Owen nods, letting go of me to adjust his glasses. “Yeah, it is sweet. We’ll both do it. It’ll be from both of us.”

  That feels entirely too couple-y for words, so I say nothing. Just nod, unsure what to make of this him-and-me pair-up.

  But maybe it’s just the road trip.

  Yeah, that’s it.

  Driving with someone for four hours can make you feel like you’re a thing.

  When you’re not.

  We cruise through the gourmet shop, picking up snacks for the drive, as well as little items here and there for the cabin, including another tin of cocoa for Declan’s mom. At the counter, the cashier rings us up, then I slide my card out of my wallet, eager to pay.

  “I mean it. I’ve got it,” I say firmly.

  “Let’s split it. You already paid for gas,” Owen says, taking out his wallet, but I shake my head, curl a hand over his to stop him.

  Oh!

  That’s quite nice . . . more than nice. I don’t want to stop. I want to run my thumb across his knuckles, touch him slow and sensual, learn how he reacts to my hands on his body.

  Great. Fucking great.

  I’m getting turned on yet again in the gourmet convenient store on the side of the California road as I imagine seducing my best friend.

  “Why don’t you pay for the snacks on the drive back?” I suggest, grasping for logic as I let go of his hand.

  “Fine,” he says, tucking his credit card away, then grumbling, “You’re so bossy.”

  The clerk packs the items, then flashes a grin. “Drive safely, now,” she says.

  “I will,” I reply, as I grab one bag and Owen snags the other. When I push on the door to leave, a blast of cold air lashes me. “Brrr. It’s Antarctica.”

  Owen gestures to the car, several feet away. “Want me to run over there first and get your jacket for you? Would that help?”

  “Mock me with your Canadian blood, why don’t you?”

  “Well, do you, River?”

  Shivering, I growl. “I’ll survive the ten feet.”

  “Look at you. Braving the elements. It’s amazing and, honestly, a little inspiring,” he says, faux choking up.

  “I’m endlessly inspiring. I’m also freezing,” I say, as we quickly set the bags on the back seat, then hop in. I turn the car on, then arch a brow. “Want to go wild?”

  “Is that a trick question?”

  “Maybe it is.”

  “I’ll bite. What are we doing that’s wild?”

  “Butt warmers,” I say salaciously, then hit the button on the console to turn up the heat on the seats.

  “Bring it on,” Owen says, and tosses me a sly grin. “Nothing I like better than a hot ass.”

  I fan my hand in front of my face, reverting to flirting once more. “And now I need to cool off.”

  “Cooling off is overrated,” Owen says, as I pull out of the lot, and back onto the highway.

  Maybe I don’t entirely want to cool off either.

  Once we hit the stretch of concrete ribbon, my thoughts return to Owen’s comment at the register. To my own wayward mind. And sometimes, wayward minds win. “By the way, you’re right.”

  “About what?”

  I shoot him a sly smile. “I am definitely bossy.”

  My remark takes a few seconds to land, but when it does, I catch a glimpse of his lips curving into a sexy little grin. The tip of his tongue flicks across the corner of his mouth, then he turns to face me. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  Owen leans his head back against the headrest, grinning. “Have to say, I’m not at all surprised to learn that.” Then he adds, his voice dropping lower, hitting a smoky tone, “Also, bossy can be good.”

  I should pump the brakes.

  Truly, I should.

  But the more miles I put between San Francisco and us, the harder that gets.

  7

  Owen

  After I take two ibuprofens, I pop a pumpkin seed in my mouth and chew. Once I’m done, I grab the can of bubbly water and knock some back.

  Dual purpose—the food and drink stop me from talking.

  From picking up where we left off.

  Asking all sorts of questions.

  Did you dislike Ezra for the reason I’m hoping you did? Because you were jealous of him since he was with me? Since it sounded like you were, and that would honestly be awesome because I’ve been there, done that, when it comes to your exes too.

  Or other questions.

  What are you looking for in a relationship, River? Because I know you’re looking. That’s not a secret. You barked it out the other night at your bar. Like, maybe . . . could you be looking for a guy like me?

  I stuff more pumpkin seeds between my lips since I’m not ready for answers I won’t want. Like, I’m holding out for Frank Ocean, or gimme a silver fox I can call Daddy, or worse. Not you, Owen. If I’m finally going to tell my friend how I feel, then I need an escape hatch in the event of his no.

  An escape hatch that ideally leads directly to my apartment so I can mope around with ESPN, and Discovery Prism, and a playlist, and cake, and a really good book, preferably with zero romance, angst, or heartbreak in it. Maybe something with pirates. Or talking animals.

  Yup.

  I officially know when to tell River I’m crazy for him.

  Not fucking now.

  I can’t handle spending the next forty-eight hours at Nisha and her wife’s rental with a guy who might reject me.

  That’ll be uncomfortable, not just for me, but for everyone.

  My job is to present a positive face. To smooth relations with the press and public, and to make sure my players shine. That carries over to my personal life. So, I’m not going to put River, my friends, or myself in an awkward position simply because I couldn’t wait to blurt out a lovesick confession.

  Nope. I do PR for a goddamn living. I know better than most that there’s a time and a place for everything, and my job is to find the right time, place, and also way to say things.

  Which means I’ll tell him after we leave Nisha’s.

  Maybe on the way home from Friendsgiving.

  Like, say, when we’re cruising back across the Golden Gate Bridge and into San Francisco.

  Or maybe when we’re a block away from my apartment.

  Because if his answer is anything other than Thank God you finally said something, because I am wildly crazy about you too, and by crazy about you I mean I need to fuck you right now and then date you, and be your boyfriend, and can you please show me how good you can be to a man, like you said you want to? Because, Owen, I desperately want everything you have to give, I’ll be more devastated than I was that time I went into my favorite bakery and they only had a red velvet abomination.

  River’s phone pings, and a text message alert pops up.

  I say nothing since, well, it’s his phone.

  His eyes swing briefly from the road, then a smile bursts across his handsome face. “Ooh, it’s Echo. There might be a dog pic. Imma need to pull over right now.”

  Cracking up, I gasp for air at his antics, and the way they relieve my own sexual tension. “You can’t be serious.”

  But he’s slowing the car, checking his mirrors, indicating he is very serious. “As a shark. Can you check? See if there’s a pic.”

  Wow. River is even more addicted to his dog than I thought. “Okay,” I say, doing as told. Grabbing his phone from the holder, I slide my thumb across the screen, but it’s locked.

  “Six-nine-six-nine,” he says.

  I groan. “Are you twelve?”

  “Do you have something against sixty-nines?”

  “Nope. I have something for them,” I say, taking the ante and raising it.

  River narrows his brow. “Well played.”

  As he presses the brakes, I confirm the existence of a dog pic. He’s going to lose his mind for this shot.

  “This is worth it,” I say.

  “Excellent. Because I brake for dog pics.”

  “Things I just learned about you,” I say.

  “And there’s so much more to uncover.”

  I’d like to uncover it all.

  River pulls to the shoulder, puts the car in park, and admires the pic, shaking his head in delight. “Shut the front door. She’s the cutest dog ever,” he says, then beckons me to check out an image I’ve already seen. “You cannot tell me you’ve ever seen a cuter dog.”

  He’s right. I can’t. “She’s literally the definition of adorable,” I say, as I lean in closer to him to stare at the shot. Delilah is lounging on the couch on her back, all four legs straight up in the air, but her face is tilted to the side. She’s watching Clueless on the TV.

  “She has such good taste in flicks,” he says, admiring his creature as he moves just inches away from me.

  Our heads are almost touching. We’re entering the smushie-selfie range. Like this, I catch a faint whiff of his shampoo, and the hint of a forest and rainfall making my mouth water. I draw a surreptitious inhale, letting it waft through my nostrils and go straight to my head.

  My breath shudders.

  My eyes float closed as the scent fries my brain. Scrambles all my thoughts.

  “This is the best, and I’m so glad we stopped,” River declares.

  Me too, though it has nothing to do with the dog and everything to do with how fucking good you smell. So good, I want to put my mouth on your throat, sweep my lips over your skin, drag my nose along your neck.

  I want to do it again and again till you plead for more. Kiss you so thoroughly that you’re begging for me to make you feel good everywhere.

  Because I will, and I know I can, and I want to show you. I want to do all sorts of dirty and sweet things to you.

  I don’t move. I don’t trust myself not to murmur, Let me kiss you now, please.

  I stay frozen in time, imagining hot and then hotter and then incendiary kisses with my best friend, until River sighs happily and moves away from me.

  My eyes snap open, and I breathe out hard, reconnecting to reality here in his car on the side of the road, other vehicles whipping by as the sky swells with clouds.

  River doesn’t seem to notice the harsh breath I take since he’s craning his neck around and checking traffic, then easing the car back into the right-hand lane.

  I wish he had noticed. I half wish he’d said something. I almost wish he’d confront me. Force me to admit out loud the depth of my desire for him.

  I set his phone back in the holder, the moment nearly broken.

  But not quite.

  As he speeds up the car, my racing thoughts get the better of me. “You don’t smell like gardenias,” I say, my voice sounding rougher than usual.

  Can River tell?

  “Ha, because that’s not my body wash,” he says with a laugh, but there’s a note of nerves in it. Or possibly, surprise.

  I take another chance, push a little further. “It’s forest rain,” I say, and inside I’m burning from the heat of my own truth. “That’s what you smell like.”

  River doesn’t answer right away. Just presses his lips together, then in a quiet voice, he asks, “I . . . do?”

  “Yes,” I say roughly.

  River shoves his left hand through his hair, then returns his palm to the wheel. “It’s my . . . um . . . shampoo. The one I started using when Nisha gave it away. It’s called something . . . I can’t remember.” River never stumbles on words. He’s a mile a minute all the time. He’s fearless, forging ahead always, conquering everything he does.

  But not this second.

  I steal the quickest glance in the history of stolen glances.

  His cheeks are the slightest bit red. So is his neck. If I were a betting man, I’d bet he was aroused.

  Just like me.

  Except, I don’t know if I’ve gone too far. Or if he likes where I’m going.

  All I know is he’s still quiet. Lips pressed together. Eyes lasered in on the road. Hands curled tight around the steering wheel.

  His jaw ticks. Finally, he speaks. “Is your headache better?”

  “A little,” I say. “My friend ibuprofen is starting to work his magic.”

  “Good.” That one word comes out clipped.

  And fuck me.

  Maybe I should have stuck to the friendship script.

  I rewind to the way we were. The dog pic. The movie. The banter. All the things we do.

  “So, Clueless? Is that one of Echo’s favorite classic chick flicks?”

  River takes a beat, like his brain is a train depot, and he’s the engineer. Pulling levers, rerouting, sending cars down another track. “I mean, Paul Rudd, am I right? Who can resist?” His voice comes out practiced, almost like a comic on stage delivering a line.

  “Evidently not his fictional stepsister,” I say drily.

  “C’mon. Alicia Silverstone was his former stepsister.”

  “Ah, well, so much better. That makes it not taboo then.”

  “It’s not taboo at all.”

  “Just weird,” I say, egging him on, since this is easier. Clueless over forest rain. Movies over what do you want from love.

  “Take it back. Take it back right now. You can’t be a Clueless hater. I categorically do not accept you being a Clueless hater,” River says.

  I laugh, since we’re back to quick retorts and snappy replies, though it all feels a little forced to me. Still, I go along with it, because of the damn forty-eight hours I have to get through.

  “Because for you, Clueless is gospel?” I ask.

  “Clueless easily contains ten important life lessons.”

  “Ten? You sure about that? Ten?”

  He’s swift and certain. “Ten.”

  I sweep my hand out. “The floor is yours. By all means, begin.”

  “One. Cher has great friends. That’s key,” he says, then flashes me a grin that sure as shit feels like a reminder.

  Is that the life lesson? Remember the pact, Owen. You and I are only friends.

  But maybe this cigar is just a cigar. “I’ll give you that. Friends rock,” I say.

  “Another lesson? Pay your parking tickets,” River says.

  “Or better yet, have a friend with a car so he gets all the parking tickets,” I say, then bang my palms on the dashboard, bada-bing style.

  River sneers. “I should have made you pay up for that one I got at the beer fest last year when you told me parking was allowed in the marina on a Saturday.”

  “Maybe don’t always believe me,” I counter, sassing him right back.

  “Maybe I won’t,” he says, then raises a finger quickly to make a point. “But the beer fest was fun. I’ll give you that.”

  “Worth the parking ticket?”

  “Considering you got me so buzzed I couldn’t drive home, and we had to go out bowling while I waited for my buzz to wear off, I’d say yes.”

  “You love bowling,” I say.

  “And arcades, and darts, and karaoke. But not axe throwing,” River points out.

  “Never axe throwing.” I rub my palms together like I’m a coach, cheering him on, his boxing trainer in the ring. “Okay, you’ve done two life lessons from Clueless. Eight to go. You can do it.”

  River groans, sounding like a dying animal, then stares up at the clouds, tinged, now, with orange. He tips his forehead to the windshield. “Owen,” he begins, like he needs something important.

  “Yeah?”

  “Concentrating on movie lessons while driving is hard,” he says, all earnest, “since I think it’s going to snow. Can you check the weather app?”

  “Of course,” I say, grabbing my phone.

  “Thank you. And can I revise the Clueless life lessons to three, and can I tell you my least-favorite flick?”

  Laughing at his shift from gratitude to rat-a-tat-tat questions, I open the app. “It’s snowing in Tahoe, but not in Markleeville. We’re an hour away from the cabin, so we should be fine. And yes, I hereby grant you permission to pick one more lesson and then tell me the flick you hate.”

  “Lesson number three from Clueless,” he says, squaring his shoulders, like he’s getting ready to deliver a big pronouncement. “It’s so much better than You’ve Got Mail.”

  “That’s the lesson?”

  “Yes, and we have to do our part to promote Clueless. Talk it up.”

  “Where and how does Clueless need help?”

  “Anywhere and everywhere that the reputation of classic rom-coms is threatened. The thing is, You’ve Got Mail is up there in the holy trinity of Meg Ryan flicks with When Harry Met Sally and Sleepless in Seattle, but it does not belong. No way. Not one bit.”

  River’s not wrong. “Because it’s a cheating flick,” I say, emphatically. “And it’s tricked everyone into thinking that it’s a romance, when romances should not contain cheating.”

  “Yes!” River shouts, then bangs a fist on the dash. “You get me. You totally get me.”

  “I also understand story and subtext and narrative, but yes, I get you too,” I say drily.

  River shoots me a glare, but his brown eyes are twinkling. “Love it when you get all smarty-pants. But I’m glad we agree. Emotional cheating is just as bad as any other cheating, and that flick glorified it, then tried to make it okay with their eventual exes liking other people.”

  “Yup. Also, can we talk about the biggest issue in the film?”

  River nods, big and long. “The fact that Tom Hanks’s character was a lying liar who lies?”

  “He was the worst. He lied to her until the last frame,” I say, then mime retching again.

  “See? That’s acceptable retching. You can retch over Tom Hanks lying anytime.”

  “And I will. Because I have a lot to say on this topic. His character is a multiple liar. He lied when he stood her up on the date. Lied to her when she had the flu. And lied to her when he was courting her.”

  “You know who that makes him? He’s the original catfisher,” River declares, shaking his head in disgust.

  “Right? Plus, the movie made me hate Tom Hanks, and that’s not fair.”

  River gives a knowing smirk. “See? Paul Rudd is looking more attractive, isn’t he?”

  I roll my eyes. “You went on that rant to trick me into liking Paul Rudd’s character?”