“You two better have the best time. But it sounds like you will.” River hauls his sister in for an embrace. “Love you buckets.”

  “Love you too,” she replies, then hugs me too. “And you, Owen. Obviously.”

  “Same, same,” I say, relaxing briefly, but only briefly, into the hug, then adjusting my glasses when we separate.

  I don’t come from a family of huggers, like River does. His mom, dad, and sister are all uber-affectionate, hippie, happy, lovey people. My parents? Not so much. They’re both remarried, and have been since I was in high school. But they remarried people who are just like their first spouses. Mom married a guy who’s distant and works too much. Dad married a woman who’s unhappy with him.

  History repeats itself in my family, but at least Grace is happy enough with her husband and their kid.

  As for me, I want more. I want the real deal. I’d like to find a guy who looks at me the way Delilah looks at River.

  When we’re back in the car, my friend wiggles his brow. “Just you and me now, cutie,” he says, a little rumble in his voice.

  That rumble fries my brain.

  Does he know how much he flirts with me? Does he mean it?

  “Yes, just you and me and ten thousand other people driving to Tahoe on a Friday afternoon in mid-November,” I say, deflecting, since that’s been my MO whenever we’ve veered into dangerous territory—the too flirty kind.

  I’ve avoided it since I don’t want to get hurt.

  I don’t want my hopes crushed.

  I know how that feels, thanks to Ezra, thanks to others. Everything went south at the end with Ezra, but for a while there, we had a good thing going.

  A real thing.

  An intense and passionate artist, Ezra went from zero to sixty with me in a few days, and I liked that. Suddenly, without warning, we were spending nights and mornings together, going to concerts, and grabbing breakfast. I was caught up. There’s something about waking up with the same person every day that fills you head to toe in endorphins.

  He was a whirlwind of need, and that was its own kind of magic. The kind that made me believe in possibilities.

  Just like I’d hoped to have with the guy before him, the venture capitalist I dated a few years ago. Todd was fun, loved to try the spiciest food, go to racetracks, and bet big in poker games.

  His relentless energy and daring attitude were a huge turn-on.

  Trouble was, he was only out at work. He turned out to be closeted to his family.

  He didn’t invite me to join him for Thanksgiving. Or Christmas. When he finally asked me to a Fourth of July event, he said I could come but I’d need to be just a friend. So I said, how about you become just an ex?

  The zinger alone was nearly worth the heartbreak, but I had liked him.

  Legit liked him.

  I was falling in love with him, so it hurt like hell to walk away.

  Even when guys turn out to be wrong for you, the ending still stings.

  But so can a bad relationship. I saw that in my parents, in the way they snipped and sniped at each other at the dinner table, and in the way their petty arguments spilled over into family time. Pass the salt was code for I’m still pissed at you. Like, they couldn’t have waited till Grace and I were at school to poke at each other’s sore spots. They had to do it in front of us, with underhanded jabs they thought we wouldn’t notice. There’s a time and place for hard conversations, and that time is in private.

  Not in front of your kids.

  I don’t want that kind of relationship.

  I want something real.

  Something that could last.

  Something meaningful.

  I haven’t dated anyone since Ezra. Maybe I’ve been hoping for the right moment with River.

  Maybe I shouldn’t deflect anymore.

  After eight years, and plenty of other boyfriends that didn’t pan out, perhaps I need to start leaning into his flirting more. Even if it is terrifying.

  As we pull away from Petaluma and onto the highway again, I vow to hunt for the right moment to let my best friend know how I feel. But I add another vow. A brand-new one—one designed to protect me. If I tell him and it doesn’t work out, I’ll move on. Right away. I’ll get back on the apps before Christmas.

  I’ll start dating again.

  It’s time.

  “Yes, it’s just you and me,” I say, my voice strong, masking the nerves underneath.

  “Just the way I like it,” River says, then he taps the dash. “Your turn. You play some music. I want to be wowed by the deejay in the passenger seat.”

  I want to wow him.

  Because this chemistry isn’t only terrifying.

  It’s thrilling.

  5

  River

  I am the worst.

  I tell myself I won’t flirt, but what do I do?

  The opposite.

  And all this banter and sweet talk isn’t curbing my craving for Owen. It’s fanning the fire. Hell, the flames are climbing sky-high. Talking to him is easier than mixing drinks, than deciding to go on a hike, than goofing off with Delilah.

  Hell, I made the guy happy by finding a perfect podcast for him—by knowing his tastes. And that feels so good.

  Too good.

  The last hour with Owen has my brain spinning forward, picturing future days. I need to pop this tingly, shivery bubble of my own making.

  Stat.

  When the first tune to fill the car is an Arctic Monkeys cover of a poppy love song, I seize my opportunity. “Wasn’t this Ezra’s favorite band?”

  Owen scrunches his brow. “No. I’m the one who likes them. Not him.”

  Oops. My bad. Sometimes the memory chip goes faulty. “But he liked them too,” I add, since the topic of exes is definitely non-flirting territory and I need to walk all over it. It’s perfect for a reset to FriendshipLandia.

  “Because I did. Why are you asking whether he liked them?”

  “Just thinking about Ezra,” I say, and mayday, fucking mayday. What is wrong with my brain?

  Owen laughs like I’ve gone mad. “And why are you thinking about my ex?”

  “I didn’t like him. He wasn’t any . . . fun,” I say, since that’s true, and a safe enough topic.

  “Ezra wasn’t fun enough? That was your issue with him?” Owen sounds incredulous.

  “He never liked to hang out with the whole group. He wanted you all to himself,” I say, and once those words fall from my lips, they don’t sound much better than he wasn’t any fun.

  “Let me get this straight. You didn’t care for him because he wanted to spend time with me alone, not because he was a possessive jackass who dumped me publicly in Las Vegas at a poker game?”

  And I’m a dick. Quickly, I try to recover. “That’s what I meant. Shit. Sorry, Owen. He was a jackass. I hate him for how he treated you at the end.”

  “I didn’t like how he treated me either,” he says, slumping back in his seat.

  That’s interesting. Owen didn’t say at the end. “Do you mean how he broke it off, or just in general?”

  Owen scrubs a hand across his jaw, staring off into the distance, maybe lost in thought. “Both?”

  “Are you asking me or telling me?” I ask gently.

  “Well, you said you didn’t like him. Did you dislike him all along?” he asks in a tone stripped free of the usual sarcasm that drips between us. “Because I sure thought I liked him, but maybe I liked the intensity of him.”

  “I can see that, I suppose. But still, I hate what he did in Vegas. Even if you liked him for a while, he didn’t deserve you. At all. You deserve better,” I say.

  “Thanks. I think so too.”

  “Why’d you stay with him so long?” I ask, since post-breakup, I was less concerned with rehashing the relationship, more concerned with taking Owen out to as many hockey games as I could—that’s his therapy. Sporting events, as well as cake, so I did my part, and mostly I tried to distract him by talking about things besides Ezra.

  Maybe it’s time, though, to talk about his ex.

  And surely this is still the safe zone.

  Owen shrugs. “Good question. But I think maybe because he was possessive.”

  Interesting. I wouldn’t have pegged Owen as wanting that.

  That makes me wonder—if he were mine, could I give him that?

  Stop, stop. You’re not in the running.

  I keep my eyes on the road, going for nonchalance as I toss out: “Is that important to you? That kind of alpha you’re my man and no one better look at you approach?”

  He laughs. “You sound like TJ imitating one of his characters.”

  “Speaking of, I listened to the audiobook of TJ’s Happy Trail. So good. The guy they got to read that book has all kinds of sexiness in his pipes.”

  “Samuel Park? Yes, the ladies and the dudes love him, TJ says.”

  “No surprise there. But anyway, are you into that type? The uber alpha?” I’m crossing my fingers, hoping Owen says no. I’m not that type. I’m too . . . high-energy to be a typical alpha, even if I might be bossy in bed.

  Might.

  Who am I kidding?

  I am bossy in bed.

  But I’m not growly, grumpy, or possessive.

  I just know what I like. To be in charge most of the time.

  Owen shakes his head, lifts a hand, adjusts his glasses. He takes them off, cleaning them on his shirt. “No. I think it just made me feel wanted.”

  My heart kicks a little harder. “And that’s important to you?”

  Owen turns his face to me, glasses free. His deep blue eyes look even more vulnerable than usual, and they make my chest swirl with new sensations.

  “Yes, it is,” Owen says. “I just don’t want to mistake possession for love again.”

  His words ignite an unexpected flare of emotion in me. A spark of feelings for the man next to me. “You should be wanted. You should be loved. You should be with someone who wants you, and gets you, and understands you,” I say emphatically.

  Owen smiles softly, but doesn’t put his glasses back on.

  I shake my head, trying to let loose the pinpricks of feelings racing through me.

  Want, love, need.

  All these things I’m seeking, too, as I look for Mister Right.

  “I’d like that,” Owen says, in a quiet but certain tone.

  “Is that what you’re looking for most in a relationship?” I ask, pressing on. “I mean, I don’t want to put words in your mouth.”

  Oh dear. The innuendo opportunities there.

  The things I could say.

  The things he could say.

  But I choose silence instead, waiting for him.

  He nods, then looks at me again as the music shifts to The National’s cover of “Never Tear Us Apart.” Owen swallows visibly, parts his lips, and I stall for a few seconds—my gaze caught on his full lips—before I jerk my attention back to the road.

  “What I want most in a relationship . . .” he starts, but doesn’t finish right away as he stares out the passenger window, then draws a breath before turning back to me. “I want to be good to someone. I want someone who wants me to be good to him. Who’d want what I have to give.”

  I nearly swerve into the next lane as a rush of warmth spreads across my skin.

  I grip the wheel tighter, focusing on the road.

  Just the road.

  Not those swoony, sweet, and powerful words.

  But they play on repeat in my head, his voice echoing, and I am so screwed.

  Something stronger than temptation is taking hold.

  Something clutching my heart.

  I don’t know what the hell to do with it.

  I just nod, letting the music fill the void. “I bet you have a lot to give,” I say in the understatement of my life.

  “I do,” Owen says, and his tone is different. There’s a vulnerability in it that feels almost personal. Possibly suggestive, but it’s not sexual; it’s just intimate. “River?”

  My breath catches, but I swallow it quickly. “Yes?”

  “You never answered my question. Did you dislike Ezra all along?”

  My mind cycles back to those days when Owen dated Ezra. When they swung by The Lazy Hammock. When they went to coffee together and I sometimes, maybe, caught a few minutes with my friend. When they went to concerts at night, and all I got was a morning-after report on the band.

  Did I dislike him all along?

  Maybe I did.

  From day one.

  Since he took Owen from me.

  “Yes,” I say, but I don’t elaborate. Don’t want to say why, especially since I’m just now starting to put two and two together. I cast about for a new topic, one that doesn’t tug on my heart unexpectedly.

  Owen lifts his right hand, rubs his temple.

  “Are you getting a headache?” I ask, since he gets tension headaches now and then. Usually when he’s been staring at a screen too long, or when driving, something he rarely does.

  “A little, but I’ll be fine. I have ibuprofen.”

  “Let’s get you something to swallow it down with,” I say, with too much cheer. Like a beverage is a cause for celebration.

  Perhaps it is if it distracts me.

  I glance down at the dashboard. The tank is half full. “Besides, I forgot to fill up. Let’s find a gas station. We can even grab some snacks, and that drink for you.”

  “All I want right now is a can of LaCroix,” Owen quips, returning to his flirty, fun voice.

  Where I should be too.

  6

  River

  This is Northern California, so even the gas station stores are organic and healthy.

  In this case, we’ve got a full-on gourmet shop.

  I wander down an aisle filled with baked chips, dried edamame, and roasted pumpkin seeds. “Gas station food, this is not,” I say as I pick up a bag of popcorn that touts itself as farm-to-table. “I didn’t know that was an option for popcorn in a freaking bag.”

  “I’m sure the farmers picked the corn this morning and hand-delivered it right here,” Owen says, then turns the corner. “Whoa.”

  “Did you find a bag of dried seaweed to munch on in the car?”

  His lips crook into a grin. “If I did, I’d be rushing to the counter now. But seriously. Check this out. They have gourmet hot cocoa from Lulu’s Chocolate.” He lifts a tin, waggles it.

  “Your favorite chocolate.”

  Owen clutches the tin. “Awww, you remember. You’re the best.”

  “You only go on and on about Lulu’s Chocolate all the time. You force me to go to the shop anytime we’re in the Ferry Building.”

  “I force you? Really? Does it feel forced when you’re moaning in pleasure from eating chocolate? It didn’t seem forced when you devoured an entire salted almond chocolate bar a few weeks ago when we went there after the Dragons destroyed the Storm Chasers in that blowout game,” Owen says, picking up a Lulu’s chocolate bar, and waving it seductively in front of my face, like he’s trying to hypnotize me.

  It’s kind of working.

  “Are you trying to tempt me?”

  Oh hello, double meaning. Nice to see you again.

  A spark in his blue eyes is the answer. “Maybe I am. I’ll get both,” he says, tin and bar in hand, then rounds the corner into the next aisle. I follow, walking behind him, my eyes traveling down his frame, cataloguing the shape of his strong back. Mmm, I do love a good back on a man. Love the divots and muscles, broad shoulders and tight waist. Love the feel of sliding my palm along smooth skin, right into thick hair.

  His thick hair.

  And tugging the strands.

  Pulling.

  Holding him in place under me.

  I stifle a groan as I slip dangerously deeper into temptation.

  I could shake off this lust, but it feels too good. So instead my eyes travel a little lower, lingering on the curve of his ass. Has Owen always had a bubble butt, or have I just started noticing it? My hands itch to touch him. To explore his arms, his abs, his legs.

  My throat goes dry as I stare shamelessly at Owen’s firm, muscled body.

  But when he spins around, I drag a hand through my hair, snap up my gaze, and do my best impression of I’m absolutely, thoroughly interested in the garbanzo beans in front of me on the shelf.

  I grab the can, study the label like it’s fascinating.

  “Chickpeas, River? Are you buying chickpeas for Friendsgiving? Like as a hostess gift for Nisha? Here are your chickpeas, hun! I mean, you and Nisha and Hailey did get along well at the party.”

  Friends. Gifts. Thank you. Yes!

  I snap my fingers, hoping it jolts me from this bout of wicked lust. “Idea! Why don’t we buy a few things for Declan’s mom’s cabin? Like a gift for her? Since the guys are covering for me at the bar, and that’s huge,” I say, then stop to laugh. “Wait. That’s not fair. I’ll buy them. I didn’t mean we. They’re doing me a favor. I’ll take care of all of it.”

  “I can help,” Owen says, almost as if he’s confused by why I’d suggest otherwise. My friend sets a hand on my arm, like he needs to reassure me. Trouble is his touch sends a flare of heat across my body. It reassures me of only one thing—the temptation to touch Owen back is growing stronger by the second. “I mean, they’re helping both of us, right?”

  Words.

  Thoughts.

  Answers.

  C’mon, brain. Come up with them. “They are?”

  “Yeah. Duh. You’re coming with me.”

  “But I invited myself,” I say, feeling a little more flustered than usual. Holy shit. I did invite myself. Did Owen want me to come along?

  “I’m glad you’re coming,” he says, answering instantly, easing my nerves, before he adds, “Trust me on that.”

  “Okay. Thanks. But still, I want to do this. To get some fun little things for Declan’s mom. It’ll be sweet.”