The question gives a glimpse of the vulnerable underbelly that he rarely shows. I let down my guard to match.

  “Yeah, I do. And I hear ya.” Oh, hell, do I hear him. “I’ve been there. But I don’t want you to wait too long and then regret it. You could ask her to the upcoming dance. Worst case is you go as friends, and you’re already friends.”

  He shoots me a look like I just opened his medicine cabinet without permission. “How did you know about the dance?”

  I tap my chest. “Guardian here. It’s my job to know what’s going on.”

  “You read entirely too many school emails.”

  “Yes, I do. Such is the fate of a responsible adult. And since I read my emails, I learned of the tragic shortage of chaperones for the homecoming dance and volunteered.”

  He groans. “You’re joking.”

  “I’ll pretend I don’t know you. Fair?”

  “How does that constitute fair? I think fair would be more along the lines of me having the apartment to myself for a week.”

  I roll my eyes. “Anyway, wouldn’t homecoming be a great opportunity to ask Rachel to go with you? And maybe you’d want to look a little more . . . dapper.”

  Muttering under his breath, he stomps off to his bedroom. A minute later, he returns wearing jeans and a Henley. Just like me.

  Victory is mine.

  Standing, I scan his attire with an approving nod. “Well done. You look sharp, my man. Very sharp.” I squeeze his shoulder, meeting his gaze. “Now, I know you like this woman. Think about finally asking her out. I don’t want you to look back and wish you had.”

  Slipping away from my grip, he grabs his backpack from the floor, shouldering it. “If I ask her out, you’ll stop bugging me about my clothes?”

  “News flash: I’m always going to bug you about your clothes.”

  He smiles then brings me in for a hug. “I know. I appreciate it.”

  In moments like this, I can handle the insanity of his now-I-like-you-now-you’re-the-worst-person-ever teenage ways. I hug him back and ruffle his hair. He grumbles about it because that’s what we do—rib each other and fake-grumble about it—and have ever since he was born, a whopping twelve years after me.

  He heads for the door, then turns around, flashes me a grin, and says offhand, “And maybe you should finally ask out Peyton?”

  I don’t say anything for a minute. Just hearing that name in that context makes my heart beat a little faster than it should.

  “Why would you say that?” I ask carefully.

  With a gleam of triumph, he points at me. “Why don’t you just admit you have it bad for her?”

  Ah, but there are a million reasons why I don’t do that.

  Or, really, one.

  I tried.

  It was too late.

  And that was long ago.

  That ship sailed, and I had to figure out how to move on. Mostly I do a good job on that front. Or so I thought.

  I shake my head. “I don’t have it bad for Peyton.”

  One eyebrow shoots all the way to his hairline. “Really? You sure about that?”

  I heave a sigh. “Yes. I’m sure.”

  “That’s not what you said one night many moons ago . . .”

  My brow creases. “What are you talking about?”

  He taps his temple. “I remember lots of stuff. Including what you told Mom that time.”

  I wince, a memory taunting me from wherever memories go when you’d like to delete them but can’t. “I didn’t say anything,” I bluff.

  “No? You didn’t say, ‘I’ve been dying to ask her out since college, and I think I’m finally going to do it’?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” I say stoically, willing my expression to give nothing away.

  “Maybe you remember Mom answering.” He does a spot-on imitation of our mother. “‘Good. You’ve only wanted to since the night you kissed her during your sophomore year of college.’”

  He’d heard that entire conversation? Remembered something I’ve spent the better part of a decade trying to forget?

  Not so much the conversation with Mom, but the kiss that prompted it. Stuffing it into a mental trunk, locking it, and then throwing away the key.

  Barrett opens the door and leaves. But two seconds later, he pops back in. “How about this? If you ask her out, I’ll tell Rachel how I feel. Deal?”

  I know better than to make deals with the devil, aka little brothers, and say nothing.

  He waits, tapping his toe.

  I raise an “I’ve got all day and you don’t” brow.

  “Think about it,” he says, not giving up. “You just said you don’t want me to have regrets. Because regrets suck rat tails, right?”

  Then he’s off, down the hall to the stairwell, and I give the empty doorway the answer to his question about regrets.

  “Hell, yes. They abso-fucking-lutely do.”

  3

  PEYTON

  Forty-eight hours, and freaking Harriet’s is still running its obnoxious sale.

  That’s why Monday is not the day for me to follow my yoga instructor’s advice.

  Let go of your worries, Nadia encourages us during our sun salutations in an early evening class after work. I’m sure there’s a time for that, but it is not now.

  Nor is it the day to finally ask the sweetie-pie guy in class to join me for coffee.

  Because, well, he’s not here.

  And I suppose it’s for the best. If I tried to ask him out today, I’d likely botch it. Again. On my first try a few months ago, I was so tongue-tied that he thought I was on Molly.

  After class, I sling my yoga mat over my shoulder and say goodbye. “Thanks for a great class, Nadia.”

  “Thank you for coming. Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “That’s the plan.” I head to change and pop the mat into my locker before I head uptown in the fading twilight of an early fall night.

  My Mary Janes slap the sidewalk of Lexington Avenue, and I stretch my neck, wishing the class had Zen-ified my thoughts. But I’m still thoroughly un-Zen, thanks to Harriet’s horrific sale.

  There are only two people I can turn to at times like this.

  First, Amy.

  My friend answers immediately when I call her. “I’m about to run into a meeting,” she tells me, “but are we still on for late-night lattes?”

  “I’m always up for caffeine. But when did you start having meetings at six thirty at night?”

  “I had a brainstorm this afternoon about the next book we’re launching, and I want to run my crazy idea past my boss. If she likes it, I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  “I love your brainstorms and your crazy ideas. See you later.”

  I end the call, turn the corner, and head straight for the other person on my shortlist.

  Tristan.

  My best guy friend ever.

  I cock back my arm, and with narrowed eyes, I take aim, imagining Harriet’s Wardrobe. I picture cloying pink polyester satin, pajama tops dropping silver glitter like dandruff, and cheap ruffled panties that shred on the second wash.

  “Porcupine,” I curse, grabbing something that Mimi would pull from her handbag of acceptable swears.

  Then I fling the beanbag at the board.

  It misses the hole, skidding past to hit the concrete floor with a splat.

  Someone clears their throat, which I can hear because the bar/restaurant is closed on Mondays. A masculine voice rumbles across the game room. “A little less firepower is more sometimes when it comes to cornhole.”

  “Thanks. Let me see if I can dial myself down.”

  “It’ll be tough,” Tristan warns soberly. “Lawn games are played by many but mastered by few.”

  “Why can’t you have ax-throwing here? It would be so cathartic.” I can’t picture that trendy sport in his eatery, but teasing him is always rewarding. His verbal sparring is on point, one of the many reasons he always resets my mood.

  He drags a hand across his scruffy square jaw. “Call me crazy, but I feel like ax throwing mixed with liquor is a recipe for, oh, I dunno, severed limbs and lawsuits?”

  “That’d be a no, then?”

  His hazel eyes narrow as he puts on a no-nonsense, stern face. “Beanbags are as deadly as you get with me. Take it or leave it.” He scoops up a handful, dropping them onto the floor next to me.

  Grabbing one, I catapult it and watch as the beanbag careens past the sweet spot. I stomp. “Who made this game so hard? Axes. I want axes.”

  He laughs at my plight. “If you’re having a hard time with beanbags, what makes you think a deadly blade would be better?”

  “Maybe I was a lumberjack in a past life.” I finger the hem of my short skirt. “After all, I’m wearing plaid.”

  With an arched brow, he eyes me up and down, taking in my red V-neck top, my black-and-gray plaid skirt, and my patent leather Mary Janes. I’ve never met a day of the week that wasn’t improved by a skirt.

  “A princess lumberjack maybe,” he says with a wry grin.

  “Great! So you’ll have ax throwing installed in time for my birthday, then? Because cornhole is killing me.”

  He laughs, shaking his head. “Cornhole is easy, Peyton. I swear.”

  I bat my lashes. “Show me, pretty please.”

  “You want me to show you how to play the game hipsters can do drunk? You, the badminton champion?”

  “Different sport. Also, I’ve never played before. I’m a cornhole virgin.”

  “All that time with underthings has really honed your innuendo game.” He walks behind me, scoops a beanbag from the pile, and drops it in my palm. I raise my hand to lob it at the sloped board.

  “That’s your first issue,” he says, stopping me before I let loose. “You need to do it underhand.”

  “Ah!” I knew there must be a trick to it.

  “To put it in badminton terms, you’re not trying to smack the birdie over the net.” He covers my hand with his. “You’re gently batting it.”

  He’s closer than I’m used to, and for a flash of a second, it registers that Tristan smells good.

  Like pine and soap.

  Like the opposite of my ex.

  But I push away all those highly distracting thoughts and chant, “Nice and easy.” Trying not to inhale another hit of his yummy scent, I gently toss the bag across the board.

  It slides into the hole.

  “Woo-hoo!” I spin around, thrusting my arms in the air. “Victory! I feel better already.” I drop my arms, thinking about the awful last two days. “As soon as that Harriet’s sign went up on Saturday, my traffic slowed to a trickle. Today too.” A fresh wave of frustration wells up as I picture that stupid banner. “Half off. It’s a slap in the face to the brand image I’ve tried to build.”

  “I know, and we’ll figure out a plan. For now, I have something that’ll cheer you up more than chucking beanbags.”

  I rub my palms together. “Is it the owner’s special?”

  “It is indeed. Close your eyes.”

  I hum in excitement. This is one of my favorite parts of my visits—when he makes a drink just for me. Each time it’s different. Some days call for liquor; others require only soda or tea. Nearly all are delish, and on the mark, because the man has a gift.

  I shut my eyes as his hands drop onto my shoulders. He spins me around, guiding me from the game room to the bar.

  “Sit,” he says, but I’m not entirely sure where I am. I know the general layout of his restaurant, but I’m blind right now, and don’t want to fall on my face.

  Story of my life—I don’t want to trip, and yet I still do.

  Like when I stumbled on my cork-heeled wedges during my eighth-grade graduation.

  Or that time I went to my first job interview with my zipper down.

  Or, say, the night I tried to treat my fiancé to a sexy surprise.

  Even though I’m a lace or bust girl, I donned a satin corset and thong, ready to give Gage what he wanted. He longed for the showgirl look, and I longed to keep him happy, especially since he’d been working so hard, on so many late nights. Time to surprise him with his fantasy, I’d reasoned, and slipped on a trench coat, let myself in at his place, dropped my coat, and struck a pose.

  And discovered his executive assistant in a pose too.

  Reverse cowgirl, to be precise.

  And she looked better in a bustier than I did.

  All those late nights working, he’d been cheating on me with her. I bite back the shame that crawls up my throat at the memory.

  That was nearly nine months ago. Now I’ve sold the ring, licked my wounds, and taken up yoga to make peace with my inner jilted woman.

  But all things being equal, I’d rather not land on my ass again.

  “What if I fall?” I ask Tristan.

  “I’ve got you.” He helps me onto the barstool, his calm voice reassuring. “Just sit.”

  He moves away, then there’s the slide of glass across the wooden counter. My nose twitches happily at the scent of sugar.

  “Open your eyes.”

  I do, and I gasp at the frilly pink drink in front of me, complete with sugar on the rim of the martini glass and raspberries swirling across the top.

  “Aww. You made me a girlie drink. And you hate sweets. You must love me, and this drink is proof.” Tristan has so much Eeyore in him, and I’m all Tigger. I love poking at that seriousness, and he loves to pretend to be annoyed at my exaggerated shows of affection.

  He narrows his eyes and growls. “If you tell a soul I made this drink, I will deny it until the end of my days. And this doesn’t change my stance on sweets.”

  I raise a hand as if swearing an oath. “Harriet’s Wardrobe can stick it in their cornhole. And I will keep your secret if your drink is as delicious in my mouth as I suspect it will be.”

  He shoots me a did you really just go there look. “Do you even hear the things you say?”

  I blink. “What was inappropriate? The cornhole bit or your drink being delicious?”

  “The way-my-drink-tastes-in-your-mouth part.” He holds up his thumb and forefinger together, showing a sliver of space. “Just a little naughty.”

  “Oops. Forgive me.” I wink, then take a drink. My taste buds sing a chorus of heavenly aahs, and I shimmy in my seat. “Who knew you could make such a fabulous sugary drink?”

  “No one, and that’s how it’ll stay.”

  “Wait. All kidding about sweets aside—you’re really not going to put this on the menu? This is a perfect cocktail.”

  He waves like it’s no big deal. “Nah, the menu is good as is. The owner’s special is just for you.”

  Just for me.

  Those words make my heart glow a little bit.

  I down another delicious sip. “Then I am a lucky girl. Because I love the owner’s specials. Each one has been amazing.”

  He raises a skeptical brow. “How is that possible? They can’t all be amazing.”

  “Don’t rain on your praise parade. Your drinks make me happy; therefore, they’re amazing.” I drop my pitch to near his masculine tone. “Thanks, Peyton. You’re the best for saying that. I accept your heartfelt compliments.”

  A wry smile tilts his lips as he organizes glasses behind the bar. “Thanks,” he says crisply, ready to move on. He’s never cared for flowery praise. No surprise—he didn’t grow up with everything you do is awesome parents like I did.

  “You’re such an Oscar,” I tease.

  “And you’re such a . . .” He takes his time before he says in an offhand way, “Pudding.”

  I nearly spit out the drink. Speaking of my parents, I scowl at him, wagging my finger. “You’re not allowed to call me Pudding. Only two people can call me Pudding, and neither of them is you.”

  His brow knits in mock confusion. “No? How about Dumpling?”

  “You’re evil.”

  “And grouchy? I’m evil and grouchy, right?”

  “And you love to make fun of me.”

  “Can I help it that I have so much to choose from in the childhood nickname department?”

  I glare at him. “Just because you know all my family’s embarrassing pet names for me doesn’t mean you can use them as ammunition.”

  He shrugs, reaching for a rag and wiping down the counter. “Why do you assume I’m using it against you?”

  “Pudding is not a compliment.”

  His hazel eyes—the color of honey—have a give Peyton a hard time twinkle. “Maybe I like pudding. Maybe I like dumplings.”

  A blush sweeps heat across my cheeks, then down my neck over the rest of me. That’s strange. Why would Tristan’s remark set off a flash of heat on my skin and a fluttering in my belly? A warm and affectionate glow I understand. A hot wave I don’t.

  I ignore the tingly sensation and reiterate my point. “You can’t call me Pudding or Dumpling or any of my dad’s other silly little nicknames for me.”

  “Fine. Fine. I’ll behave . . .” He adopts an innocent look, which must pain him, then hits me with Pie.

  I lunge for him, pretending I’m going to throttle him. “You especially can’t ever call me that.” It’s the worst of all the hated nicknames.

  He darts away but puts on his best contrite face. “Forgive me for calling you Pie, Peyton Marie Valencia.”

  I lean my elbows on the bar and pretend to sulk. “Now you sound like my mother when she’s mad at me.”

  “Yes, but are you distracted from your problems?” he asks with a laugh.

  It takes me a moment to realize what he means, and my frown clears. “You did all that to lift my mood?”

  “It worked, didn’t it? You’re not radiating hate fumes like when you stormed in here a half-hour ago. Am I right?”

  “Oh, you.” I tsk, and I smile. “Look at you. Doing that thing where you needle me out of a bad mood.”

  He blows on his fingers. “When you’re good, you’re good.” He shifts gears to serious though. “But let’s tackle the work situation. You’re mad at Harriet’s Wardrobe for undercutting you. You took it out on the cornhole board, which I approve of as a means of catharsis, even though you’re literally the worst cornholer I’ve ever seen. Now we need to deal with the reality. Your competition isn’t going away, so what are we going to do about Harriet’s?”