He puts it so bluntly that my chest pinches, my heart giving an anxious pulse. I’ve only begun to turn the corner on You Look Pretty Today, and it wasn’t easy. I did it with elbow grease, love, and an extra ten grand in new stock—ten grand that came from selling Gage’s engagement ring.

  Most of the time, I feel like I know what I’m doing when I run the store. But some days, I’m wearing my heart outside my body from the sheer Herculean tasks of the last few years: moving Grandma’s lingerie shop from Queens to a new location in Manhattan, slinging it into the twenty-first century, and carrying on her legacy.

  Yes, it’s a legacy of panties, but it’s one the Valencia women love. My grandmother believed in female empowerment before it was cool, and hell if I’m going to break that chain.

  Sometimes womanly strength comes from underthings. I want women to feel beautiful, to be their best selves, to ask for what they want in work, in love, in life.

  And in bed.

  I use underwear to deliver that message to the world.

  Lately, though, the task has been tougher, as Harriet’s has slowly encroached upon my customer base. But the half-off sign is the last straw.

  I could learn from Tristan.

  I survey the familiar restaurant, admiring his establishment even after-hours. Tristan has run this place for a number of years, and it’s wildly successful. He rolls with the changes too. Operating as a wine and tapas bar at first, he expanded to a full bar recently, and the switch has ramped up sales. Plus, his place is a true neighborhood eatery, enjoying great word-of-mouth and fantastic reviews. He’s a whiz at social media, with his fifteen-second time-lapse videos of food prep proving quite a hit on Instagram.

  I take another drink and gather my thoughts. “I need to do something to stand out. That’s the key.” I lower my voice to a confessional tone. “Because these last few months since Harriet’s moved in, I feel like Meg Ryan when Fox Books came to town.” I frown at the image of the character’s shuttered book shop in You’ve Got Mail.

  Tristan leans onto his hands on the counter and levels me with a stare. He’s not an everything is going to be okay kind of guy, so I steel myself.

  “This is 2020,” he says. “The world isn’t so enamored by big box stores anymore. And local business isn’t all about discounts. You already have to compete with Amazon and online shopping, so when you’re running a brick-and-mortar store, you can’t focus on the same things that Harriet’s and other big box stores do.”

  I draw a deep, fueling breath, nodding. “You’re right. I need to remember it’s about connections. It’s about the customers.”

  “And it’s about what you as a business owner can offer that’s special, that the others can’t. That’s how you need to face the competition.”

  “I need to do something that stands out. Like what you do with your videos.”

  He gives me a wry leer. “You could post fifteen seconds of you trying on lingerie.”

  I grab my napkin, ball it up, and toss it at him. “Smart-ass.”

  “Kidding, kidding. But seriously, you already have a successful social presence for the store. You’re always posting photos of the latest merch, of bras and teddies draped over that chaise lounge.” My heart skips down a garden path at finding out he actually pays attention to my social posts. It’s kind of endearing to think about him logging into Instagram and scrolling across a photo I snapped of a black lace bra draped on a pink cushion.

  “Why not build off that?” he asks. “Or how about doing more on The Lingerie Devotee?” He pauses, tilting his head like he’s just realized the blog went the way of the dodo. “You only share photos there now. Why did you stop writing posts?”

  I sigh with a pang of regret that’s chased by a full measure of annoyance. I study my toes while I think, then I meet his eyes, bracing myself to admit a truth I’m not proud of. “Because of Gage.”

  He frowns like my answer doesn’t compute. “Seriously?”

  I take another fueling sip of the pink concoction, owning my mistake, even if it made sense to me at the time. “Yes. At first, he thought it was fun. His girlfriend wrote about intimate undergarments, and all that. But when it started to take off, he was worried that my blog was too risqué for his conservative Wall Street world.”

  My stomach churns with remembered embarrassment. On The Lingerie Devotee, I used to weave in tales of how the different items made me feel when I wore them out to dinner or even to the movies. That was too much for him. “Babe, I need you to cool the personal deets for a bit,” Gage had said. “When we go to John Fitzgerald’s home in Connecticut for dinner or to the Wentworths’ fundraising gala, I don’t want the partners looking at you and thinking about how you fill out a sheer nightie. That’s for me and only me to know. Can we keep it that way?”

  Taking a sabbatical felt like one small thing I could do for him. I stopped writing and restricted myself to only posting pics of lingerie.

  But since he’s no longer in the picture, perhaps I can bring the blog back for me.

  “I do miss writing it,” I say, running my finger along the rim of the glass.

  “Perform a resurrection, then. You don’t need to worry about what he has to say anymore.”

  Rekindling the blog sounds like it’d be good for me, and potentially great for business. “True. And this is something I can do that Harriet’s can’t.”

  “Let me know if I can help in any way.”

  “I will. I promise you’ll be the first one I call on when the zipper from my bustier gets stuck on a tablecloth as I try on new items.”

  An eyebrow lifts in question. “How did we get from the bustier to the table?”

  I laugh, shrugging. “One of life’s many mysteries. Also, you’re a genius.”

  I pop up from the stool, race around the counter, and throw my arms around him. He flinches for the barest of seconds, then wraps his arms around me, inhaling.

  Let the record reflect that no one hugs better than this guy. His hugs are warm and comforting, maybe because he’s tall and broad, or maybe because he seems to put all of himself into the embrace.

  When we separate, I sigh happily. “Have I told you how much I missed this when I was with him?”

  “Missed what?” His voice is a little rough.

  “You. Me. Hanging out like this. I wasn’t able to see you as much as I liked then.” I’m acknowledging aloud a truth we’re both aware of—we didn’t pal around as much when I was engaged.

  “He didn’t like you hanging with me.” It’s a statement, not a question, but I answer it anyway.

  “He never said as much, but whenever I was going to see you, he’d come up with something for us to do. In some ways, I can understand. It’s hard to accept that a man and woman can be such great friends. But you and I are, and I would be devastated if we weren’t, Tristan.” I haul him in for one more hug.

  This man has been in my life since I started college, and we’ve seen each other through ups and downs over the years—the loss of his father then his mother, the loss of my grandma. We were meant to be friends, and we’ve only ever been friends.

  That is, except for the night before winter break during our sophomore year of college, when he planted the most intense kiss I’d ever had on my lips. A kiss that made my toes curl, made my knees weak. One that haunted my late-night fantasies every single night over the holidays.

  But then his father passed away during the break, and when he returned to school, he was understandably devastated. I’d sensed he needed my friendship more than a budding romance, and I offered that—my shoulder, my support. We reverted to the way we’d been before and never spoke of the kiss again.

  Now, as we separate, the door swings open. Barrett takes his key from the lock, looks at Tristan, then at me, then back at his brother.

  Barrett’s grin spreads wider than the Hudson River. “I see you took my advice.”

  4

  TRISTAN

  I want to throttle him.

  And to think I was simply hoping the little punk would follow his heart’s desire and go after the girl.

  This is my thanks? No way do I want Peyton knowing she was the subject of a dare to ask her out.

  But Peyton can’t resist the gumdrop. She perks up, her gaze sliding back and forth between Barrett and me. “Advice? What sort of advice?”

  Time to improvise. I can’t give my brother a chance to serve up a single tantalizing detail, not about this morning and not about what he overheard years ago. What I’d said then had been true, but I’m not that guy anymore.

  I refuse to be the guy pining for someone he can’t have. I am most definitely not the type of sad sack who harbors feelings for a woman for a decade.

  “He said I should ask you to homecoming,” I blurt, falling on the conversational grenade. “That was his advice.” Good thing I read those school emails. Good thing I signed up to be a chaperone. “His school has a homecoming dance in a couple of weeks. I offered to chaperone, ergo . . .”

  Peyton’s eyes glitter with excitement. No surprise. She’s outgoing and friendly, vibrant and popular, and has always loved events. “Homecoming! Gah! Next thing I know you’re going to tell me they’re playing badminton there, too, and we all have to wear fancy costumes.”

  Barrett chuckles. “Sorry, Pey. We won’t have your favorite sport at the dance. But it’s still going to be hella fun when you come. Isn’t it, Tris?” My little brother targets me with a satisfied smirk.

  “It’s going to be rad,” I say, piling it on.

  “Absolutely,” Peyton chimes in. “And seriously, Barrett—that’s so sweet that you told Tristan to invite me.”

  My brother pastes on a devilishly delightful grin. “I am definitely a sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart, my ass. “If by sweetheart, you mean he said it’d embarrass him if I went alone, then yes, you can call him a sweetheart for saying I’d bring you to stave off the embarrassment of me.”

  There. Cover-up achieved.

  “Whatever the reason, I’m happy to go.” She turns her attention to me, wagging a finger. “And you’re in big trouble for failing to mention this sooner. You know I love dances.”

  It’s like she’s stabbing me in the heart.

  Of course I know she loves dances. The night I kissed her was at a dance party in December. A retro eighties shindig where she rocked out to The Human League and A-ha. Nearly every time a new tune began, she’d shout, “I love this song!” Except every now and then, she’d whisper it. Right in my ear. Making my skin sizzle. Making me nearly lose my mind with longing.

  When her favorite Cyndi Lauper song began, her voice turned softer, almost crooning as she’d said, “I always wanted to kiss to ‘Time After Time.’”

  She’d had a few drinks. Same for me. With liquid courage, I’d said, “So do it.”

  “Yeah?”

  I’d nodded, buoyed by desire and tequila. “Yeah.”

  She’d inched closer, I’d slid a hand around her waist, and we’d kissed like it was the entire purpose of the dance, of the night, of the entire year.

  I’d never wanted to kiss someone so badly. Not before, and not since.

  She’d melted against me, sighing and murmuring in my arms.

  Now, in the restaurant with Barrett, I shove the memory away, clear my throat, and lean a hip against the bar, presenting my most casual front. “Actually, I forgot how much you like dances. And homecoming nearly slipped my mind, so thanks for reminding me to ask her, Barrett.”

  “You’re so welcome.” As he strides to the bar, the look on my brother’s face is priceless. It says You are full of shit, and I love it.

  Meanwhile, Peyton’s expression zooms into further delight. “I loved homecoming when I was in high school.”

  As Barrett plops himself onto a stool, he turns to her. “I bet you were homecoming princess. Did you have a tiara and everything?”

  “I was not homecoming princess. I was the arty girl playing around with fashion design. I was the girl who made her own dresses. Including my homecoming dress.”

  “No way,” Barrett says, his eyes lighting up.

  She straightens her shoulders. “And the yearbook committee named me ‘Most Likely to Costume Period Dramas in Hollywood.’” Her expression is pure deadpan. “It was not a compliment.”

  “What kind of dress did you make for homecoming?” he asks.

  She runs her hands over her plaid skirt, as if recalling. “It was a Marie Antoinette style, if you must know.”

  I stifle a laugh.

  “What? I liked frilly things.”

  “And you still do,” I point out.

  “It was baroque with poufed sleeves and lace. So much lace. The skirt was so big I could have hidden a small family under it.”

  Barrett raises a hand. “Peyton, any chance you can still wear that to the dance?”

  “Will you be needing to stow away small families under my dress?” she asks.

  Barrett laughs, and it’s such an honest sound that it surprises me. So much of our conversations straddle the line between brothers who love each other and a parent figure who has to look out for a kid. With Peyton, he lets down his I-love-you-I-hate-you armor. “Sounds awesome,” he says.

  I point at her. “She’s going to wear a costume, and you’re worried I’ll embarrass you?”

  He hums, tapping his chin. “Sounds about right. Besides, Peyton’s cool. Unlike some people I know.” He cough-laughs, then smiles at Peyton, lingering, and a warning light flickers.

  Does my little brother have a crush on Peyton?

  Is that why he hasn’t asked out Rachel? Because he’s harboring a crush on an older, unattainable woman?

  I groan privately. That would be foolish, but it’s entirely possible.

  Peyton is . . . well, she’s Peyton.

  If I were seventeen, she’d be precisely who I’d long for.

  She’s generous, gorgeous, and one of the kindest people ever.

  Her big heart was obvious before, and especially after, we kissed. The next day, school let out for winter break, and I went home to Colorado and helped with my sick dad. I’d planned on asking Peyton out when I returned to school, but the day before I left to go back, my father took his last breath. I didn’t go back to school right away, and once I did, I wasn’t in a good frame of mind to ask out the most beautiful woman I’d ever met.

  Besides, we came from different worlds. She was high class and prep school, with a mother who ran an art gallery and a father who shaped young minds as a professor. My dad had been a construction worker, my mother a bank teller. I was the scholarship kid, and there were plenty of guys in our dorm who had no problem dropping subtle hints that Upper East Side Peyton would only want someone from her fancy neighborhood, not the guy on financial aid who worked in the school cafeteria.

  Soon enough, she met Gage from Greenwich, Connecticut, and she dated him that spring. When he graduated, he went to work at a bank in London and told her he’d look her up again when he returned to New York.

  A few years later, he did. They rekindled and the rest is history.

  Now he’s out of the picture again, but it doesn’t matter because we’re friends—great friends—and you don’t throw that away on a Hail Mary shot at romance.

  Plus, Barrett is my priority. I’m busy finishing the task my parents started—raising him to be a good man.

  I return to the topic. “So, the first rule of homecoming is Peyton wears a dress big enough for stowaways and I don’t embarrass you. Anything else?”

  Barrett drums his fingers on the bar. “That about covers it.”

  “Count me in. In case I haven’t made that clear already.” Peyton pushes back from the stool, grabs her purse, and checks the time on her phone. “I need to go meet Amy and Lola, but the night is young.” She flashes me that killer smile then points her fingers at me like a gunslinger—pow pow pow. “And thanks to you, I will be blogging tonight. The Lingerie Devotee is back.”

  I mime an epic explosion of awesome with my hands. “Boom. The resurrection is upon us.”

  Barrett even chimes in with an imitation of a heavenly choir of angels. At least, I think that’s what his long, sustained Ahhhhhhh is supposed to mean.

  With a flourish, she waves goodbye, heading out into the New York night. I watch her till the door clangs shut.

  “Do you think she knows?” His voice is soft, the question earnest.

  “Knows what?”

  Barrett’s eyes lock with mine. “That it was all a cover-up? That you wanted to ask her on a date for real?”

  But that’s where he’s wrong.

  Once upon a time, I did.

  Maybe I even planned to try again a few years ago. Perhaps I’d even prepped to walk up to her door with a bouquet of flowers, to swallow down all the nerves in the world, and to ask her to dinner at last. But before I could, Gage returned from London and captured her heart again.

  I was oh-for-two, and every baseball fan knows you don’t swing on that kind of count.

  “That was the past, man,” I tell him. “Let it go. I have.”

  Barrett nods decisively. “That’s why you didn’t ask her out tonight? Because you let it go?”

  “I asked her to the homecoming dance. That’s what you wanted, right?”

  “No. I thought you were going to ask her for real. I legit thought you had asked her out. That’s why I said ‘You took my advice’ when I saw you hugging her. But instead, you made up the whole lame excuse about asking her to be a co-chaperone. You’re always telling me to go for it with Rachel, but then with Peyton, you make it seem like it’s this thing you have to do, like with homecoming. Why?”

  “Because.” I draw a deep breath, searching for words. “Because whatever happened in the past, whatever I said to Mom once upon a time, is the past. Peyton and I had a moment, and the moment is over. We are great friends, and she doesn’t need to know we were talking about her this morning, okay? That’s why I said what I did about homecoming. I don’t want her thinking she was the subject of a dare.” I drag a hand through my hair, my jaw ticking. “Know what I mean?”