His smile ignites. “Wow. Thank you. That is so kind. We will be there. We are all about exploring sensuality.”

  “Awesome,” I say with a fist pump, praying my face is not the color of a tomato in July.

  I give him a business card with the name and location of the shop, then press the gas pedal, hightailing it out of the scene of my latest dignity kersplat.

  As the morning sun hits my face, I exhale a massive sigh of relief as I rifle through my bag for my phone and turn it on.

  I’ll just tell Amy I spoke too soon. That I’m not the best woman for the job. That some more adventuresome gal will have to get the job done for her.

  She’ll understand.

  Of course she will.

  As soon as the phone boots, I’ll send her a note.

  But when my phone beeps on, the first thing I see is a text from Amy blinking at me.

  Amy: You saved the day! My boss is so excited about the panty shredder!!!

  “Porcupine. Cornhole. Fudgsicle,” I mutter, then gaze at the sky. “What would you do, Mimi?”

  In between the chug of a bus and the squeal of a cab, I listen for her reply. There is always a plan B. Just make sure your zipper is zipped and your blouse is buttoned.

  As I walk home, I cycle through options.

  The delivery guy who drops off packages of silky goodies?

  Asking my brother if he or his wife know someone? But they live in Seattle now, so I doubt they’ve kept up on New York single men.

  Do I ask the apps?

  Trouble is, I don’t know which poison I want to pick.

  Before I open the store, I weigh these choices, toying with Tinder and Match and even Boyfriend Material when I’m in the office paying bills.

  But I can’t quite pull the trigger. Something feels off about asking for help testing romance novel tropes via an app.

  These types of scenarios involve trust.

  And there’s someone I trust completely.

  How did I miss the obvious? He’s not plan B. He’s plan A, and I should have asked him from the beginning.

  I open my texts.

  Peyton: Remember that time last night when you said you’d help me with my blog?

  Tristan: Why do I feel like you’re about to cash in on that right now?

  Peyton: Because I am.

  My phone buzzes fifteen minutes later.

  The text from Tristan says Knock, knock.

  The store doesn’t open for another hour, so I rush from the office, unlock the door, and let him in.

  He smells like the fall breeze, and in his jeans and work boots, his pullover shirt hugging his chest, he looks like he’s auditioning for a role on Hardy Men from Alaska.

  He drags a hand through his dark hair. “Let me guess. This is when you tell me you want to do the lingerie videos.”

  I smack his shoulder, even though he’s not far off. “No. But I’ll call you when I do.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that.” He surveys the store, his eyes widening as he takes in the sea of pretty goodies. He points to a red bra. “Maybe write about that one next? That gets my vote.”

  “You love red, don’t you?”

  “I’m like a bull.”

  I can’t resist. I head to the rack, grab the red bra, and wave it like a matador.

  He snorts and kicks his foot.

  Laughing, I shake my head. “I swear, you must have driven Samantha insane with your lingerie obsession,” I say as I hang the bra back on the rack.

  He flinches. “Samantha?”

  “Your last girlfriend? Pretty blonde. Ice-blue eyes. Dry sense of humor. Ring a bell? She was the workaholic attorney who drove you crazy because she expected you to be available at midnight to service her.”

  “Did I say that bothered me?” he asks wryly.

  A plume of jealousy rises out of nowhere. What the hell is that about?

  I turn around so he can’t see my face. But that doesn’t change this odd sensation like my shirt is too tight or my skirt is scratchy, when neither is the case at all. But his question leaves me out of sorts. Why the hell am I bothered that Tristan enjoyed sleeping with his ex-girlfriend? I squirm uncomfortably, needing to eject that idea from my brain before it takes hold.

  I adjust a pale-pink bra, focusing solely on the here and now, sweeping away images of him with someone else.

  “Glad you enjoyed it,” I say with the reserve of a hostess at a fine restaurant.

  “What I didn’t enjoy was her expectation that I pay more attention to her than Barrett,” he adds.

  I spin away from the rack and look at him again. “Oh. I had no idea that she said that.”

  “She was oddly jealous of my little brother.” He lifts his hands in a shrug.

  I rein in the sliver of a grin, even though I’m more pleased than I have reason to be. “And I guess that’s why she’s the ex.”

  “Indeed it is.” He parks his hands on his hips. “What’s the blog idea? And how can I help? If it involves me lifting heavy boxes, you’re going to owe me lunch, woman.”

  I smile—he’s eased my nerves just by being himself. “No boxes. I promise.” I grab his wrist and guide him through shelves of camisoles and undies, bustiers and stockings, marching him to the dressing room area, since it’s a good place to chat.

  “Fashion show?” He stretches out his neck before he parks himself on the pink chair in the corner.

  “Not exactly. But . . .” I take a deep breath, hoping this goes better than my attempt this morning. “I’m hoping we can test fashion.”

  One brow climbs in curiosity. “Explain. Because you should know, I’m not wearing any of that stuff.”

  A laugh bursts from my throat. “I know. Of course. Definitely not. The testing would be on . . .” I flutter my fingers toward myself.

  He blinks, like something is stuck in his eye. “You? You want to test lingerie with me?”

  “Sort of,” I say, my throat dry because this is much harder than I’d thought it would be. Gage’s betrayal did a number on me, and my trust in love, romance, and men is at an all-time low.

  I repeat my mantras, though, since I’m trying to move into my future, whatever that entails.

  Put yourself out there.

  Do the hard things.

  Go for it.

  “Let me start at the beginning,” I say.

  “That’d be helpful because I’m a little lost.”

  I park myself on the ottoman, facing him, and I cross my legs. His eyes drift briefly to the black boots that I’ve paired with a short purple skirt.

  “We will be testing various kinds of fashion. And their resilience under certain conditions.”

  “We?”

  I adopt my best sales-y smile. “Well, you know how my good friend Tristan said I should blog again?”

  “Smart guy. Also, I read the blog last night. It was . . . interesting.”

  Wait till he finds out what I’m about to hit him with next. Deep breath. “And I need to take it a step further,” I say, pushing out the next words. “Amy needs someone to test out a few tropes from romance novels to go along with a book she’s publishing, and I volunteered as tribute.”

  The look on his face is inscrutable. “What sort of things?” Each word comes out like it occupies its own latitude and longitude.

  “I’m starting with lingerie stuff, and I was going to ask this guy at yoga class—”

  “A guy at yoga class?” His tone could slice a statue.

  “There’s this nice guy at yoga. He always puts out a mat for me. And you know how Amy and Lola have been telling me to put myself back out there and try again?”

  Tristan nods crisply, his jaw set.

  “I decided to try, and I started to ask him out, thinking maybe it would be just what I needed. Oops. Turns out he’s involved with the instructor, and I need someone I can practice ripping a shirt off of who’ll also rip off my panties.”

  And that came out like a five-car pileup.

  Tristan doesn’t break eye contact. He gazes at me, unflinching.

  His hazel eyes are darker than I’ve seen them in a decade. They remind me of that one night. The night I can still recall with perfect clarity.

  It was only a kiss. It lasted a mere twenty, maybe thirty seconds.

  But every second is indelibly etched in my memory.

  A shiver runs down my spine as I remember how he wrapped his hand around my waist. How he dipped his mouth to mine. How I felt his kiss radiate in my bones that whole night, and for weeks to come.

  But if something more were going to happen, it would have happened already.

  He scrubs a hand over his stubbled jaw, his words a command. “Don’t ask anyone else.”

  “Why?” I ask, my voice breathier than I’d expected.

  “Because I’ll do it.”

  8

  TRISTAN

  This fashion show raises an interesting question.

  As I leave her store to head to my restaurant, I wonder, Where does a guy buy a shirt he doesn’t give a shit about ripping?

  Clothes are not my forte. Most of mine come from a one-minute search on Amazon, where I buy ten of the thing I like and wear them to tatters.

  That makes this shirt quest a quandary.

  But it’s a quandary I’m glad to have because I don’t want any other guy picking out a shirt for Peyton to rip off.

  That’s why I said I’d handle shirt procurement. Why I volunteered to go to her place tonight. Why I said yes to her request.

  No, this isn’t my big chance to win her heart. That’s in the past.

  But this project matters to her—for her store, for her blog, and for her reinvention.

  And there’s no way I want her to find some other guy to test-drive scenarios with. What if she found someone who didn’t respect her? Who tried to take advantage of her?

  I shudder at the thought as I return to work, heading for my small office in the back to review orders. Before I start, I send a quick message to my buddy Linc. He’s a savvy cat, so I bet he’ll know where to find the ideal item.

  Tristan: Where do I get a shirt that I can use for ripping off?

  Linc: Why, I thought you’d never ask.

  Tristan: Yeah, same here.

  Linc: Also, I’m going to assume you have a good reason why you want one, and assume I don’t need or want to know. I would suggest a trip to Duane Reade. In fact, I’m on my way there right now.

  Tristan: Duane Reade sells shirts?

  Linc: Duane Reade sells everything.

  Tristan: Including button-down shirts?

  Linc: Yes. Have you ever tried going to a store rather than Amazoning everything?

  Tristan: No.

  Linc: Fine. I’ll help you. Meet me there.

  Fifteen minutes later, I find him waiting for me inside.

  “Cue the music for the romantic-comedy shopping montage where the cool guy helps the dorky dude buy a shirt.”

  I scoff. “I’m the dorky dude?”

  He gestures to his charcoal slacks and pressed button-down, in contrast to my jeans and pullover. Fine, he cleans up well.

  “Obviously, I’m the cool one,” he says. “Ergo, you’re the dorky fellow.”

  “Just help me with the shirts. Also, how the hell did you know they sold button-downs here?” I ask.

  He raises a finger, his tell that he’s prepping to tell a story. “My sister challenged Amy and me to what she likes to call her Presto-Chango game for a Friday Night Game Night and we had to find and buy items with the clock ticking,” he says, rounding the corner of the aisle as I keep pace. “We had to report back with completely changed looks in fifteen minutes.”

  “Um. Like a new costume?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know how we could do it. I was freaking out, to put it mildly.’” He stops in front of a rack of socks like he’s a game show host. “It was like a whole new world. The drugstore had undershirts. It sold scarves. Socks. Hats. Sweatpants. And, wait for it, dress shirts. Who knew the drugstore had literally everything?”

  “Wow. This really changes my life too,” I deadpan.

  “And since I became a New Yorker, I like to think of Duane Reade as Crisis Solver Central. After all, we won the challenge and now I know where everything is.” He guides me a few more feet to a pack of three dress shirts.

  I read the label. “They look like they’re made of tissue.”

  “You wanted something shitty,” he points out. “This is for Halloween, I presume? You’re doing costume planning, right?”

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  He narrows his eyes, studying me over the top of his glasses. He snaps his fingers. “Ah. They’re for Barrett. Something for the theater tech he’s doing?”

  Another shake. “Not that either.”

  “Okay, I know I said I didn’t want to know. But that was a lie. I love weird shit. You have to tell me now.”

  Briefly I weigh telling the truth versus evasion.

  But since Peyton’s blog is public, and since Linc is involved with Amy, I decide to own up to it. “Amy asked Peyton to test some things for her because of her new book and—”

  I don’t even have to finish. “Yes, of course. That tracks. That’s exactly what Amy would do.” Linc hands me a pack of shirts, smacking me on the chest with it. “So, you’re the guinea pig?”

  “One certified lab rat right here, ready and waiting for Peyton’s instructions.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, then simply claps me on the shoulder. “Good luck with that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He levels me with a knowing stare. “I mean, good luck with that.”

  I don’t press. I don’t need to. Because I don’t need luck. This project isn’t about luck.

  It’s about friendship. That’s all.

  But just so I’m fully prepared, and just in case she’s keen to know the difficulty involved in ripping off a fancy shirt versus a cheap one, I google where to buy expensive dress shirts, then stop at Barneys on the way home and pick up a few more.

  Good thing my restaurant is in the black, because now it’s not only funding my brother’s school, but also this insane project where the girl I was once crazy for wants to tear clothes off me.

  And have me tear clothes off her.

  All in the name of research.

  Later that night, I shower, trim my beard, pull on jeans and a T-shirt, and text Barrett that I’ll be home late and that I’ve left some chicken parmigiana in the fridge for him, along with a green salad.

  His response?

  Barrett: Can I slurp the chicken?

  Tristan: If you can, more power to you. Also, you’re welcome.

  Barrett: Thank you. I’ll record a video of my success with the chicken consumption.

  Tristan: I can’t wait.

  I leave, stop in a specialty store along the way to pick up a gift for her, then I head to Peyton’s with the gift and the shirts in hand.

  It’s good that I have extras. After all, if she likes tearing the shirt off me once, maybe she’ll want to do it a few more times.

  Can’t hurt to run through the scenarios more than once.

  9

  PEYTON

  To wine or not to wine—that is the question.

  But the answer is obviously wine.

  After all, what’s the point of alcohol if not to smooth over the awkward moments between friends researching the practicality of different scenes from romance novels, right?

  Right.

  Or maybe the answer is . . . tequila.

  As I stare at the shelves in the liquor store near my brownstone, I consider all the liquid options to take the edge off tonight. Lord knows I’ll need a little something to smooth over the jitters.

  I’m a jack-in-the-box and have been with each tick of the second hand. Since Tristan agreed to be my test partner this morning, my heart’s been hammering at triple-espresso speed.

  Fine, I’m only ripping off his shirt. But my hands will be on him. I’ll be undressing my best guy friend.

  A friend I kissed ten years ago.

  The thought of removing his shirt makes me . . .

  I pause before the tequila, asking myself how it makes me feel.

  Nervous? Excited? Scared out of my mind?

  I haven’t undressed a man since Gage. He’s the only one I’ve been with for the last few years.

  Just focus on the mission, not your mind-set.

  That’s what I tell myself. Besides, liftoff begins in less than two hours, and I need to prep. No time to noodle on squishy feelings that have come out of nowhere.

  The question of the hour—tequila or gin. Gin or tequila?

  Maybe it’s a martini kind of night. Except my talents don’t lie in making drinks, shaken or stirred, for super spies, so I bypass that old James Bond standard.

  While I could ask Tristan to make a special beverage, a good hostess would have a cocktail ready. That’s what my mother taught me growing up—never ask your guests to bring a thing but their presence.

  Tristan insisted on buying the shirts, but everything else will be on my dime.

  It should be a simple task to select the ideal drink for our research.

  As I wander down the next aisle, I mentally mark the whiskeys and bourbons in the no column. I don’t have a fire extinguisher big enough to put out the flames in my throat from those liquors.