“Yes, you are definitely a mom.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Wait. Are you and Hailey trying to?”

  “Don’t change the subject, Owen Hayes. You had me so worried that for two hours I was pacing and convinced you were dead.”

  “Well, there was snow, and I took a nap.”

  “You and your nap fetish,” she says. “Anyway, if the snow doesn’t melt by tomorrow, I’m sending a helicopter for you. I really want you here.”

  “You are a determined goddess. But question—can helicopters fly in this weather?”

  “My imaginary one can. You’re in that little car, right?”

  “Yes, River has a Honda.”

  “My cousin has a new van for work. It’s all weather, or all-terrain, or jet-fueled, or something. Anyway, I can send him to pick you up tomorrow if the snow is still shitty. He loves helping. It’s his thing. Send me your address.”

  “I’ll text it when I hang up. See you tomorrow.”

  “See you,” she says, then takes a beat. “Also, have fun.”

  “Goodbye, Nisha.”

  I hang up and text her the address of the cabin.

  Then, I join River in the kitchen as he swings open the cupboards and grabs two mugs.

  Thank God.

  If he got out champagne flutes, it’d be far too romantic for me.

  Mugs are what friends drink champagne from.

  He pops open the bottle, pours some for me in a For Fox Sake mug, and some for himself in one with the words Gopher It under a drawing of that animal.

  He lifts his mug to toast.

  I step closer, clink the ceramic to his.

  River clears his throat. “To our first fight ending,” he says.

  “I’ll drink to that.” And I do, taking a big, thirsty sip, then sigh happily. “I fucking love champagne.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “Because you have good taste, Owen, and champagne is delish. So of course you like it,” he says, then grabs a bag of popcorn. “Let’s snack and drink and play . . .” He stops, screws up his brow. “Monopoly?”

  “I slaughter you every time. It’s not challenging.”

  River snarls. “So cruel. But so true. We’ll find another.”

  In the living room, we sink down onto the plush carpet, tugging games from the drawer in the coffee table.

  Uno.

  I pretend to fall asleep.

  He grabs Catan.

  I shake my head. “We’ll be up all night.”

  River points to the window. “Got somewhere to go?”

  I knock back some champagne. “Nope. But I am not playing a game that requires me to pull an all-nighter. My commitment level to a board game is about an hour.”

  “A man who knows his mind. Gotta love it,” River says, taking another drink, then opening the popcorn.

  We root around for more games, while munching on the salty snack.

  “Exploding Kittens?” He waggles the Russian-roulette style game in front of me.

  “Possibly. We’ll consider it a front-runner,” I say, grabbing another box, then moaning in mock pain as I set it on the table.

  “Risk.” I cringe. “Pretty sure you have to be into Game of Thrones to like Risk.”

  His jaw comes unhinged. “You don’t like Game of Thrones? How did I not know this juicy tidbit?”

  “Maybe because we never talk about it. Does that”—I stop, cross my fingers—“mean you don’t like it either?”

  “I tried a few episodes. Too much violence to get to the nakedness.”

  “Am I right? I’m all for more skin, just less blood and guts.”

  River lifts his mug in another toast. “To more fucking and less violence.”

  “I will definitely drink to that.”

  I take another swallow and he does the same, then we grab some popcorn too, as the snow keeps falling and the fire warms me up.

  River pokes his head under the table, then grabs a box of cards. Would You Rather…? “What do you think, cutie?”

  That last word tugs on my brain. Reminds me of our conversation from years ago in college as we left the Old School coffee shop and created the Harry and Rod rule. I called you a cutie because I can’t call you a hottie. Even with those Clark Kent glasses. I can’t call you hot because you’re seeing someone.

  River never calls anyone else cutie but me. He only uses hottie for guys he’s into. Everyone else is just hun.

  I’m not sure what the math here adds up to, and maybe I’m grasping at straws, but still, I clutch them. “Why do you call me cutie? You call everyone else hun. I never hear you use cutie for anyone else.”

  His eyes flash with surprise, like I’ve caught him off-guard, but then he adjusts to being his easy, breezy self. “You’re questioning why you get a special nickname?”

  I am, since I want to know if there’s an answer to his word problem. If the logic adds up. So I stand my ground, push a little more. “Yeah. I am.”

  River lifts his mug, takes another drink, his eyes darkening as he swallows. He sets down the cup on the coffee table. “I suppose it’s because I can’t call you what I really want to call you.”

  “What’s that?”

  He takes his time, like he’s weighing his words, then levels me with a stare that feels a little more than friendly. “Hottie. Like you are.”

  Make that a lot more than friendly.

  And just like that, it’s impossible to slide back in the friend zone with him, so I choose the riskiest game of all.

  “Let’s play . . . Would You Rather.”

  Since I’m hoping I’ll learn something from the questions—something about him and me, and whether we could ever move out of the friend zone.

  11

  River

  Games are good. Games are fun. We can play games and then go to sleep.

  I brandish the first card. Clear my throat. Adopt a TV announcer voice. “Would you rather only use a fork for the rest of your life or only use a spoon?”

  Owen’s nose crinkles. “Please tell me you made that up. That can’t be a real question.”

  “Sadly, it is.” I fling the card on the floor, grab another.

  “Are there do-overs in this game?” he asks with a laugh.

  “Yes. On account of questions that make both of us roll our eyes. It’s my new rule.”

  “Fair enough. Hit me with another one,” Owen says.

  I read the next question. “Would you rather be a centaur or a mermaid-slash-merman?” I stare at the card like it’s diseased. “My answer? I’d rather play another game.”

  “Wait,” Owen says, rooting around in the game drawer, grabbing the box the cards came in, and turning it over. He displays the box. “Ah. The culprit. This is the kids’ version.”

  “Does that mean the rest of the questions are going to be about whether I’d rather have donuts or burgers for the rest of my life, or the ability to fly and never eat sweets, because I’d rather watch Game of Thrones.”

  “Google Would You Rather questions for adults.”

  “My phone’s in the guest room,” I say.

  Owen grabs his from the charger, unlocks it, and tosses it my way. “Here you go. Use mine.”

  “Thanks, though I have to admit I’m a little shocked you didn’t tell me to Google Would You Rather dirty questions,” I say playfully.

  Owen’s lips curve into a grin. “I didn’t say not to Google Would You Rather dirty questions either.”

  Oh, well this is getting good then. This is feeling like foreplay. Come to think of it, this whole day feels like foreplay.

  Bring it on.

  I click on the search bar in Owen’s phone browser when a light blue icon flashes on the home screen for a dating app, along with a notification from the app: Don’t forget to finish your profile soon, Guy With Glasses.

  My muscles tighten. I clench my teeth. He’s using the app for finding long-term relationships? A flare of red-hot envy bursts in my chest.

  “When did you get on Boyfriend Material?” I ask, and holy shit. Did that come out dripping with jealousy?

  Owen scratches his chin. “About thirty minutes ago.”

  What the hell?

  I point to the floor, like I need to clarify exactly what he means. “While you were here? In the cabin?” My voice shoots up.

  He laughs lightly. “Yeah, since that’s where I was thirty minutes ago, River.”

  My jaw ticks, and I’ve got to rein in the thrashing dragon in my chest. It’s knocking all my good-guy circuits loose. I’m feeling all sorts of you’re mine alpha-y, and that is not my jam. But right now, it is my jam. “And why did you decide to get on Boyfriend Material then?”

  Owen’s brow knits, but he keeps smiling. “It was on my mind. You asked me what I want in one. You asked about Ezra. We were literally discussing relationships. So I was thinking about next steps.” He’s so easygoing, like this is no big deal.

  It’s a huge deal.

  Owen looking for a boyfriend is a horrifying deal, and I want to rewind time so he can get off that app immediately.

  “Yes, and you said, I want to be good to someone. Someone who wants me to be good to him,” I say, repeating the words I memorized. Words that lit up my mind, that squeezed my heart. “I just didn’t realize you were going to do it so soon.”

  He shrugs casually. “The timing felt right. Why do you look like you just saw a cat opening a door with his paws?”

  I flap my hands around, hunting for an acceptable answer. “I just didn’t think you’d do it now,” I say, but my reply doesn’t make sense.

  It makes less than sense.

  Owen tilts his head, regarding me like I’m an oddity. “No time like the present. Besides, you were telling Declan and Grant the other night you wanted Cupid to shoot an arrow at you, and you didn’t sound like you meant in two years’ time. You said would it kill either the Greek heartthrob or the smug little Valentine’s baby to throw some arrows my way? I guess it’s just in the air. All this relationship talk.”

  “You remember what I said at the bar?”

  “It was kind of memorable,” Owen says with an easy shrug.

  And so is this moment.

  Right here.

  In front of the fireplace.

  In a cabin, where we’re snowed in.

  The prospect of Owen on this app is making my head spin with terrifying possibilities. He could have a boyfriend soon. Like, in a few days. He’s such a catch. He’ll be reeling in men like that. He’ll be having lunches and coffees and dinners lined up the second he returns to the city.

  I should tell him I can’t wait to hear about his dates. But I’d rather drink battery acid.

  Yup. That’s my answer to the would you rather running through my head right now.

  Which brings me to another question—would I rather head to the guest room, shut the door, and lock myself in for the night where our friendship is safe and sound? Or would I rather take a chance?

  My gaze locks on Owen’s. His blue eyes spark with challenge. Heat too.

  Will we play a game of filthy innuendo alone in a cabin in the woods after dark?

  Maybe it’s the snow. Maybe it’s the champagne. Maybe it’s the powder keg of lust.

  Or perhaps it’s that Owen Hayes is unequivocally boyfriend material, and all these feelings for him want to come out.

  I lift the phone, my eyes never leaving his face as I speak into the search bar: “Would You Rather dirty questions.”

  Owen tries to fight off a grin.

  I tear my gaze from his, look at the results, click on a page, and begin.

  “Here goes.” I sit up straighter. “Would you rather have everyone you know be able to read your thoughts,” I say, and he winces, making his feeling clear on option one, “or for everyone to have access to your Internet history?”

  Owen breathes a sigh of relief. “Easy. Internet history.”

  “Ah, so you have all sorts of secret, dirty thoughts you don’t want anyone to access,” I say. Tell me your secret dirty thoughts. Are they the same as mine?

  “Obviously,” he answers.

  Dying to know. Just dying. “Well . . . what’s in your Internet history, cutie?”

  Owen taps his chin. “Let’s see. Where to buy locally farmed veggies. Weather in Markleeville . . .” And the flirt that he is, the fucking flirt, he runs his teeth along the corner of his mouth, a move that makes me want to kiss that corner even more, before he says in a casual tone, “And last night I searched for my favorite adult performer’s page.”

  My skin buzzes with excitement. “And what was on his page?”

  Owen smiles slyly. “A hot solo.”

  I am on fire, since I’m not thinking of just any performer stroking it. I’m picturing Owen doing that for me.

  Putting on a show.

  I shove the phone at him wordlessly. He takes it, scans the questions, then asks, “Would you rather do it with the lights on or off?”

  I try to reset my brain away from the image of Owen’s hot solo by answering the question clinically. “Lights on. Always. All the time,” I say, then scrunch my brow. “Except for middle-of-the-night sleepy sex. Lights off for that.”

  A lazy smile plays on his face. “Mmm. Yeah,” he rasps, and tugs at the neck of his shirt.

  Such a simple reaction, but so powerful. His words and deeds say he likes the same things I do.

  And fuck clinical.

  My gaze drifts down his face, his chest, his arms. What does Owen look like in the middle of the night, his skin illuminated only by moonlight? Shadows cast across all those muscles and flesh? What does he look like when he’s moving in the dark with a man?

  With me? For me?

  My mind goes hazy. I’m so attracted to him I don’t know what to do with this lust. It’s like I’m suffering from an overdose. I’ve ingested too much Owen today, but I can’t stop. I want more. I crave more.

  I take the phone from him. Looking at the web page, I select another question. “Would you rather be handcuffed or blindfolded?” I ask Owen, then knit my brow as I contemplate the query. “Hmmm. That’s a dilemma.”

  He chuckles. “Tough one for you to answer, River?”

  “It is, since I don’t think I want either. For me, that is.”

  “Because you like to be in control,” he says, with a knowing gleam in his eyes. “Mister Bossy.”

  “Yes, I am. So can I pick that I’d rather be the one handcuffing and blindfolding?”

  “You could pick if it were your turn to answer,” he says, taking his time with every word.

  Flustered, I gesture to Owen. “Oh, right. It’s your turn.”

  “You didn’t even let me get a word in, River,” he says, like a cat toying with its dinner. “Maybe you don’t want to know my choice.”

  I want it more than breath. “I definitely want to know.”

  Owen lifts his mug, takes another drink of champagne and puts it down. “Are you sure?”

  Atoms and ions crackle between us. The air is more than charged. It’s an electrical storm.

  “Positive,” I say crisply, then ask the question again to underline my need. “Owen, would you rather be handcuffed or blindfolded?”

  “The answer is easy.”

  “Tell me,” I say, practically pouncing on him.

  He licks his lips. “I like to look at the guy I’m with. I like to see his face, how everything we’re doing makes him feel,” he tells me, and my body is the center of the earth right now. Magma has nothing on me as I listen to Owen tell me what he likes in bed. “I want to watch his expression shift as he gets close, when he’s all tortured and agonized with need. I want to see his body move over me, under me, against me. I want to look at him when his eyes squeeze shut.”

  Fuck the center of the earth. I’m a supernova, burning up the atmosphere.

  But Owen is so damn cool as he pushes to his feet, grabs his mug, and tosses me a glance. “So no blindfolding for this guy . . . I’d rather be handcuffed.”

  He walks to the kitchen, grabs the champagne bottle, and pours a splash in his cup.

  I can’t move at first. My dick weighs ten tons. My desire for Owen occupies all the space in the house.

  And I’m entirely too transfixed by him to stay this far away, so I stand too, and head to the kitchen.

  As he leans against the counter, his eyes travel up and down my frame. My erection is not a state secret. It’s an open book for anyone to read.

  And he’s reading between the lines.

  His eyes linger on my hard-on.

  I stop a foot away from him, pour a splash too, then challenge him. “Your turn to ask me a question.”

  Owen wastes no time. “Would you rather top or bottom?”

  Now we’re really getting somewhere. A flush races up my neck as I stare at the man I want to sleep with. “That’s hard to answer,” I say.

  He arches a sexy brow. “Is it? Hard?”

  “Yes. It is. Very much so. And so is the question, because it depends on the guy, on our vibe, on what he wants.”

  Owen scrubs a hand along the back of his neck, parts his lips, lets out a shuddery breath. “What if he wanted you to top him?”

  That’s it. I’m throwing in the towel. My brain is officially scrambled. My senses are fried. “Then I would top the fuck out of him,” I say, all hot and twenty million times bothered.

  “Good,” Owen murmurs. “That’s good to know.”

  I grab the mug, take another drink, trying to cool off. Only there’s no cooling off now. This night is getting hotter. “My turn to ask.”

  “Need my phone for a question?” Owen asks.

  I shake my head. “Nope. I have one all ready.”

  “Hit me with it.”

  This one will speak volumes about Owen, so I ask, “Would you rather kiss all night long or have five minutes of sex but come ridiculously hard?”

  Owen crosses his arms, a move that shows off his strong pecs. “What do you think I’d pick?”

  I stare at his lips. They’re so lush and full. His mouth is perfection, and I have to know what he tastes like. I have to kiss him. And I have to do it before he can find anyone else on that stupid app.