“And how is this a problem? You can walk down the street and pluck a date off a tree, Jason. This shouldn’t be an issue.”

  “I can’t help it if women find me incredibly charming.” I flash her a grin because it is easier if we keep things light, friendly. “But I must inform you, women don’t grow on trees. If they did, I’d be planting one in my backyard. Hell, I’d sow a whole orchard.”

  “If you do that, I’ll go plant a field full of guys too.”

  “Or you can play in my field.”

  “I’ll have to weed you out first,” she says wryly.

  I lean across the bar to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, taking my time, making sure I get every single strand, especially since she trembles a little as I touch her. “You’d never be able to get rid of me.”

  “I’m feeling that’s the case already.”

  “Seriously, here’s the deal: I desperately need to take a date to the wedding next weekend and to the one after that too.”

  “Put an ad online. Ask one of your many female friends. How hard can it possibly be?”

  I snap my fingers. “Ask a friend. Brilliant idea. Bloody brilliant.” I bat my lashes. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  She flinches, blinking. “Nooooooooo.”

  “We’re not friends? Hmm. I distinctly remember us making a friendship pact . . . albeit after the third orgasm.”

  A faint blush creeps across her cheeks, and it’s completely endearing. She lowers her voice and says, “Yes, we made a pact. Yes, we’ve been friends, even though you’re five years younger,” she mutters playfully. “And we are friends, we intend to stay friends. But . . .”

  “We’re great friends. Who else would conquer the wilds of Manhattan fitness with you? We do martial arts together. I took the obstacle course class with you. You even dragged me along to Punk Rope,” I say, reminding her of one of the many exercise classes she’s enlisted me to join with her.

  “And how much fun did we have jumping rope and doing push-ups? Plus, the obstacle course was a blast.”

  “We did kick ass on the tire run.” I sense an opportunity to remind her that, while we’re not engaging in a repeat horizontal fitness project, we have carved out a spot in the tag-teaming department. “Come along with me to the weddings. We’ll have fun, just like we do as workout buddies. You’d be a fantastic pretend date. Plus, I’m loads of fun, and you want to help a good friend.”

  She stares briefly across the expanse of the bar as if she’s contemplating my proposition while checking out the goings-on in the lounge area. “I’m sure it would be a hoot, but there has to be someone else who’d be better.”

  I look her dead in the eyes, dropping all teasing and jokes. “No. There’s not. I can’t have this business go belly-up. It requires complete discretion, and I need somebody I trust. Somebody I know. I can’t have it seeping over into the Modern Gentleman world. Potential clients might not be thrilled to know I’m an advice columnist by day and a paid best friend by night.”

  “You really think it’d be an issue?”

  “I don’t want to take the chance. How can I be the guy giving tips to other men on how to present themselves well, impress a boss with the best version of themselves, when at night I’m pretending to be Jay, who’s Peter the groom’s best friend from uni, only I met him a few days ago? But hey, I gave that rad toast. That’s why I need somebody by my side who understands how important the gig is for me and for Abby,” I say.

  Truly hangs her head. “It’s not fair to play the little sister card.”

  “But it’s true. I just need to get through these jobs this summer, and I’ll be nearly done with the last of the bills.”

  Truly’s dark eyes seem to light up. “Seriously? You really have earned enough to put her through medical school?”

  I straighten my shoulders, proud of this accomplishment. “For the most part, yes. She had grants and some scholarship money, and the cost in the UK isn’t the same as it is here. But I’ve earned enough and had some well-paying gigs. I’m almost there.” I rap my knuckles on the bar. “Touch wood.”

  “Look, I want to help. I really do. I think it’s great what you’re doing.” She gestures wildly to the bar. “But I have a business, and it’s incredibly time-consuming. Plus, I’m working next weekend. And I’m expanding now to some new concepts. I’ve promised to move up some employees if it all comes together. Gabriella is going to take on more work during the expansion, so I really need to focus on making sure I can win over this new investor. How about I help you find someone instead?”

  But she’s the one I need. “Isn’t there anything I could do for you? I could be your guinea pig for new cocktail concoctions. Or what about the new concepts you’re working on? I'm a bit of an expert on New York nightlife and drink culture, pubs, and whatnot. Comes with the job. So you can use me as your lab rat for that too.”

  She straightens her spine while lowering her voice to a whisper. “What did you just say?”

  “I’ll be your lab rat.”

  “That’s brilliant.” Her eyes light up like sparklers. She clasps her hand to her mouth, as if she’s trying to contain her excitement, then she whispers, “That’s what I need. I was going to spend all my time online, researching English pubs. I was even considering a trip. But this is just what I need: my very own pub lab rat.”

  I haven’t connected all the dots yet, but there will be time for that. “So you’ll do it? I’ll be your lab rat, and you’ll be my date?”

  The door to the bar swings open, and a dozen or so women in slinky tops and tight jeans spill inside.

  “Who’s ready to have the best night ever!” one of them announces.

  “We have a party of twelve in the reserve room. I need to take care of them. But can you meet me tomorrow to work out a plan? I need on-the-ground research as I work on my pitch for the investor. You help me, I’ll help you. I’m free after my morning booty boot camp, and we’ll go over how this will work. Deal?”

  I’m not about to let her wiggle out of it, so I pounce before she can think of a better way to get what she needs. “Absolutely. Have fun working on your booty. Wish I could be there to watch. I mean, exercise. I completely meant to do the boot camp.”

  Smiling, she heads to greet the pack of women while I enjoy the view of her boot camp assets.

  I return to my drink, savoring every sip because . . . holy shit. She said yes.

  I make my way to Nick and Harper. She shoots me a playful grin. “Let me guess—you were at the bar, flirting with Nick’s cousin?”

  “Let me answer—I was actually striking a business deal.”

  Nick cracks up. “That’s a good one. What are you, angling to write speeches for her to give when she serves cocktails?”

  I snap my fingers. “Not a bad idea. I better write that down in my notebook of possible new ventures.”

  Harper waves a hand, excitement in her eyes. “Or wait. Maybe you’re going to devise names of cocktails inspired by your blog. Don’t Forget to Hold the Door.”

  “Always Offer to Take Her Coat,” Nick offers.

  “A Gentleman Rises When a Lady Does,” Harper adds. “Speaking of, I need to call the sitter. Be right back.”

  Nick rises when she stands, and I wag a finger at him. “You might think you’re mocking me, but what you’re really doing is proving you read my blog. Admit it—it’s chock-full of the very best advice.”

  “It’s not too bad. But seriously, what’s the business deal?”

  “Just a project she’ll help me on.”

  Nick arches a brow. “Project? Is that code for something else?”

  “What would it be code for?”

  He scratches his jaw. “Are you forgetting who you’re dealing with? You think I can’t tell you’re hot for her?”

  “As if I’d bother to hide it from a former scoundrel such as yourself. But cool your jets—nothing is going to happen.”

  I tack on a silent again.

  He lifts his glass, pausing before he drinks. “Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But someday.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Did you really just quote half of a famous line from Casablanca to me?”

  “Yeah. Seems I did. And it seems you’re going to have to sort out the feelings you have for her and what you’re going to do about the fact that her brother has no idea.”

  “No idea what?” Harper asks when she returns. “Also, Carson and Skye are fabulous. The sitter said they already fell asleep. They get that from me. It’s my superpower. Sound asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.”

  “That is a pretty impressive skill. Ranks right up there with flying and invisibility.”

  “I’ll take invisibility,” Nick whispers, as if Harper can’t hear him. “That way I can spy on my wife in the shower anytime.”

  She tilts her head. “News flash. You do that already.”

  Nick scratches his jaw. “True. I do that daily. It’s good to have a routine.”

  “Anyway, what does someone have no idea about?” Harper asks. “Feed me gossip, please.”

  “Your husband contends I’m going to have to do something about the fact that Malone supposedly has no idea that I supposedly have a thing for Truly,” I supply. “Which is a lot of supposedlys.”

  Harper laughs. “Sweetie, I think Malone might know.”

  I flinch. “How? Also, there’s nothing to know.”

  Harper nods, still grinning. “Right. Got it.”

  “I mean it. There’s nothing to know.”

  “Of course.” She winks. “Sure. Nothing at all to know. And don’t worry. I bet Malone doesn’t have the astute power of observation that comes with ovaries.”

  “And yours is the most astute,” Nick says to her.

  But they’re wrong. I don’t have feelings. Not in the deep, emotional sense. Those don’t interest me. Never have, since I’ve seen where they can lead.

  All I truly feel is lingering lust.

  And I can set that aside easily.

  I may love sexy-flirting with Truly, but this new arrangement has to come first.

  8

  From the pages of Truly’s Drink Recipe Book

  That One Time:

  Gin

  Homemade red pepper lemonade

  Cucumbers

  You can still remember the way he looked that night. Cool and casual with five-o’clock shadow stubble. The way he smiled, the way he laughed—full of the connection you’ve shared with him for ages. Hell, for years. The connection you tried to deny, to ignore.

  But then one weekend, you went away.

  And that seemed to unlock all those crazy desires.

  Caution fell to the wayside, and you gave in.

  The next morning, you agreed it couldn’t happen again. But still, you keep lingering on that one time. That time you try and try to forget.

  Doesn’t always work though.

  When the going gets tough, when the forgetting becomes harder, there’s only one drink that’ll do the trick.

  Start with gin to blur the memories and add your homemade red-pepper lemonade for that sweet oblivion. You’ll get there eventually.

  Someday. Maybe someday soon.

  9

  As I tug on a pair of running shorts the next morning, I review my notes from a best man who’s hired me for a speech. Committing the basics to memory, I head out, hit the park, and peel off four miles on the pavement and the skeleton draft of a toast in my head.

  When I cool down, I spot a familiar figure on the path ahead of me, the spitting image of Michael B. Jordan—lucky bastard. He’s power walking around the edge of the park, a knee brace hugging his leg. “Hey, tortoise! You still walking, not running?”

  My friend Walker turns around and waves dismissively at his offending joint. “You try running when you’ve blown out a knee.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? That’s not the thing you want blown.”

  “Thanks for the reminder. I’ve been missing your unparalleled life advice.”

  I walk by his side. “What have you been up to? I haven’t seen you on the wedding circuit much recently. Used to run into you at every other ceremony, it seemed.”

  He raises his arms toward the sky. “As God is my witness, I’ve finally started cutting back.”

  I gesture to his limbs. “Careful there. Don’t want to injure your elbow too.”

  He shoots me a glare. “You do know you won’t always be thirty?”

  “True. But I’ll always be ten years younger than you.”

  “And ten times the smart-ass.”

  “Probably true there too. But seriously, are you finally spinning records in a club, like you wanted?”

  “Landed a semi-regular gig at a place in the Meatpacking District. And they don’t make me play ‘Macarena’ or ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody.’”

  I shudder. “Least favorite wedding reception songs ever. Wait, no, that’s ‘Dancing Queen.’”

  “And I don’t have to play that either.”

  “You’re officially the luckiest bastard. Congrats on the exodus from the wedding business. You were keen on that.”

  “I’m not totally out the door, but it’s swinging in that direction.” He scrubs a hand across his goatee, glancing thoughtfully at the sky. “Speaking of, how’s your exit plan going? I bet business has been even better after that Gentleman’s Style piece from a couple months ago.”

  “The one where the bloke from the UK bragged about how fast his undercover groomsman business was expanding? He’s enjoying The Wedding Ringer effect, for sure. That film has been the best thing that ever happened to the business. Good thing I started my work well before Kevin Hart made it look cool, so I could ride the wave too.”

  “But you do know you can’t do this forever?”

  This is typical Walker. He’s the wedding-circuit Buddha, and he sees it as his duty to share his wisdom.

  “Thanks for the reminder. I was starting to think I was going to be making toasts in my fifties.”

  He shoots me a stare, holding his ground. “It’s my job to remind you of the benefits of having an exit plan. The money can start to seduce you, make you think it can be your full-time lifetime gig. And I know you have other goals.”

  I flash an easy grin. “The whole gig is one gigantic see-you-later strategy. And I’m paving the path toward it every damn day.”

  “Keep paving it, man. Otherwise, someday you’re going to be waxing eloquent on the radio about how to land a promotion, and when you leave, the guy down the hall will remember the toast you gave at some wedding as Jay the best man, or Jackson or Jackoff.”

  “Good thing I’ve been using the name Walker lately,” I say, then wave goodbye with my middle finger.

  I take off, running the last mile home, repeating Walker’s reminder that this is temporary, even though the pay is quite good lately.

  Quite good indeed.

  When I return to my place, I down a glass of water, settle in with my laptop, and power through the speech. Next, it’s shower time, where I do not think of Truly.

  As the water beats down, I don’t picture her jumping rope, or taking up boxing, or shaking her fantastic arse in that booty boot camp this morning.

  That would make me a dirty perv.

  Oh, right. I am.

  Because, hell, she looks good when she sweats.

  And she can screw like a woman who loves her cardio.

  Dammit.

  I can’t let this tempt me.

  Even though I am tempted. I have been since I met her a few years after settling into New York City. Having dual citizenship courtesy of an American-born, London-raised father gave me the flexibility to live here, one of the few decent things he managed to pass on. I connected with Malone first, thanks to the softball league we both play on, then got to know his sister soon after.

  Seemed a bit like a big “piss off” from the universe to make the sister—twin sister, no less—of a good mate a right fucking fox.

  But she is, and she has a fiery personality too, which is an even bigger turn-on.

  I resisted for years. And soon, resistance became the norm. It was easy enough to be friends with her, to sign up for crazy, heart-pumping classes together, to run a 5K by her side.

  That was how we operated. She was one of the gang.

  Until that night earlier this year. She’d suggested we go snowboarding, and naturally, I’d said yes. We’d spent a Saturday shredding the white powder on the slopes a couple of hours away, tackling tough run after tougher run. That evening, still high on adrenaline and black diamonds, we wound up staying the night in her room at the ski lodge.

  We didn’t sleep more than an hour.

  The next morning, as daylight shone its harsh light on our misdeeds, we vowed never to fall into bed again.

  I knew that was for the best, especially after she explained why.

  And her reasons are only a few of many that steered me back onto the well-trodden path of resisting her. Now she’s going to help me with my work, which needs all my focus as I finish up these gigs.

  I rinse, turn off the shower, and grab a towel. Once I’m dressed, it’s time for business mode, so I put on a button-down shirt—always best to look proper—and log into Skype for a virtual coaching session. When I’m done, I see I have an hour free before I meet Truly.

  I decide to give Abby a ring.

  Her adorable, freckled face fills the screen. My favorite person looks exhausted, her brown eyes deeply shadowed.

  Her brown hair is knotted in a messy bun. She yawns a “Hello.”

  “You look completely knackered.”

  “Gee, thanks. And you look like shit too.”

  “Aww, that’s the sister I know and love. Always ready to sling mud at her poor, beleaguered brother.”

  She shakes her head, bemused. “You’re so dramatic. And do you think I don’t know I look like the poster child for Buzzfeed’s List of Top Ten Signs You Need Sleeping Tablets? I’d be one through eleven.”