“It’s not a dating contest. It’s an essay contest—with prize money. And you’ve always been good at putting your crazy thoughts and wild ideas into writing. Remember the time you convinced the physical therapy company you worked for to institute Happy Heart Friday? You had that whole pitch for a midday walking break laid out beautifully, and they said yes. Boom—happy hearting at Home Health Solutions was born.”

  I sigh contentedly at the memory. Too bad Home Health had to cut back last year, a decision that sent me to Sunshine Living. I don’t think Travis would approve stopping work for a walk, let alone see the benefits of disco bingo.

  But that’s yet another reason why I’m trying to open the gym.

  Hmm . . . That’s not a bad idea. I wiggle a brow at Stella. “What do you think about disco bingo?”

  “For your essay?”

  I shake my head. “No, for Sunshine Living.”

  “Summer, focus. Just read.” Stella stabs the glossy sheet, and I scan it quickly. The theme is “Lessons Learned.” That does sound right up my alley. “Okay, that’s more interesting. I’m intrigued.”

  The bell dings above the door, and a squadron of schoolkids rushes in.

  “It’s the cookie lady,” the kids shout.

  She warbles a songbird hello to the chattering throng, then in a low voice says to me, “You should definitely enter it.”

  “Thank you, cookie lady.” I blow her a kiss, tucking the bag of cookies into my purse.

  As I open the door, she waves goodbye, calling out, “Feel free to test Law Number Three of Stella’s Theory.”

  I shoot her a sharp stare. She simply smiles and returns her focus to the kids, bug-eyed and gaping at the displays of yummy goodness.

  I leave, hearing Stella’s voice in my head as I go.

  Stella has a theory about men, and it’s based on her three so-called Immutable Laws.

  Law Number One: funny men make great lovers.

  Law Number Two: funny and smart men make even better lovers.

  Law Number Three: good-looking guys make terrible lovers.

  The way Stella explains it, being good in bed is work. It requires skills. It demands talent. It calls for an education in the ways of women.

  “That’s why beautiful men are boring in the sack,” she explains when called upon. “I know because I conducted a comprehensive study before I married Henry. And my conclusion? The best-looking men waltz through life on their looks. They never have to work to get a woman in bed, so they don’t care about her pleasure. Therefore, you should never go above a five on the looks scale. And that’s Stella’s theory on how to have a happy vagina.”

  As I drink my latte along the way to the grilled cheese shop, I wonder if Oliver’s ever had to work for it.

  With those eyes, that face, and that accent, what are the chances? Women flock to him, especially since he’s on all those most-bangable-in-the-city lists. Several years ago, he went to a few galas and premieres with a TV actress, shooting him straight onto the seen-on-the-arm-of pages of the gossip rags. Since then, he’s been spotted with plenty of well-known women, and, come to think of it, he’s not even on the apps.

  Hmm. Maybe he doesn’t have to work for it. I bet they line up at his door. Send him perfumed panties in the mail. Leave keys for their hotels at his reception desk.

  My shoulders sag. I bet Oliver’s terrible in the sack.

  Dreadful.

  I bet he kisses like a bore, bangs like a jackhammer, and licks like he’s painting a house.

  Then I berate myself for thinking about Oliver’s prowess or lack thereof. Who cares if Chantal the heiress, or Dardania the TV lawyer, or Angelique the model ring him up for dates? Who cares if he takes women to O-town or not? That has no bearing on our friendship.

  And that’s what we are. I’ve known the man since we were fourteen, when my mom drove him, Logan, and me to school nearly every day.

  I’ve known him since his sister and I helped the boys plan their prom-posals.

  I’ve known him since that night a few years ago, when Logan, Stella, Henry, and Oliver took me out for a night on the town to celebrate my recent and nasty breakup. When Douchey Ex himself waltzed into the bar and sauntered over to me, and Oliver pretended to be my new boyfriend.

  Draping an arm around me.

  Dropping a kiss onto my cheek.

  Playing with my hair.

  Making me momentarily believe he was.

  But that’s just what friends do—help each other out in a pinch.

  I push those thoughts out of my mind as I reach Melt My Heart. When I open the door, Oliver stands and flashes me that familiar grin—one that sends an inappropriate tingle across my chest.

  I’ve got my own theories, laws, and rules too, and mine start and end with—ignore that inappropriate tingle.

  I’ve done it most of my life.

  5

  SUMMER

  Somehow, Oliver doesn’t look piggy when he eats a grilled cheese sandwich.

  Maybe it’s the charcoal suit—the complete opposite of what I saw him wearing this morning. Nearly every inch of his skin is covered up now, except for his neck and a bit of his throat where he’s slightly loosened his teal-blue tie.

  And a hint of his forearms, since his sleeves are rolled up.

  Also, his face. Since he’s not wearing a sack over it. But if he did, he’d probably wear it well.

  Just like the silk suit.

  And the swimsuit.

  Damn him.

  But wait. What’s that I see?

  A string of cheddar decorates his lower lip as he chews.

  If there is any justice in the universe, that cheese will stick to his lip all afternoon, unbeknownst to him.

  A girl can hope.

  “So, what do you think, Summer? Does this make it onto our list?” he asks as he sets the sandwich down on a mint-green ceramic plate. For some reason, the Fiestaware style makes me want to collect plates, even though I’m not generally a collector of anything.

  “Your list,” I point out, as I root for the cheese to hang on. Go cheese. You can do it. “Your morbid list.”

  “It’s not morbid. It’s important,” he says, licking his lips but still missing that bit of cheese.

  Maybe I should tell him about it. But it’s too fun to watch the polished Mr. Harris, attorney at law, eligible bachelor, and connoisseur of women, outfitted in his tailor-made suit and wearing a sliver of Vermont cheddar on the corner of his lips.

  I nod solemnly. “Then yes, I might consider this sinfully delicious grilled cheese sandwich as a last meal.”

  He nods appreciatively. “I had a feeling this would make it. What do you say we put it in the top three?”

  “Does it meet the key requirement though?”

  As Oliver considers whether the grilled cheese says something about how he’s lived his life, I flash back to when we first played this game a few years ago, dining on buttered scallops. He’d groaned like a cooking show host after the first bite.

  “About to go full Sally in the diner there, are you?” I’d asked.

  “Yes. Because this is last-meal worthy,” he’d declared.

  “Something you’re trying to tell me?” I asked, concerned that he was about to deliver Very Bad News.

  Something he knew far too much about.

  “No. It’s just that last meals say something about you. So it’s important to know what your last meal would be.”

  “Brandon was obsessed with that. Well, with death row inmates’ last meal requests,” I offered.

  “Is that Douchey Ex Number Two? Since that guy at the bar is Douchey Ex Number One.”

  “Yes, and he also liked to read about serial killers. He had a stack of books about them on his nightstand.”

  Oliver speared another butter-drenched scallop. “That’s why you broke up with him, right?”

  Sheepishly, I answered, “He broke up with me, but that’s beside the point.”

  Pointing his fork at me, Oliver had gotten emphatic. “No, that is the point. The man would have to be barking mad. It’s a damn good thing you’re not with him, and someday you’ll realize you have literally the worst taste in men.”

  I arched a pot-calling-the-kettle-black brow. “And you have all the taste.” He had a solid three-and-out approach to dating.

  But tonight I don’t want to linger on thoughts of Oliver and his appetite for the ladies, so I shift away from the memory, returning to the present. “Your renewed interest in last meals—is it because we’re nearing . . .?”

  He shakes his head, a familiar flash of sadness in his eyes. He hides it well, and it disappears so quickly I can almost believe it was never there at all except that I’ve glimpsed it since we were eighteen.

  “I just think it says something about you—your life, your passions, and such—if you know what you’d eat if it were your last day. Sort of like last words. Did you know Humphrey Bogart’s last words were ‘I should never have switched from scotch to martinis’?”

  “Fitting,” I say. “But let’s make sure yours aren’t ‘Do I have cheese on my face?’”

  An eyebrow lifts, and he swipes a hand across his cheek.

  I laugh, shaking my head. “Try again.”

  “Damn. I missed it.” He goes for the forehead.

  “Still off.”

  “Help a mate out, Summer,” he says, jutting his face forward.

  His gorgeous face.

  I’m tempted to lift a finger. To touch his lip. To feel my flesh on his.

  So I do, leaning closer, raising my hand, about to touch.

  And maybe for a fraction of a second, the look in his eyes says he wouldn’t mind if I did that. Wouldn’t mind my hand on him. Wouldn’t mind knowing how my fingers on his lips would feel.

  But I shake those lunatic thoughts away, reach for a napkin, and wipe the cheese off his lip like the mate that I am.

  And still, a tingle rushes through me.

  Sometimes I wish I didn’t feel these bouts of inappropriate desire for my good friend. They’re like a side effect of the drug of friendship with a hot guy. Buddy-ira. Friend-ium. Mate-Zan.

  Side effects can include temporary hallucinations, including, but not limited to, occasional inconvenient fantasies, inability to control dirty thoughts, and heightened desire to touch your friend’s lips.

  Because it is inappropriate for a thousand reasons—and also just one.

  I need him.

  Even though he’s as infuriating as an alarm clock that won’t stop beeping, he’s also as wonderful as a sunrise. And sunrise is my favorite part of the day. Which I suppose means Oliver is one of my favorite parts of life.

  “Thank you for looking out for the artwork,” he says with a teasing wink. “The Louvre appreciates your service.”

  I roll my eyes, and we are back to normal. As normal as we ever are anyway.

  He sets down the remains of his sandwich, taps the plate, and declares the grilled cheese “on the short list for last meals because it says he lived his life unafraid to indulge now and then.”

  “It was indeed a tasty indulgence,” I second.

  He dusts one hand against the other. “Let’s dive into the paperwork.”

  We spend the next hour reviewing the final details of the gym and its lease, as well as my insurance obligations. I’ve been saving for this for years and planning for just as many, and I’m nearly ready to pull the trigger.

  “Everything looks good. And I’m proud of you, Summer. You’ve wanted to do this for some time. And look at you, doing it,” he says, smiling. It’s his earnest smile, his honest one. The one, too, that says he admires me. It’s one of my favorite smiles of his.

  “Almost doing it,” I correct. “But I’ll get there. I have a meeting with the bank on Monday.”

  “Need any help?”

  “Nah, I’m good.” I want to do this on my own. Nab the loan, secure the financing, fund my dream. “I can’t wait to tell Maggie later that it’s looking good.”

  “Your grams will be so happy for you that she’ll go run a marathon.”

  “Or get on Tinder,” I say with a laugh. “Lord knows she has better luck than I do.”

  “Are you still on Tinder? Thought you declared yourself done.” He says it crisply, as if done is exactly where he wants me to be with dating.

  “I might as well be done with it.”

  “Are you though?” he presses, and it sounds vital that he know. Perhaps it’s just the lawyer in him, asking questions in that most lawyerly tone.

  “Not entirely,” I admit. “But I haven’t used it in a while.”

  He groans, dropping his head in his hand. “Woman, what am I going to do with you? Screen all your dates so you stop dating douches?”

  “I’m fine with my relationship status. Why does it bother you?”

  “Why?” His eyes widen as he repeats the question. “Why does it bother me?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Because you’re you,” he says, and he seems flustered.

  Totally discomposed.

  It’s an odd look on him.

  “And?” I prompt.

  “Don’t make me say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “Something nice,” he grumbles.

  I laugh. “Ah, so that’s it. You’re being protective of your nice friend.”

  “It’s hardly protective, and you’re not really nice. More like saucy and vexing, and you wear sarcasm like a coat.”

  I preen like a cat, taking the compliment. “Thank you for backpedaling on such a terrible adjective. ‘Saucy’ is way better than ‘nice.’”

  “I just don’t want my mean, cruel, terrible friend dating douches, and you seem to be drawn to them.”

  I shoot him a withering glare. Who is he to talk? “And you’re drawn to sweethearts? Angels? Mother Teresas?”

  He stares at the ceiling as if in thought. “Hmm. I’m not sure about sweethearts, but I’m positive I’ve never dated Mother Teresa.”

  I lean across the table to swat his shoulder. “You have definitely dated douches too. Oh, wait. You haven’t dated anyone long enough for them to measure on the douche-meter.”

  He arches a brow. “I beg your pardon. I have absolutely hit the crazy-ex floor in the department store of love.”

  I laugh as we clear our plates and head for the door. “Have you now?”

  “Do I need to remind you of Hazel?”

  No. He doesn’t.

  I can picture perfectly the day I saved his ass.

  6

  OLIVER

  Two years ago

  This was getting to be a problem—the morning ambush.

  Warily, I walked to the window, pulled back the blinds, and peered down to the street. Cars, cabs, and buses rushed along the avenue, and I held onto the fervent hope that I might be able to leave my own building unscathed.

  Then I caught a glimpse of red.

  Fucking hell.

  Hazel was there, lying in wait.

  With tea.

  I didn’t even like tea.

  Who decided that all Englishmen liked tea and scones, lived in castles, and followed football?

  Well, scones were delicious.

  I pulled back from the window, grabbed my phone, and called in a favor.

  “She’s here again,” I whispered, even though whispering was unnecessary. But it felt necessary. “Are you nearby? You’re probably on a run, right?”

  On the other end of the call, Summer breathed out hard. “Just finished five miles. I’m on the east side of the park. I can be there in ten. Want me to pretend I’m your girlfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m on it,” she said, knowing the situation well and knowing the solution too.

  “You’re a superhero.”

  “I am. It’s true.”

  I grabbed a tie and slipped it around my neck, knotted it, and pulled on my suit jacket. I had to get to work without my ex pouncing on me and asking me to get back together with her. Never mind that she was hardly an ex. She was a woman I’d dated for a mere two weeks. After I ended it on account of a massive lack of sparks—and not at all because she wanted to attend a cheese-making class, even though I hate trendy thing-making classes—she decided to try to woo me back by waiting outside my building with tea from my favorite coffee shop.

  She’d done this four days in a row. Today was the fifth.

  Returning to the window, I watched the street below. On the dot, Summer walked into view, holding a paper cup. She spotted Hazel and, with a smile, headed over to the redhead, exchanged a few words, then continued into the lobby.

  Hazel cast a glance upward, but she’d never been inside my building, so she didn’t know which floor was mine.

  Her shoulders sagged, and she walked away.

  I punched the air as my doorbell rang.

  Summer looked quite pleased with herself, and quite pleasant in her running shorts and purple sneakers, her blonde hair high in a ponytail. Her cheeks were red, her skin flushed from running. Would other activities bring that same pink glow to her face?

  To the exposed flesh above her sports bra?

  To . . .

  Quickly, I dismissed the freight train of dirty thoughts, because I had to.

  Also, because . . . coffee.

  She thrust a cup into my hand. “Coffee. Just the way you like it.” She took a beat, pausing before delivering our oft-said punchline, “Without tea.”

  “Superhero indeed,” I said, taking the drink then motioning with my free hand for her to tell me what went down.

  Squaring her shoulders, she flicked an unseen piece of lint off her Lycra top. “Call me Super Friend. Able to deflect clingy exes in a single bound. As soon as I saw her, I walked over, said a cheery good morning, then eyed her two cups of tea with friendly concern.”

  “And?”

  “And then I said, ‘By the way, if that’s for Oliver, he doesn’t care for tea. Go figure. But that’s my boyfriend for you.’”

  I beamed as she continued. “Then I trotted inside, said hi to the doorman, and left her to tuck her tail between her legs. She did tuck her tail, right?”