“Yes. Let’s dive into it.” She finishes browsing the aisles, places an order with the woman who runs the shop, then we head to Prospect Park, grabbing a bench on the outskirts of the grass.

  “The investor I mentioned? I pitched him on that Parisian-themed bar I want to open. He likes it, but his partners aren’t ready for that yet. So he asked me to put together a concept for a new bar, modeled after Gin Joint with signature cocktails, decor, and all that . . . but with a British theme.”

  “And clearly I’m the only person you could possibly come to.”

  “You are kind of my one British friend.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way. I don’t want you accessible to any other Brits. They’re very dangerous, what with the way they speak in that sexy accent that makes American women swoon.”

  She shoots me the side-eye. “You think I swoon when I hear your voice?”

  “Swoon, throw your knickers at me, and want to have sex straightaway.” Maybe I was supposed to behave, but hell, it’s so damn hard with her. “It’s quite a burden to bear.”

  “I thought we were trying to stay in the friend zone.”

  I shoot her a you’re crazy stare. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m talking about the challenge of going around with this accent. Do you have any idea? Everybody wants me. Admit it. You do kind of melt a little when you hear me talk.”

  “I admit nothing.”

  “I’ll take that as a good thing.” I shift gears. Business now. Seriously. “Okay, so you’re using me for my pub expertise. What’s the plan?”

  “What I thought we could do is this: I’ll go with you to the weddings as your fake date, and you can go with me to visit some of the pubs I want to check out. You can be my reality check, if you will. I also want to make sure the ideas I have are authentic, so I want to test them on you. I was hoping we could even start in the next day or so? Perhaps Tuesday?”

  “I’m there.”

  “Perfect. Now tell me about the weddings you want me to go to.”

  I review the details, rattling off the basics of Chip’s ceremony, then the one for Enzo from Spain, who hired me since he’s new to the country and doesn’t know anyone yet, and another where I’m simply an extra groomsman, and I’ve been asked to play the part with an Aussie accent, for no other reason than the groom finds Crocodile Dundee entertaining. The groom is a superstar skateboarder in the X Games, and I tell her my friend Josh recommended me.

  “Your sports agent friend?”

  “Yes. Josh Summers. Reps a couple of the Yankees, some of the Rangers, and on and on. You’d like him; therefore, I will probably never introduce you to him.”

  Laughing softly, she gives me a curious stare. “Why would I like him?”

  “All the women do.”

  “So all women everywhere have the same taste?”

  I tap my chin. “Fair point. Your taste is finer. After all, you did enjoy the ride on my⁠—”

  Her hand covers my mouth. “Be. Good.” She nudges my elbow. “So . . . when do I meet this hot sports agent friend of yours?”

  I narrow my eyes, huffing. “Never. Also, I don’t actually need a date for the skateboarder’s wedding. It’s a solo gig.”

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Positive. And for that comment, you will never meet Josh.”

  She rubs her palms together. “And you will never get to see Presley, then. She’s stunning and brilliant and hilarious. So there. I’m keeping her away from you too.”

  I roll my eyes. “You do know I’ve met her several times. She comes to jujitsu with us now and then, and yes, she’s quite funny.”

  “Then you’re not allowed to speak with her again.”

  “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

  “Ha. Same to you. But enough about hot friends. About the two weddings you need me for . . . I presume we’ll need backstories and fake names? A different one for each?”

  I make a low whistle of appreciation. “Damn, you’re good. Is there a name you’ve always wanted to have?”

  She adopts a high, saccharine tone. “Oh, God. I love the name Truly.” Her voice returns to dry and sarcastic. “It’s not as if I was always made fun of for my name growing up.”

  “Were you made fun of for that? It’s a lovely name.”

  “Most people don’t get it. They think I’m Trudy. Or Julie. Because it’s not a name; it’s a freaking adverb. But it’s fine. My parents loved it. What can you do? And I suppose I really don’t mind it now.”

  “I think it’s quite pretty. And it suits you.”

  She holds my gaze for a lingering moment, swallows, then sighs. “Listen, I saw my brother this morning. I told him I’m spending more time with you.”

  I flinch, unsure what to make of this admission. “He knows we hang out. Why would you feel like you had to confess something?”

  “I didn’t tell him what happened six months ago. I simply mentioned over breakfast that I was going to be doing this with you. I told him because this here”—she gestures from her to me—“this deal, it feels more personal than taking a class or working out together. I know we flirt and joke.”

  “Wait. You flirt? It’s more like you tell me you don’t flirt.” I hold up a stop-a-moment finger. “Oh, that’s hate-flirting. My bad.”

  Twin spots of pink spread across her cheeks. She looks away then back at me. “Whatever. You know I’m attracted to you.”

  Those words. Attracted to you. I shouldn’t let them send a charge through me. But hell, they do, an electric jolt. She’s been so damn good at denying, evading, dodging.

  But right now, she is confessing, and it’s a turn-on exactly when it shouldn’t be. And maybe because emotions are the devil but desire is angelic, I give in, brushing my fingers down her arm. “I’m wildly attracted to you.”

  Her breath catches. She leans closer to me, out of the friend zone and into the more zone. Her gaze swings down to my hand on her arm. “That’s a little tempting.”

  “It is.”

  “Maybe too tempting.”

  “I should stop.” I run my finger down her bare skin, savoring the electric sensation of touching this woman again. The air between us crackles, and all it would take is . . . well, it would take deciding to cross a line we don’t want to cross.

  Lines exist for a reason.

  So you don’t give in to lust.

  So you don’t let your dick or your heart control you. You don’t give in to instant gratification when you have a lifetime of friendship between you.

  I swallow, take a breath, find my voice again. “Are you . . . dating anyone?” I choke out the words. They taste like last week’s compost bin.

  Laughing, she shakes her head. “Sounds like you’d rather I didn’t?”

  I shrug, affecting a relaxed pose. “You’re free to date.”

  “And so are you. But I’m not seeing anyone. I’m too busy with the expansion plans right now. Dating is not on my agenda.”

  “Same here. My business, that is. Too much going on.”

  “So we’re both in the same position. And we’ll stick to the plan.”

  And while I’m terribly tempted to make a joke about positions, or things sticking, I resist. “I understand. I know what’s at stake.”

  “I know you do, Jason, but sometimes you make it hard. The way you flirt. The way you touch me.” Her tone is earnest, full of need. It stops me in my tracks. Normally we fire zingers at each other, we toss bouquets of flirtation. But there’s something almost sad in the way she’s speaking right now, like she desperately needs me to change.

  “Do I touch you too much?”

  “Too much for my own good.”

  Dear God. Too much for my own good. “I get that. I can stop.”

  “You need to know I don’t want you to, but we probably should. Because I like this.” She points from me to her. “I like this, but not as much as I dislike the idea of losing you or hurting Malone. I like how we are. I like seeing my brother for breakfast, like I did earlier today, and for baseball games, and when he hangs out to chat after he sings at Gin Joint. I’m at a point where things are clicking in my life. The bar, the business—everything. I don’t want to feel the way I’ve felt in the past, where I’m losing the people I love.”

  I have to keep things on the level for her, and for me. I’m a serial monogamist for a reason—I don’t want to be Claire’d again. Commitment and I have kept each other at arm’s length ever since I came to the States in my early twenties to take care of my dying nan. When I left England, Claire took me to the airport, teary-eyed and looking like a Nicholas Sparks heroine, saying she’d wait as long as it took for me to return. And a month later, when I was still away, she took up with the barber down the street.

  “I understand,” I say. “I don’t want you to lose what you care about. Not work or your closeness with Malone. And you know my deal. I’m not keen on anything more. So it’s best this way.”

  “I do. I understand that,” she says, since she’s up to speed on the basics of what went wrong with Claire.

  “All that said, there’s something vital I want you to know.”

  “Sure. Tell me.”

  My lips curve up. “Are you aware I’ve been attracted to you since I met you?”

  “Why are you telling me this now?”

  Because I’m on an honesty kick, and I take my time, letting a wicked grin spread across my face. “So you know it’s something of a miracle that we’ve only ever fallen into bed once.”

  There’s that sharp stare I know so well. The oh no, you didn’t look. “You’re aware that falling into bed is exactly what we can’t do?”

  “Indeed. And my point is, I’ve been exercising restraint with you for a long time. I can keep it up.”

  She settles in on the bench, staring at the sun, putting on her shades, taking her time. At last she responds, a smile tugging at her lips. “I suppose you can. You do have excellent stamina.”

  12

  That evening, I round the bases, high-fiving Nick and Malone as I cross home plate.

  Nick gives me a fist bump. “Hallelujah! Miracles do happen.”

  “And you two tossers are the beneficiaries, seeing as I knocked you in.”

  Nick takes a bow. “I humbly accept your RBI, especially since it’s so rare.”

  I stifle a laugh. “Dickhead.”

  “That’s five years on the team, and it’s your first dinger, right?” he asks.

  “It’s not even my first home run this season.”

  Malone claps me on the back but locks eyes with Nick. “Now, now, don’t sell this guy short. He manages to whack a whole pair over the fences each season.” He turns to me, intensely serious. “We are so proud of you for that kind of consistency.”

  I point to the field. “You do realize we just took the lead because of that home run?”

  “That’s it. I’m getting you a plaque. Best One-Homer-a-Season Hitter,” Nick says.

  “Don’t make him feel bad that he’s not at our level,” Malone cuts in as we head to the dugout. “We need to keep his spirits up. After all, if we didn’t have Jason on the team . . . well, we wouldn’t have enough players, and we’d have to forfeit.”

  I groan, taking off my helmet and dragging a hand through my hair. “I just hit a home run. Or a whopper or a dinger or whatever it is you call it here.”

  Nick rattles off the names. “Tater. Goner. Blast. Bomb. Jack. Like, you jacked one over the fence.”

  “You’re so classy here with your jack talk.” I make the requisite offensive hand gesture.

  “You could also call it a long ball,” Nick retorts, gesturing to his crotch. “That better?”

  “Loads.” I glance at the bleachers, spotting Harper and their two kids grabbing front-row seats. “Your wife and kids just returned, so try to be a civilized bastard now. I know that’ll be hard for you.”

  “Sooo hard. But I can do it.”

  When the game ends, Nick takes off with his wife and the kids, scooping up his little redheaded daughter for a piggyback ride.

  “Tell your dad you want another rescue dog, Skye!” Malone calls out to the little tyke, his cousin’s kid. “Vet services are on the house.”

  “I already told him I want one. He said yes!”

  “Because he’s wrapped around your little finger!”

  “I’m going to work on my list of dog names tonight.”

  “Please consider Jason,” I call out.

  I sling my bag over my shoulder, making my way out of the park with Malone.

  “You want a dog named after you?” he asks.

  “Hell yeah. That’s the ultimate compliment.”

  “Good point. I’ll aspire to convince her to choose Malone now. Or Truly. I bet she’d like that. Speaking of, I hear my sister’s going undercover with you.”

  My brain speeds up, spinning, as if I need to fashion an excuse. But I shut down that matchstick reaction. There’s nothing wrong with her going undercover with me. Just as there’s nothing wrong with me spending time with her. This exchange of favors is no different than us going to jujitsu, or for a bike ride or a hike.

  I pretend our plans are a state secret, bringing my finger to my lips. I shush him. “I don’t want anyone here to know.” I glance around the path as if we’ve entered enemy territory.

  “Yes, I’m sure everyone has followed you to document your whereabouts.”

  “You never know. I’m rather famous in this city.”

  “Or in your own mind.”

  I tap my temple. “I’m a legend up here.”

  “No doubt. I find it amusing it took the two of you this long to figure out she would be a perfect companion.”

  I snap my gaze to him, surprised at his comment. “What do you mean?”

  Malone scratches his jaw, chuckling as we head toward the Columbus Circle side of the park. “It’s hilarious, the idea of you two pretending to be a couple at a wedding.”

  Is he onto something? Trying to get under my skin and extract intel? But then I talk sense into myself because that one night was months ago, nothing more has happened, and we never let on. And since nothing has transpired in six months, isn’t that proof of either a supreme lack of interest or supreme resistance?

  I vote the latter and pat myself virtually on the back.

  “Yeah, I suppose it’s pretty amusing. Since we’re obviously not a couple.” I laugh for good measure, like I’m selling my case.

  What the hell? I don’t need to make him a pitch. Truly and I are not a couple. Maybe I should remind him that the ocean is wet and sugar is sweet.

  Malone cracks up, shaking his head. “That’s not what I mean.”

  Now I’m thoroughly confused. “What do you mean, then?”

  “Seriously? You don’t know?”

  My skin prickles, the back of my neck growing hot. Shit. Fuck. Bugger. He does know I shagged his sister. He found out somehow, and he’s going to toy with me. Malone is a clever bastard, and perhaps he’s sliding the knife under my skin, ready to fillet me. I don’t want to be filleted, or grilled, for that matter.

  And I don’t want to lose a good friend.

  Especially over something that won’t happen again. So I lean on my skills. I can fake this. I can pull off nothing-to-see-here. “No clue what you’re on about.”

  “The two of you bicker so much you seem like a real couple. It’s so believable that the two of you could be together.”

  I jerk my gaze toward him. What the hell did he say? “Your sister and me?”

  “You argue enough to fool anyone into thinking you’ve been together forever.”

  He hums a tune under his breath as we turn onto Central Park West, and I chew on that observation, wondering if it means anything or nothing.

  I decide it’s positive. It’s a damn good thing if Truly and I appear like we’re a couple over the next few weekends.

  But at the end of the day and the end of the night, we are only fiction.

  Later that night, I head to my office, also known as the coffee shop near my apartment. But unlike half the other patrons at cafés these days, I don’t FaceTime in public or conduct conference calls at top volume while sipping my mochaccino.

  Like I drink mochaccinos.

  With a cup of tea in hand, I settle on a leather couch in the back corner, and Troy and Sully arrive shortly.

  “Gentlemen,” Sully says, spreading his arms wide. “What is up?”

  “This is what’s up. Did you know two of Shakespeare’s plays were translated into Klingon? Just learned that this evening in my playwriting class,” Troy offers.

  “Do you speak Klingon?” Sully asks.

  “Working on it. Thinking about maybe writing my next play in half verse, half Klingon.”

  “Or maybe write it in all verse, wait till it blows up and Lin-Manuel Miranda partners with you, and then translate it into Klingon,” I suggest.

  “Good suggestion, boss man,” Troy says.

  We dive straight into wedding business. “Are you guys ready for this weekend?”

  Sully rubs his palms. “I am pumped. My wife is too. She’s stocking up on tissues. She loves weddings. Cries at every single one, even if she doesn’t know the couple. Doesn’t matter. She goes full waterworks.”

  “And she likes this? Crying over people she doesn’t even know?” That’s Troy’s style—he hasn’t met a question he’s afraid to ask.

  “She says declarations of love hit her right here.” He taps his chest. “She likes weddings because she cries.”

  “That makes no sense. How does that make any sense?” Troy asks.

  “I guess you’ve never needed a good cry,” Sully says with a shrug and a sip of his coconut latte.

  “If I need a good cry, I watch Brian’s Song,” Troy says.

  “If I needed a good cry, and I literally never have, I think about the day The Beatles broke up,” I offer.

  Troy furrows his brow. “You weren’t even alive then.”

  “That’s what makes me sad. I’ll never see them perform.” I tap my phone and return to the details. “Here’s everything you need to know about the wedding.”