I think my body must be programmed for motion, the way joy whips through me as I demonstrate. “Yes. Have you ever tried it? It’s great for mental and physical health. I outlined some of the key health benefits for the over-fifty set in my proposal. There are so many studies about how good it is for your core.”

  One perfectly groomed silver eyebrow lifts, and mischief flares in Roxanne’s eyes. “And for the libido, I hear.”

  I tuck a strand of blonde hair behind my ear, pausing to consider whether I’d be breaking the rules if I discussed libidos with the residents. Since I don’t know the answer, I respond in an offhand way. “That’s possible too.”

  She raises a make-a-point finger. “Along those lines, you might consider a game of Would You Rather for the residents. Or a Would You Rather bar hop. This hood has some very hip drinking establishments, as you may know.”

  A cough bursts from my chest, and I gesture for her to lower the volume, whispering, “I would be fired if I organized a bar hop.”

  “Please, darling. I’ve been old enough to drink longer than you’ve been alive. Maybe double.”

  She’s probably not wrong. But still. I’m not a drink alchemist or an alcohol tour guide for senior citizens, especially since Travis’s response to a bar hop suggestion would be But we don’t know about any contraindications of the prescription meds our residents are on; ergo, there is no room on the schedule.

  “Would You Rather isn’t a bad idea for a game night in though,” I say diplomatically, doing my best to maintain the requisite chipper attitude.