Asking For A Friend

Lauren Blakely

Contents

Copyright

Also By Lauren Blakely

About

Asking For a Friend

Dear Reader:

Her Prologue

His Prologue

1. Amy

2. Amy

3. Linc

4. Amy

5. Amy

6. Linc

7. Amy

8. Linc

9. Amy

10. Linc

11. Amy

12. Linc

13. Amy

14. Linc

15. Amy

16. Amy

17. Amy

18. Linc

19. Amy

20. Amy

21. Linc

22. Amy

23. Linc

24. Amy

25. Linc

26. Amy

27. Amy

28. Amy

Epilogue

Another Epilogue

And Another Epilogue

One More Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Also by Lauren Blakely

Contact

Copyright

Copyright © 2019 by Lauren Blakely

Cover Design by Helen Williams. 1st Edition, 2019

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

Also By Lauren Blakely

Big Rock Series

Big Rock

Mister O

Well Hung

Full Package

Joy Ride

Hard Wood

The Gift Series

The Engagement Gift

The Virgin Gift

The Decadent Gift (coming soon)

The Heartbreakers Series

Once Upon a Real Good Time

Once Upon a Sure Thing

Once Upon a Wild Fling

Boyfriend Material

Asking For a Friend

Sex and Other Shiny Objects

One Night Stand-In

Lucky In Love Series

Best Laid Plans

The Feel Good Factor

Nobody Does It Better

Unzipped

Always Satisfied Series

Satisfaction Guaranteed

Instant Gratification

Overnight Service

Never Have I Ever

Special Delivery

The Sexy Suit Series

Lucky Suit

Birthday Suit

From Paris With Love

Wanderlust

Part-Time Lover

One Love Series

The Sexy One

The Only One

The Hot One

The Knocked Up Plan

Come As You Are

Sports Romance

Most Valuable Playboy

Most Likely to Score

Standalones

Stud Finder

The V Card

The Real Deal

Unbreak My Heart

The Break-Up Album

21 Stolen Kisses

Out of Bounds

The Dating Proposal

The Caught Up in Love Series

Caught Up In Us

Pretending He’s Mine

Playing With Her Heart

Stars In Their Eyes Duet

My Charming Rival

My Sexy Rival

The No Regrets Series

The Thrill of It

The Start of Us

Every Second With You

The Seductive Nights Series

First Night (Julia and Clay, prequel novella)

Night After Night (Julia and Clay, book one)

After This Night (Julia and Clay, book two)

One More Night (Julia and Clay, book three)

A Wildly Seductive Night (Julia and Clay novella, book 3.5)

The Joy Delivered Duet

Nights With Him (A standalone novel about Michelle and Jack)

Forbidden Nights (A standalone novel about Nate and Casey)

The Sinful Nights Series

Sweet Sinful Nights

Sinful Desire

Sinful Longing

Sinful Love

The Fighting Fire Series

Burn For Me (Smith and Jamie)

Melt for Him (Megan and Becker)

Consumed By You (Travis and Cara)

The Jewel Series

A two-book sexy contemporary romance series

The Sapphire Affair

The Sapphire Heist

About

I was only trying to help a friend. I swear. I was legit asking for a friend who was finally ready to date again.

I knew what she wanted in a man -- smart, funny, ambitious, well-read (no, the sports section doesn't count), and plays a wicked game of badminton.

So I did what any good friend would do. Posted it for her. It seemed like a good idea at the time -- I'd weed through the candidates, and bring her my top picks.

But then he responded.

Is it wrong to date the guy I screened for my bestie? Not asking for a friend.

This book is dedicated to Kathleen. Thank you.

Asking For a Friend

By Lauren Blakely

Want to be the first to learn of sales, new releases, preorders and special freebies? Sign up for my VIP mailing list here!

Dear Reader:

In this story, the characters reference a number of books. Some are fictional and some are real. The following books cited in this novel are actual books: Gone with the Wind; Harry Potter; Pride and Prejudice; Like Water for Chocolate; L.A. Confidential; Casino Royale; And Then There Were None; Little Women; Where’d You Go, Bernadette; The Princess Bride; Fight Club; Lord of the Rings; The Far Side; and Looking for Alaska. The rest of the books mentioned are fictional, created for the characters in the novel. The TV show Spying on My Neighbor and the characters in it are fictional.

Her Prologue

Amy

A thesaurus is a girl’s most satisfying lover.

I’ve been devoted to the delights of mine since I was eight, and it remains my loyal, pleasure-giving companion twenty years later.

My love for it is omnivorous. I devour synonyms from Roget’s online, and the urban version too.

Growing up, I used to sleep with a well-worn purple thesaurus beside my pillow. Every word I’d looked up was underlined—a smorgasbord of “mint julep,” thanks to Gone with the Wind; “elixir,” courtesy of Harry Potter; and “rapture,” hailing from Pride and Prejudice.

But I didn’t really grasp the potential until I read a Jackie Collins-esque potboiler in which a rich guy dies of a rigor mortis–inducing heart attack while screwing his mistress. Who knew there were so many alternative names for body parts?

Knob, rod, pump, package, slinger.

I did, that’s who. And I didn’t stop there.

Joystick, purple crayon, drive machine.

They sounded deceptively playful, and by middle school, I could recount things I’d read in the dirtiest books and make them sound like they were penned by choir girls.

Later, I learned how the crafty use of words could vault me to the top of English courses, winning me essay contests and opening college doors.

The thesaurus still comes in handy. Armed with one in your holster, you can win any shoot-out. You can go from telling your boss that the new assignment she just gave you isn’t simply a “piece of cake”—it’s a “slam dunk,” a “picnic in the park,” or, wait for it, a “doddle.”

Or you can tell that to yourself when you take on a new project, like, say, writing a list of requirements for a dating profile.

I tackle it with the thesaurus by my side.

What’s another way to say “smart”?

Can sustain a conversation consisting of words other than “awesome,” “cool,” and “dude.”

What’s another way to say “polite”?

Good manners will get you everywhere. (Including in my pants. But I don’t say that. Not yet, at least. That’s for the third date, obviously.)

How about “must like books”?

Please be well-read. Buzzfeed and the sports section don’t count.

Except with great power comes great responsibility.

Because when the responses flood in, I realize I’ve opened a Pandora’s box of problems.

His Prologue

Linc

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Scratch that. It seemed like a fantastic idea.

Because there’s this girl I can’t resist, but giving in to the temptation of her and all her charms—from her delight in words to her obsession with pockets to her flirty-bordering-on-just-a-little-dirty mouth—could be disastrous.

I could keep stepping on the brake with all my flagging willpower, or I could nudge the steering wheel and turn my energy elsewhere . . .

Yes. I’ll do that.

That’s a brilliant plan.

I’ll find a date online, someone who’s equally fantastic and feisty, who’s just as bright and bold, so I’m not tempted by that firecracker.

But you know what they say about resisting temptation.

1

Amy

Two weeks ago

Every workday around three in the afternoon, I sponsor a debate with myself: shut the door and sneak in a snooze, or pop in a piece of cinnamon gum and power through the late-in-the-day doldrums?

Today is no different, and I blame the manuscript I’ve been reading for the last few hours. It’s the story of a plucky thirtysomething woman with a pixie haircut—because, of course, plucky heroines have pixie haircuts—who gives relationship advice to couples based on the candy they buy at her sweet shop.

But—hold the press—love knocks her on her ass one day when a handsome stranger strolls in and buys all the purple Skittles.

Because purple is her favorite color.

My boss pinned the tail of this manuscript donkey on me earlier this week, tossing it onto my reading pile with a droll “Supposedly, it’s Like Water for Chocolate meets Waitress meets Roald Dahl with a side of M&Ms tossed in.”

To which I wanted to say, No one needs that. Literally no one.

But I can’t say that because I’m merely a junior editor and she’s a vice president, and I’ll have to read enough of it to report back. Also, because the agent who sent it to our publishing house sold us a blockbuster roman-à-clef from a shoe magnate a decade or two ago. Therefore, we must read everything she sends our way in case it’s the next big thing.

This isn’t the next big thing.

It isn’t the next anything.

Le sigh.

Also, le nap. The debate tips in favor of snag-some-shut-eye as a siesta brews in my eyeballs. My lids flutter like feathers at a Victoria’s Secret photoshoot. I’m going down for the count as the heroine dishes out banalities over nonpareils.

Until I hear five words.

“Did you hear the news?”

My five favorite words.

Well, after “lunch is on me today” and “cake’s in the break room.”

I snap my gaze up from the document, blinking at the stunning creature in my doorway.

Looking impossibly tall and commandingly gorgeous with carved cheekbones and corkscrew black curls, Lola strikes a pose. Hell, Lola is a freaking pose.

“News? I love news. Tell me news,” I say, stifling a yawn.

She points to my face like she’s found evidence of a high crime. “Were you asleep, Amy?”

“What? No!” I scoff for good measure as I adjust my glasses, hoping they aren’t lopsided.

She cocks her head and lifts a brow. Lola possesses the most wicked eyebrow arches. It’s not fair for her to be leggy and too cool for school, all while pulling off more facial expressions than Julia Louis-Dreyfus. “Then why is there a crease in your forehead?”

I grab my phone, turn it to selfie mode, and curse, rubbing my fingertips over the line in my forehead—evidence indeed. “Dammit.”

She laughs. “You’re so busted.”

I flap my hand at the offending document on my cluttered computer screen. But the file is no longer visible, since my computer is cycling through photos of my dog, Inspector Poirot. It’s on screen saver mode—more proof of my midafternoon inactivity. “You try staying awake while reading what ought to be in the slush pile. At the very bottom.”

She shoots me a sympathetic smile. “How is it you’re still weeding through those type of manuscripts?”

“It’s from Ella Yarn.”

“Whose last big hit was turned into a movie starring Neve Campbell. Neve Campbell is sooo yesterday, and so is Ella Yarn.” Lola stabs a perfect, unpolished nail on my desk. “You’re better than this.”

“Tell that to Rainey McGuire. She only gives me her slush, Antonia gets the good books, and agents aren’t sending me their cream yet. Did you see the sign on my door? It says Amy Summers—middling junior editor.”

“We need to change that, stat.”

“I know. Trust me.” I wave away the subject, because my work woes make me want to stab myself in the eyeballs. In the pitch meeting last week, I didn’t even have books to present. Meanwhile, Antonia, who jumped from boss lady’s assistant to assistant editor last year, pitched two. And we bought them.

“Anyway, tell me your news. I hope it’s more exciting than romance predictions based on Skittles. Not even Baldwin would dig this book, and you know he’s a sucker for candy references.”

She blinks as if to ask how can you possibly be reading that drivel, then segues to her reason for the visit. “This news should make you incandescently happy.”

I sigh contentedly. “Divulge everything. Hold nothing back.”

She glances behind her, then side to side, then cups her hand to her mouth. “Mike Beanman is leaving.”

My eyes pop. “Leaving for the day?”

“No, he’s leaving for Europe. Next week. He’s opening the London office of Bailey & Brooks Publishing. And that means—”

“There’s going to be an opening for an editor?” I’m not a religious person. I’m a just-in-case-er, so just in case it will help, I offer a string of silent prayers to any deities who might be listening—especially the goddess of good fortune, because I do want to believe in her. “There is, right? That’s what you’re saying? There hasn’t been an opening in years.”

“So the rumor goes,” Lola says, sliding a dozen or so silver bracelets higher up her wrist as she steps inside my office, shuts the door, and folds her long self into a chair.

“I love rumors,” I say, tightening my messy bun. “I love them more than ballet flats and Betty Boop and DoorDash and wearing jammies all day long on Sundays. Even more than the woman who invented vanilla lattes.”

One corner of Lola’s lips curls skeptically. “I don’t think espresso was invented by a woman.”

I hold up a hear me out finger. “But in my revisionist history, coffee was created by a woman. A learned woman, who rescued kittens and puppies and kept a reverse harem of men to pleasure her, all of whom looked like Thor.”

Lola leans her head back and laughs. “Some days I wonder what it’s like to be stuck inside your brain. My bet is it’s like a secret room you’d find behind a secret door in an eccentric person’s mansion.”

“I want to go to that mansion,” I say, then wiggle my fingers as if beckoning. “But tell me more about the job opening.”

“They’re talking to outsiders, but word on the street is it’ll go to an insider.”

I squeal. “More, more. Tell me more.”

“And the VPs are going to consider everyone in house who’s qualified.”

My shoulders sag. “Including Antonia.”

“She’s only an assistant editor. You’re higher up, even as a junior editor,” Lola points out.

“But she’s Rainey’s right hand, left hand, back hand, extra hand, and winning hand.” I pause dramatically before I state the obvious. “Also, let’s not forget one itty-bitty thing she has going for her.”

“And what is that?”

I make a megaphone of my hands. “Everyone loves her.” My voice returns to a normal level. “Literally everyone. She’s like the sweet librarian in the children’s section who happily reads to kids all day long. And who also happens to have great taste in books.”

Lola furrows her brow. “And everyone hates you and your awful taste?”

“Well, one simply does not go through life without acquiring some haters,” I say haughtily, then immediately drop the act. “Anyway, you know what I mean. She’s the golden child. I’m the middle child. No one notices me.”

“Look, all the veeps decide, and you have a great track record. Even if you’re not the loudest voice in the room, you do have a solid foundation with your acquisitions and the books you’ve edited. We just need to pitch you and pitch you hard.”

Lola is a goddess. Not only because her cover designs are the stuff of legend, but because as a designer, she floats between departments. That means she knows everything. Who’s banging who. Who’s acquiring what. And how to get stuff done. I am one lucky lady to have her in my corner.

“I love that we’re a we,” I say.

She presses a finger to her lips. “Shhh. I can’t let anyone know you’re my fave.”

“Also, have I mentioned I love it when you say pitch me hard?” I say, making over-the-top sexy eyes at her.

She gives them right back to me. “If I liked girls as well as boys, I’d so be all over your Zooey Deschanel charm.”

I flip the ends of my hair coyly. “Why, thank you. You sure do know how to make a modern girl blush. Also, speaking of girls, you’d have double the trouble if you liked girls as well as boys.”

“Speaking of problems, did I tell you that Alejandro serenaded me with his acoustic guitar last night?”

Most women would want Lola’s problems with men. As in, they all flock to her like tomcats in an alley when a lovely lady cat saunters by. Sometimes I like to live vicariously through her.

“He serenaded you? Like, outside the window of your Chelsea third-floor walk-up?”

“Yup. Like a cheeseball from the movies.”

“Call me crazy, but it seems he hasn’t fully grasped the meaning of ‘breakup.’”

“He hasn’t, and I was entertaining another gentleman. Fabian wasn’t terribly bothered, but my landlord wasn’t happy about the impromptu unplugged concert. He said, and I quote, ‘The next time one of your ex-boyfriends thinks it’s the John Cusack hour, we’re going to have a serious talk.’”

“Clearly, the only solution is for you to become boring. But please don’t do that.” I park my chin in my hands and bat my lashes. “Speaking of your latest fling, can we go to a bar tonight and dish about your hot-as-a-forest-fire sex life?”

She wags her finger, tsking me. “Don’t get distracted by shiny objects like sex.”

“But sex is the ultimate shiny object.” I stop and hold up a pause right there finger. “Sex and Other Shiny Objects—that would be a great name for a book.”

“Yes,” she says, staring at me down the bridge of her nose. “But we’re not working on your list of awesome future book concepts. We’re focusing on you. We can go to a bar tonight and dish about how to get you in line for the promotion, and then, as an editor, you can go commission some hotshot writer to pen Sex and Other Shiny Objects.” She snaps her fingers. “Now, hop to it. Line up the crew, little squirrel.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Grabbing my phone, I text my best friend.

Technically, Inspector Poirot would fill that role, but I refuse to give him the official BFF designation because he likes to lick his butt, and butt-lickers are disqualified from things like best friend titles and giving kisses. Hence, Peyton wins.

Amy: Your presence is requested at seven p.m. Nonnegotiable.

Peyton: As if I’d try to negotiate my way out of one of your demands.

Next, I fire off a text to my brother, Josh. Not that he’s part of the crew, on account of being a man and a sib. But he does dish the best work advice, and he’s mega busy all the time so I need to shoehorn my way into his calendar.

Amy: Free this weekend? There’s a job opening I want to apply for, and I need to use my patented brain suckers to acquire all your strategic business acumen.

Josh: Be sure to bring the biggest brain suckers in your stash. And yes. I can meet you at three on Saturday at An Open Book.

Just like that, I’m invigorated. Fresh as a daisy when Antonia pages me that it’s time for my meeting. Even though she’s an entry-level editor, she’s also still Rainey’s gatekeeper.

“Hi, Amy! Rainey will see you in four minutes to discuss your manuscripts,” Antonia says. “Psst. Don’t be late. You know how she gets.”

“I sure do. And I’ll be there.”

“Excellent. See you soon.”

I grab my laptop and scurry down the hall, spotting Baldwin, the hottest guy in the office, aka the guy we most wish were straight. And that’s not because his caramel skin and square jaw vault him to a solid ten, but because he’s witty and thoughtful. He’s walking toward me, leading Superman down the hall.

I mean, Henry Cavill.

Wait. Is that Henry Cavill in our office?

Did we just sign Henry Cavill for a memoir?

No. I would know that. I mean, Lola would know that. And Lola would have told me.

As I get a closer look, I see the guy next to Baldwin isn’t Henry Cavill.

He’s even better.

Because he wears glasses.

Foxy Clark Kent glasses that pair perfectly with his navy-blue slacks and crisp white shirt. He has to be an author. A motivational speaker. Some sort of celebrity, I bet. He’s more than a ten on my babe-o-meter. I narrow my eyes, and privately declare him a fourteen.

Maybe I can glean some intel as I whip past my colleague. There’s a break in their conversation, so I say, “Hi, Baldwin. Did you know DoorDash just added Sunshine Bakery? Our prayers have been answered.”

“Don’t even tell me that, Ames. Do you know how long I’ve worked on these abs?”

“Couple days?”

He glares at me, and I wink, then turn on my bionic hearing so I can pick up the rest of his conversation with the superhero. Slowing my pace to stay in earshot helps too, and I have another minute left in my don’t-be-late window. And windows should stay open a crack for fourteens.

“And here’s the break room. Literally the most important room in the house,” Baldwin informs the eye candy.

“This is where you keep the leftover birthday cake waiting to be devoured?” Clark Kent asks.

Gah, he likes cake. Cake is my church. Cake is my religion. If I ever start a dating profile again, I’d use a picture of Betty Boop proffering a slice of pink cake on a plate, and the caption would say: The secret to happiness lies in cake and books.

“Yes, but speed is of the essence if you want to snag a slice before the savages destroy them. I once saw a cake in there that looked like it had been picked over by a family of honey badgers.”

“Not a problem. I’ve been clocked at five seconds faster than a honey badger.” His voice fades as they head in the other direction.

Baldwin’s voice grows quieter too. “You’ll do just fine here, then.”

Name. What is Clark Kent’s name?

Just in case I want to stalk the new employee.

I mean, look him up and do a little friendly neighborhood research as to who this hot tamale is.

Wait. I don’t have time for hot tamales.

I have a promotion to win.

With that, I shove the hot tamale into the freezer section of my brain to cool off before I burn myself.

2

Amy

Rainey regards me with icy eyes. My stomach roller-coasters through the silence as the Meryl Streep look-alike weighs my last question: Would you consider me for the editor opening?

At least, I think she’s weighing it. I can’t read her expressions, and I wish I could figure out if Botox treatments are the culprit or she just doesn’t like anyone. But she’s had an implacable face since she hired me out of grad school four years ago.

Hence the stomach dips.

My liver might be getting in on the action too. It’s executing loop the loops as Rainey taps a gunmetal-gray fingernail against her oak desk.

“Will I consider you for the opening?” she echoes my question. Perhaps she’s practicing the Socratic method.

Perhaps she’s a former law school professor.

Perhaps she could elicit confessions from career criminals.

Stay strong. Chin up. Voice clear.

“Yes. Will you?” I ask, managing to voice those three words without squeaking.

She stabs a button on her phone, coolly issuing a request to her assistant that has nothing to do with our conversation. “Antonia, will you please bring me the cover mock-up for Fashion Roadkill?”

“Of course. You’re going to die. It’s so eye-catching and clever. She went with our concept, and it’s such a fresh take on covers,” she says, and now I’m dying to see this cover that she and the boss lady concocted.

“Let’s hope I don’t die waiting,” Rainey says, then returns her focus to me. “The position will be posted early next week. We will consider everyone qualified. Including you.” She nods at my laptop. “Happy reading.”

I’m dismissed from her office, but not from the running, so I pump a virtual fist and give a professional “thank you” as I exit.

I scoot past Antonia, who’s cradling a printout of an illustrated cover featuring a dress flattened on a road.

And it’s stunning. A fresh take on covers indeed.

“That’s amazing,” I tell her. An amazing reminder I need to be at the top of my game, I add to myself. I need to be plotting brilliant cover concepts with Rainey.

“Isn’t it? Thanks so much,” says the blonde, then shuts the door once she’s inside the ice queen’s inner sanctum.

* * *

Two hours later, I escape from the office with Lola, making our way to Gin Joint. Tonight will be my fun night, since I’ll have to don the chains of work for most of the weekend.

“I kid you not, I have sixty-eight new manuscripts—give or take—on my laptop to keep me busy, since, big surprise, the Skittle purveyor is a no-go.”

“Sixty-eight?”

“Feels like sixty-eight. It might be eight. It’s still a metric ton of pages. And I don’t know how I’m even going to make it to Hula-Hoop class with all these books to read.”

“You always do. You’re the teacher after all. You’ll wake up early like you do every day, and you’ll read some more, then you’ll hula it up. Plus, isn’t that morning bird routine how you won the Hula-Hoop championship at just six years of age?”

“Ha! I was fourteen when I won the state Hula-Hoop championship. And you’re right—it was by putting in the hours. And I continue to put in the hours and shimmy my hips to this day, since it makes my cake addiction possible.” I shift gears. “By the way, the Fashion Roadkill cover is going to win you an award.”

“Thanks. It wasn’t even my concept. I just executed on it.”

“And your execution is killer,” I say.

Lola mimes making a checkmark. “First point of the night goes to the brunette for perfect wordplay.”

I curtsy.

When we reach the bar, I slide off my flats and drop them into my purse, then slip into chunky red heels and head inside. Peyton has already claimed the most valuable real estate—the cranberry velvet chaise lounge in the middle of the twenties-style speakeasy.

As soon as she spots us, she rises, grins, and parks a hand on a hip like she’s about to issue a smackdown on a reality TV show.

“Did you just find La Perla on sale for ninety percent off?” I ask, because I know what gets this girl lit up like a sparkler.

“Better.” She holds up her purse, pats the side, and declares, “I’ve got ten thousand dollars burning a hole in my pocket. Drinks are on me.”

I thrust my hand in the air. “I volunteer as tribute.”

3

Linc

Things that are different in New York City versus Los Angeles:

1. I saw a rat pole dancing on the subway this morning. That never happened on the West Coast. Rats in Los Angeles generally preferred to sunbathe.

2. You can get a slice of pizza for a dollar. Anywhere. Everywhere. In Los Angeles, if you want carbs, you have to know a guy. When you need a fix, you meet him in a back alley somewhere after sunset. Check for surveillance because if your friends—or your trainer—find out, it’s all over but the shunning.

3. And when you meet your carb dealer, some other dude will join him. He’s the guy who’ll give you the secret driving directions to get to West Hollywood in record time. That is, if you slip him a Franklin.

4. In New York, literally anyone, from the garbage man to the Duane Reade clerk, will tell you the combination of subway lines that’ll zip you around the city like a local. The trick is to write fast enough to get it down because they speak at supersonic speeds and the instructions are slightly less complex than polyhedral geometry.

5. There are fewer smoothies in Manhattan. Less chia seeds. A lot less kale. And the tacos just aren’t as tasty.

Something that is the same? AirPods. Everywhere.

I could say something foreboding about the state of humanity and how we prefer to exist in our solitary sound bubbles rather than interact with other sentient beings. But I do that and the next thing I know I’ll be the guy writing emo poems about pole-dancing rodents.

And I didn’t move across the country to pen poetry.

After Baldwin finishes my first-day-at-the-new-gig tour, I focus on the mission-critical issues.

“Any upper management pet peeves I need to know about? Verboten topics? Life-or-death food allergies to keep in mind so I don’t inadvertently kill someone if I bring, say, brownies into the office?”

“You bake brownies?” he asks as we return to the senior editor offices. His is next to mine.

I shake my head. “No. But I excel at reading Yelp reviews and finding the best ones in the city.”

He grins. “Sassy. I like that.” He counts off on one hand. “Here are the hot deets. Raphael McNaughton is tough as nails, and his personal mission is to rid the world of plastic, which means he doesn’t care for straws or anyone who uses straws, so don’t come in sucking on a Frappuccino. Or if you must, hide it from him, or he’ll be a hard-ass toward you forever. Tiffany Chilton loves her treats, and she also loves to work out, but she’s allergic to shellfish, so you’re good with bringing brownies as long as they’re not made with shrimp. And Rainey McGuire doesn’t eat. She only drinks the blood of her enemies. Her former assistant is a good one to know. Antonia’s a new editor, but since she trained as an assistant, she’ll help you with literally anything. Like, if a printer chews up your twenty-page proof and spits it out in a macerated mess, she can fix it for you.”

“‘Good with printers’ is a valuable skill in a publishing house. But I read everything on my iPad, so I probably won’t need her.”

“Well, aren’t you digitally fancy.”

I smile. “Fancy, or I hate paper.”

“Speaking of hating things, here’s one more tip. You can discuss literally any hot-button topic in the office, from gun control to health care—everyone loves to debate stuff. But the surefire way to get you kicked out of this skyscraper is to ask why we passed on You Go, Girl,” he says.

I flinch. “Seriously?” I don’t add, You passed on the self-help book that’s sold like a gazillion copies in the first year?

Baldwin inhales deeply, like he’s drawing in a calming breath in a yoga class. “My only solace is that it never crossed my desk. Rainey McGuire was responsible for letting that one go, and she’s been on a hunt to find the next big anything since.”

“Note to self: don’t ever bring up the blockbuster best seller that everyone is trying to imitate.”

“Words to live by,” he says. “What else can I tell you about Bailey & Brooks? About the local watering holes? About Manhattan?”

I seize the chance to solve my biggest quandary of the last seven days in this city. “Here’s what I want to know—I moved here a week ago and found an apartment easily and even a Ping-Pong league, but I have yet to find a decent hole-in-the-wall taqueria. Does this city not have any?”

He looks aghast. “We have plenty of good Mexican food places.”

I arch a brow. “Where? Tell me where. Because I’ve tried some places, but the tacos are limp and the cheese is industrial.”

He shudders. “I despise limp things.”

“You would hate the tacos I’ve tried, then. So where are the good Mexican joints?”

He waves a hand airily. “Around.”

I laugh. “I’m right, then? Good tacos are not a New York thing?”

“You want to know the truth? Our Mexican food is fine. ‘Fine’ as in decent, passable, it’ll do if you’re hungry. It’s not ‘fine’ as in oh, he’s soooo fine.” He pauses to admire imaginary scenery for a self-indulgent moment before returning to a serious stare. “But look, we New Yorkers don’t go to Los Angeles and get on your case for not having good hot dogs. When you Angelenos relocate to New York, you can just enjoy our hot dogs and have a big glass of shut-the-fuck-up about our inadequate enchiladas.”

I laugh, then zip my lips. But when I unzip them, I mutter, “But I don’t like hot dogs.”

He growls. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. Anyway, if you want delish tacos, you’ll need to go to Brooklyn and shell out more than fifteen dollars, and they make them with radishes, cauliflower, and quinoa. But you’re required to wait in line for an hour, drink a La Croix with your food, and take a picture before you dig in.”

“Got it. Instagram tacos only.”

“Exactly.” Baldwin swings his arm around and makes a show of looking at his silver watch. “A bunch of us try to go out on Thursday night to this cool bar a few blocks away if you want to join. The drinks are legendary, and the vibe is unparalleled.”

“Sure.” I do have some friends in the city, since my cousins live here and my sister and her wife make their home in Queens. Still, I’d like to get to know my colleagues better, so saying yes is easy.

“But I want to make one thing clear first,” Baldwin continues. “I have first dibs on all the hottest men.”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “You can have all the hottest men.”

He slaps my shoulder. “Oh, you’re a Bit-O-Honey, and you’re sweet to give in like that. But even I, with the voracious man-candy appetite, can’t have them all. You can have second dibs.”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t need second dibs or third dibs. I don’t need any dibs on dudes.”

He tilts his head and eyes me like I’m speaking backward. “You dress like that, work in publishing, buy brownies for coworkers, and you don’t have dibs on men?”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” I truly want to know—this outfit is standard business attire. “My cousin helped me shop. She’s a stage magician, and maybe a bit of a prankster, but one, if she’d picked a cape and a top hat, I’d have known she was trying to get my goat, and two, she didn’t. So . . .”

“Nothing is wrong with your clothes. Nothing wrong with wearing a costume, for that matter. But . . .?” He leaves the question for me to finish, but it’s more amusing to make him work for the intel.

“But what?” I ask, keeping a matter-of-fact expression.

“But you dress well, ergo . . .”

I frown, staring at my dark-blue slacks and pressed white shirt. “Ergo, I’m the competition?”

“You’re not the competition? You’re definitely straight? Are you sure?” His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. Skepticism runs strong in this one, but my sexual allegiances are 100 percent sure.

“Straight as a ruler.”

He shrugs. “Well, I saw a guy in a clown costume sharing a gyro with a pigeon this morning, so nothing really shocks me anymore. But it’s good to know I won’t be pitted against you when we all go out. Because—and don’t let this go to your head—you could clean up with the fellas, even though you’re in a Ping-Pong league.”

“Thanks. Appreciate that.” I take a beat, then add, “I think. Also, what’s wrong with Ping-Pong?”

“Nothing at all. I’m just teasing you. Besides, I’m sure the ladies will think it’s adorably sexy that you play Ping-Pong.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “I should warn you, though, if word gets out here that you like the ladies, there might be a line forming at your office door every morning.”

“Is that so?”

He laughs. “Oh, you’re cute. Haven’t you heard the stats about this biz?”

“Which ones?”

“About ninety-eight percent of the women in publishing are single, hetero, and love well-read guys. Whereas most of the men in publishing bat for my team. You, Linc, even if you wear polka-dot pants, are like one of those red pandas.”

“Rare?”

“Rare and rarely spotted in the wild.”

Baldwin’s assessment doesn’t surprise me, since the preferences ran similarly in the boutique publishing house where I recently worked in Los Angeles. But I didn’t trek to New York to score an office romance. Publishing isn’t big in Southern California, so when this editorial job opened, I lunged, determined to make my mark.

I definitely don’t have time for romantic entanglements. Or any kind of entanglements, especially after my last one with someone in the business belly-flopped. I’m here to work and to work hard.

Even though one woman in the office has already caught my eye.

And when we head to Gin Joint, I spot her right away—the woman in the red glasses. I already know she likes cake and is quick with a quip and that if I want to avoid distracting entanglements, I should stay far away.

4

Amy

Peyton thrusts her arms heavenward and blows a triumphant kiss as we join her on the velvet couch. “Ten grand, chickadees. Ten grand because he stuck his Wiener schnitzel in another woman. That’s what the ring netted me.”

I whistle in appreciation. Lola slow-claps.

“Say what you will about his morals, but the cad has taste,” I say, and raise a glass of That One Time, one of the owner’s signature gin cocktails that Peyton ordered for us. “This calls for a ten grand–style toast.”

Lola lifts her glass too. “Let us all drink to your ex-fiancé’s extravagant taste in diamonds.”

The three of us clink glasses in celebration of the long-awaited sale of Peyton’s engagement ring.

My best friend’s bright blue eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe she’s still twinkling from the good kind of sticker shock. “I knew the emerald-cut ring had the four Cs, but I had no idea it’d get me that much on the diamond market.”

Lola chimes in. “Same. I pegged it as a five-grand rock, even back when you first did the hand flap.” She flips her hand down as if showing off a ring.

Peyton tilts her head curiously. “You were sizing up Gage’s spending levels while I was telling you he’d asked me to marry him?”

Lola flicks her dark curls off her shoulder, owning it. “Absolutely. I mean, besides oohing and ahhing and wishing you many happily ever afters, I was curious how much the investment banker would throw down on bling.”

“Apparently he threw down a whole paycheck’s worth,” I put in.

Peyton jerks her gaze to me. “More like a mere quarter paycheck’s worth.”

When my eyes bug out at the size of her ex’s salary, Peyton adds matter-of-factly, “Gage was rolling in the dough.” But then she lifts her chin and straightens her shoulders. “But let the record reflect, I don’t miss his wallet. I don’t miss his face. And I don’t miss his dirty, stinking lies. I’m over him.”

I raise my glass once more. “Best news ever.”

Lola breathes a ten-grand sigh of relief. “And that means we’re officially done acting like someone died, right?”

“You were done acting like someone died about a day after it ended, and that was six months ago,” Peyton points out.

“True,” Lola admits. “I never liked him, and I’m so glad I can say that now.”

“And the reason I took so much time selling the ring was that I wanted to get a good deal,” Peyton adds, a little defensive in her justification.

But we all know it wasn’t to nab the best sale price.

I give her the side-eye. “Not because you held out hope he’d come back?”

She sort of had for the first few months. By the ninety-day mark, I was ready to break into Gage’s apartment and pour bleach into his one-hundred-dollar shampoo, or whatever the hell stupid hair products the guy used on his overly coiffed Wall Street hairdo. The jackass deserved to be punished for crushing her heart and flushing three years together down the drain.

I resisted, though, since civility is still cool in my book.

Peyton lowers her gaze, her voice dipping too. “No. Okay, yes.” She covers her face, sighs, then removes her fingers. “Fine. I held out hope longer than I should’ve. Don’t hate me for it. I was in love with the guy, and some small piece of me wanted him to realize the error of his ways.”

I knock back some of my drink then set the glass down. “And while you were holding onto that sliver of hope, Lola and I were waiting in the wings, poised like coiled vipers, ready to kidnap you and whisk you away to Cabo if you attempted to return to him.”

“Cabo?” Peyton taps her chin then hums, her interest piqued. “I think I’ll try to get him back tonight.”

Lola sets down her glass too, and puts up her dukes. “You’ll do no such thing. I will wrestle you to the ground.”

“But Cabo! C’mon. Also, why Cabo?” Peyton presses. “Why on earth would you have taken me to Cabo if I wanted to reunite with Gage?”

“We figured we’d find some hot frat guy there willing to bang you six ways to Sunday, thereby fucking any desire for Gage right out of you,” I say, deadpan.

“Wait. Are you saying I can only get laid by horny frat guys on spring break?”

I laugh. “No. We just figured you’d have fewer regrets over a one-night stand if you were far, far away from New York.”

Peyton peers around the bar, like a prairie dog scanning her surroundings. “Can we just find that guy here in New York? Minus the frat? Like, maybe tonight?”

I grab her knee, squeezing. “Are you ready to suit up? Do not mess with us. Because I have been dreaming of this day.” Like a newsboy of old, I hawk the morning headlines. “Extra! Extra! Peyton returns to the meat market. Read all about it!”

Lola presses her hands together in prayer, pleading with our redheaded friend. “Please say you’re ready. I love playing sex-fairy godmother for my friends.”

Peyton rolls her eyes, laughing. “I love how you’re both ready to offer me up on a bed of roses to the nearest taker.”

“Bed of roses, bed of condoms. Either works,” I say, then tap my imaginary watch. “Ticktock. Can we start now?”

Peyton gestures to herself derisively. “Seriously? Do I look like I’m ready to date? Because I’m not a one-night stand kind of gal. That holds zero interest.”

I give her a once-over, appraising her outfit and appearance. “True. You’re wearing flats rather than heels, and your hair is in a ponytail. But hey, we can work with this.” I snap my gaze to Lola. “Darling, what do you think? Is there enough here for us to take her on?”

Lola scrunches up her lips. “It’ll require a lot of shopping, but I’m up for it.”

Peyton narrows her eyes. “Thanks. Thanks a lot. Glad I’m such a work in progress.”

“Look, you’re always gorgeous to me.” I take another sip of my tongue-loosening drink. “But I’m saying your pre-Gage pickup look was a little different. You would wear your hair all the way down. You know, so you could do that thing you do.”

“And what is this thing I do?”

“Allow me.” Lola demonstrates as if she’s a model in a slow-mo shampoo commercial, shaking out layer upon layer of silky tresses then speaking in the sultriest tones. “Don’t hate me for my hair.”

“I did not do that,” Peyton insists, parking her hands on her hips. “I never did that.”

“Oh, please,” I say, because she’s so adorably wrong. “You have perfect hair. You showed it off. My sister Quinn is the same—all you redheads with your gorgeous locks. But seriously, don’t be ashamed of your mane.”

Peyton responds with a neigh.

“Exactly,” Lola adds. “You’re like a beautiful cinnamon horse, and you liked to show off your tresses.”

“Fine, maybe I did,” Peyton admits.

“Speaking of horses, I for one think it’s time to get the girl back in the saddle,” I say, then smack my thigh and add, “Giddy up.”

Peyton shakes her head. “You’re the worst.”

“Seriously though. Why not? You’re obviously over him. You’ve clearly moved on from Richard Cranium, the one who looks like a caviar-and-champagne Prince Charming but turns out to be a double-douche-opotamus,” I say.

Peyton repeats my words quietly, her brow creased like she’s doing math, then stares inquisitively at me. “Moment of truth—how long have you had that one at the ready?”

“Months,” I blurt, relieved that I can finally throw all the insult darts I’ve been dying to lob at the deserving target of her ex.

“I can vouch for that,” Lola says. “She shared that one with me a while back. Took me a few minutes to work it all out, but I got there.”

“Becoming conversant in Amy-speak isn’t easy. I’ve been hearing it since junior high, so I’m almost fluent.” Peyton gives me a look that says she knows I have more word bombs to detonate. “Go for it.”

“Yeah, unleash yourself,” Lola encourages.

“Liemonger, cheataholic, circus weasel.” I take a breath. “Master of snakes. Leader of asshats. President of pricks.” One more breath, and I hold up a hand. “But I refuse to call him the chieftain of cocksuckers because . . . there is nothing wrong with sucking cock, and ‘cocksucker’ should never ever be an insult. Only a compliment. As in, you ladies are the most terrific cocksuckers.”

Lola cheers. Peyton hoots.

“Take a bow. Just take it now,” Peyton adds.

“No, retire,” Lola says. “Because you will never top that.”

“New life goals. Anyway”—I rub my palms together—“with Captain Infidelity in the rearview mirror, can we please get you back out there?”

Peyton shrugs. “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

Lola raises her glass. “And you hereby win the least-decisive award.”

“I just don’t know if I’m ready yet,” Peyton says with a sigh. “Don’t I need more . . . me time?”

“No. You need V-time,” I declare.

Peyton snorts, gin spraying out her nostrils. Her hand flies to her nose. “Gah, you can’t take me anywhere.”

Laughing, I hand her a cocktail napkin. “It’s okay. We all have a little gin snorter in us. We’ll just have to find you a fellow gin snorter.”

“Maybe,” she says, because she’s the queen of hemming and hawing tonight.

“We will,” I insist. There is nothing more fun than helping a friend land a date. Well, maybe cake sampling. Or discovering a great new author.

“Perhaps,” Peyton says, dabbing at her nose.

“Your words say noncommittal, but your eyes say Lola and Amy, please set me up. Right, Lo?” I ask.

Lola points to Peyton’s eyes. “I see so much please set me up in your baby blues.”

“I’ll do the legwork for you,” I offer as enticement.

Peyton waggles her empty glass in front of me. “How about you work your legs on over to the bar and get me another drink?”

“Fine,” I concede . . . for now. “But I’m not going down without a fight.”

At the bar, I say hi to the woman who owns the place. Truly Goodman is a total badass in business, and I want to be like her someday—cool, unflappable, and at the top of her game. “How’s life, World’s Greatest Bartender and purveyor of free drinks for the sister of your husband’s best friend?” I bat my lashes, as if my brother Josh’s friendship with Truly’s man, Jason, is going to justify free booze.

“Subtle, Amy. Very subtle.”

I doff my imaginary top hat. “Thank you very much. I’ve been looking forward to buttering you up all night.”

“What’s your poison?”

“Seeing as I want to be queen of my domain too, can I have what you’re having?”

She lifts a glass of seltzer water. “Bubbly water. Makes you strong.”

I stick out my tongue. “You’re so not fun.” Perusing the chalkboard, I opt for a Slippery Slope, digging the promise in a kick of wasabi powder, sake, and lime juice mixed with the gin. “Three Slippery Slopes, please. They’re not all for me though. I need some for my girls.”

“You won’t regret sliding down this slope.” She sets to work mixing the drinks. “This concoction is delish. Also, why do you need to be queen of your domain?”

“I’m like a rat on a wheel. I’ve been in the same position for four years, and I can’t seem to move up.” I rest my chin in my hands, a bucket of work dreariness falling over me. “But enough about the office. How’s everything at the city’s greatest watering hole? I was raving about your place to some of the gals at Little Friends when I was helping with a fundraiser recently.”

Truly’s eyes light up. “Ah, that was you! A big group was here last weekend, and they said they heard all about Gin Joint at the Little Friends’ Strut with Your Mutt event. Thank you for spreading the gospel.”

“Well, that’s the shelter Inspector Poirot came from, so of course we had to go back and tell everyone that your bar is tops in the city.”

“You’re the best.” A new customer arrives and flags Truly over. She tips her chin in that direction. “I’ll be right back.”

I’m drumming my fingers idly against the bar when I hear a masculine voice say, “I take it you’re an Agatha Christie fan?”

Shivers run down my spine. That’s unexpected . . . but not unwelcome. I turn in the direction of the gravelly, sexy voice . . . and be still my beating heart. The smoky tones belong to the hot tamale from the office, and now his shirtsleeves are rolled up, revealing toned forearms.

“Of course I adore her,” I say. “Is there anything better than reading the ending of Murder on the Orient Express for the first time? Or the fifth, for that matter?”

“Or the eighth. If you count the audiobook.” He’s wearing a books are my guilty pleasure grin, and that’s officially the best kind of smile ever. “I just finished Dan Stevens’s version the other week.”

“Which is sooooo much better than Kenneth Branagh’s,” I say.

“Not even in the same league.”

“I just discovered Dan Stevens’s narrations and I’m gobbling them up. Also, audiobooks completely count. Personally, I’m an omnivore when it comes to books. I’ll devour them in any form,” I say, and somehow I manage to resist biting my lip or smiling like a flirty fool. I don’t want it to be lipstick-on-a-collar obvious that I find him delicious.

“Glad to hear you don’t discriminate when it comes to consuming books. I don’t either.”

He’s. Too. Perfect. And I can’t stop talking to him. “I see you found our friendly neighborhood watering hole. Clearly Baldwin debriefed you on all the truly important things.”

“Let’s see.” He counts off on his fingers. “I learned how to beat the break room cake rush and where to find good liquor. Those were pretty much the key takeaways. Along with don’t bring brownies with shrimp in them to work.”

I cringe. “Please tell me you weren’t considering that.”

“No. I was just getting the lowdown on office allergies.” He moves closer, leaning against the bar, looking like a tall drink of man. I break out my mental yardstick. Yup, I’m betting he’s over six feet. I’m going with six foot one. Which might even push him to a fifteen on the goes-to-ten babe-o-meter.

“So you’re on drinks detail,” I say, trying to sound all cool and casual, like I’m not busy sizing him up.

Not consumed with checking out his arms.

Not occupied admiring his blue eyes.

Not tied up enjoying his smile.

He points his thumb at his sternum. “New guy. That means I fetch all the drinks and buy them too. And you? What put you on errand duty?”

“I made my friend snort her drink out her nose.”

He looks impressed. “You officially have the best reason for being on drink detail.”

I preen, enjoying his praise. “Why, thank you. I was hoping to win that contest.”

“What was the snort-inducing remark, may I ask?”

Flashing back, I recall the culprit—my “you need V-time” comment to Peyton—but that’s too personal to share. I give him another one. “I referred to her ex-fiancé by his proper name.”

Clark Kent gives me a curious look. “Is his proper name amusing?”

“Of course. It’s Richard Cranium,” I say, and I wait. Will he pass the test?

His blue eyes sparkle, then his smile ignites, and he has dimples. Dear God, the man has dimples and loves Agatha Christie. I’d like to put a saddle on him. Giddy up indeed.

“So, he’s a dickhead,” Clark Kent says.

I beam and give him a showy victory salute, since he’s passed with flying colors. “First person to get that in under five seconds.”

He taps the side of his skull. “Crossword puzzle fan here. You’ll have to wake up real early to beat me at word games.”

Shut the front door.

“Fortunately, I rise at five a.m.,” I say.

“Nice to meet you, then, early bird. I’m Linc Silvers,” he says and extends a hand.

Laughing, I take his hand. “Your name is too perfect. You should be on a soap opera.”

“Maybe I am.”

“And did you just discover your long-lost twin?”

His eyes twinkle. “Let’s hope we’re not related.”

My chest flutters from the hint of flirtation in his comment. “Amy Summers,” I say, and he repeats it like it’s a tasty treat then lets go of my hand.

Truly returns, and I’m both glad and sad.

If she hadn’t come back, I might have gone for a record in marathon verbal volleyball, because Linc gives good banter.

She slides the trio of drinks to me. “Here you go. On the house.”

“No, let me pay.” I reach for my wallet.

She waves me off. “Evangelists of your stature drink for free.”

Linc flashes a smile at Truly then points to me. “Have I mentioned I’m with her?”

“Nice try,” she says to the guy with the great dimples. “And what can I get you?”

Before he can answer, Baldwin shouts from where he and some of the others from the office are sitting. “Superman! We can’t wait much longer. We’re dying of thirst.”

Guess I’m not the only one who’s spotted the resemblance.

And now I wonder if he bats for the boys, like nearly every other single guy in the office, or if he has a girlfriend somewhere in this city. Either would be just my luck.

Wait. I don’t care what team he plays for.

I don’t care about romance.

The only luck that matters right now is the career kind.

“Nice to meet you, Superman,” I say, gathering the drinks.

“Nice to meet you too, my not long-lost twin,” he adds with a sexy smile and a vibe that says he definitely makes plays for women.

But it doesn’t matter.

It definitely doesn’t matter.

Boys lead to trouble. Boys lead to distractions.

I return to my girls, ready to plot my path to a promotion rather than to pantslessness on the third date.

Though I bet he’d be good in the sack.

Brainy guys often are.

5

Amy

Ah, the lure of a good book.

It’s the promise of a magic carpet ride to whisk you away.

It’s the potential of knowledge, insight, and information.

And it’s the reminder of what I don’t have.

As my brother and I wander through the aisles at An Open Book that Saturday, I force myself to face some of the manuscripts I’d wanted to buy but lost out on for a kaleidoscope of reasons. A twisty, turny psychological tale that Bailey & Brooks didn’t offer enough on to win. A Clever! Fantastic! Amazing!—or so says the front cover—and amusing modern love story that I adored and worked tirelessly to find the right hook for why I should edit it. A detective tale with an L.A. Confidential sexiness that made you want to climb the hero like a tree, and Madison Turnbell, an editor at Athena Publishing, snagged it because she’s a total badass.

I run my hands over the covers with a pang of longing. These could have been mine. These were in my grasp.

“The ones who got away,” I say forlornly, pushing out my bottom lip, affecting a sniffle.

My brother tsks. “There’s no crying in baseball.”

“Ugh. Did you just use a sports analogy?”

“No. It’s a movie analogy. Presumably you’ve seen A League of Their Own.”

“Ten times. But I just prefer if you don’t talk sports around me.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Did I ever tell you that Quinn, Tab, and I briefly considered selling you when you were born? Because we knew you’d be a total pain in the ass. We only kept you because you were cute.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He gives me a noogie. “You’re still cute, but now you’re full of so much sass too.”

“You should give yourself props, then,” I toss back as I slip away from his knuckles. “I learned it from you.”

He picks up the exclamation point–laden cover. “Back to business. Why did you want to buy this one?”

My heart goes warm and glowy. “I got lost in the story the night I read it. But that barely covers it. The romance just had that it factor, that buzzy, page-turning quality that makes you stay up well past midnight.”

“And why were you the right editor for it?”

I squint. “What do you mean?”

He’s no-nonsense as he presses on. “Why were you the best one to edit it and bring it to the world?”

“Because,” I say, flapping my hand, “the author’s a tease, and I wanted her to bring out just a bit more detail in some areas. But that’s not the point. The book’s so good I would have been lucky to bring it to the world.”

He nods like my answer makes perfect sense, then he heads to the next aisle and thumbs through the psychological thriller, all businesslike. “And this one?”

I clasp my hands together, a spark of the whodunit glee racing through me once more. “I couldn’t figure out who the bad guy was till the last page. I was guessing this person, then that person, then maybe the dog. The twist literally made my jaw drop to the side of my bed.” I demonstrate as best I can.

“And what did you want to do with the book?”

“Just fix this one minor plot hole in the beginning, and then make everyone in the world read it. And everyone did. After someone else acquired it.” I park my hands on my hips and shoot him my sternest stare. “Now, you really owe me a latte for making me dig into this deep well of professional sadness.” I thump my chest. “Right here, where it hurts.”

He circles around to one more display, picking the sexy detective story.

I jerk my head away. “Don’t make me suffer more.”

But torture me he does. “We’re almost done. You can handle this. Stick with me. What about this one, Ames?”

I force myself to stare at the pretty book. “Because Madison Turnbell was vying for it. She’s like a goddess in the industry. She’s smart and savvy and she loves rescue dogs too. How could I compete against her?”

“That’s what I want you to tell me. What did you want to do with the book?”

“Make it even sexier, of course.”

He rolls his eyes. “You and your Jackie Collins worship.”

“Hey! Nothing wrong with Jackie or Agatha or Janet. That’s Ms. Evanovich to you, sir.”

Laughing, we head into the café, where he orders me my trademark vanilla latte and a coffee for himself.

When the latte arrives, I reach for it, cooing at the beverage I adore. “Come to me, O heavenly dispenser of life-sustaining energy.” I take the first sip and nearly dance a jig before we sit at the closest table. “Best latte ever.”

Amused, he gestures to the drink. “You say that every time.”

“And every time it’s true.” I tap the mug. “It has the perfect hint of sugar, chased by the smooth taste you want in a latte. You should get one.”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I’m good with my coffee.”

I narrow my eyes. “You will regret it later if you don’t.”

“I might regret missing opening day at Yankee Stadium or box seats at the Super Bowl, but I’m pretty sure I won’t regret an unordered latte.”

“I beg to differ. This basically tastes like you’re swallowing heaven. You need to try it. Now.”

Huffing, he mutters, “Fine,” then returns to the counter and places another order.

I call out to him, “Grab me a slice of coconut cake too, pretty please, best brother in the world.”

“Only brother in the world.”

“But still the best.”

A minute later, he returns with the latte and cake, pushes aside his coffee, and takes a drink of his new beverage. I watch him intently, waiting for the moment of latte gloriousness to click. Then it comes in a slight smile. “Yes, it’s smooth and fantastic and all that.”

“Say it.”

He rolls his eyes. “You were right. Would you like me to put that on a Christmas ornament?”

“I very much would.”

“Anyway, sassy pants, tell me what’s going on at work. That’s why we’re here.”

Sighing heavily, I give him the gist. “The usual. I don’t get the great submissions, and when I do, some senior editor tries to claim it. I hate pitch meetings, but I can’t hate them because they’re literally the most important meetings at the house.”

He holds up a hand. “Why do you hate them?”

My stomach curls as I imagine a pitch meeting. “They make me feel like a used-car salesman. I have to tell everyone why I’m the best person to sell them that hatchback or that minivan. It’s weird, Josh. It’s weird to me to just wax on about why I’d be great at midwifing this book.”

He looks at me with earnestness in his eyes. Even though we needle each other, he’s always been in my corner. “But you would be great at delivering them into the world.”

“I’d like to think so too, but when I’m assigned a book, it’s usually a midlist book, since I’m a junior editor and the cream of the crop goes to the senior people. So I wind up spinning in place.”

He nods thoughtfully as he drinks his latte. “But there’s an opening now?”

“Yes. And I want it. I have the skills. I’m a great editor when it comes to putting pen to paper and figuring out what a story needs, and my nose for a yarn is impeccable.”

“Except skills aren’t enough. Noses aren’t enough.”

“What else do I need?” I ask as I stab a forkful of the cake, then moan in pleasure, grateful for the distraction. “My God, what do they put into this cake? It’s like a magical mixture of flour and sugar, and I have to get this recipe. Try some.”

He shakes his head. “I had dessert last night. The dessert window won’t reopen for another week.”

“What language are you speaking?”

“I’m not having dessert two days in a row.” He pats his flat stomach.

“Wrong.” I point the fork at him. “You are. You want this. You need this. Because dessert is best two days in a row. Dessert is best every day. Dessert must be a daily practice, or else you become bitter, sad, lonely, and angry.”

A smile seems to tug at his lips. “One bite. I will take one bite,” he says, acquiescing as he picks up my cake for a sample. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” I raise a brow, then gesture to the delicious morsel. “Take some home to Haven. She will marry you if you give her this cake.”

He rolls his eyes. “She already said yes when I asked her to marry me.”

“And you don’t want to ever give her a reason to leave you, so take her cake.”

“Anything else you want me to grab for you when I get Haven a slice? A cookie? A scone? A six-pack of vanilla lattes to get you through the week, sugar monster?”

“All excellent ideas. But let’s be magnanimous. Why don’t we grab a slice for Quinn too, and take it to her when we’re done? She’s been craving cake.”

“She’s been craving everything.”

“And she’s allowed to. Hello? She’s bringing our first niece or nephew into the world. We can take her a treat. But for now, I’ll finish this one as you impart all your hard-won wisdom.”

Josh is a superstar at business. He recently started his own sports agency with some of his friends and colleagues, and they’re making it rain. No surprise, though, since he made it rain for his clients for the last several years when he was at a corporate firm. He’s top of his field wherever he works, and I’m damn proud of him—and envious of his chutzpah. He’s confident, maybe even cocky, but it works wonders for him. “How do I do it? How do I get the job? How do I get them to buy the books I want to buy, and how do I get my books to become the lead titles?”

He smiles, leans back in his chair, and spreads his arms out wide. “It’s easy.”

I shoot lasers at him. “Easy? Seriously? How can you say it’s easy?”

He lifts the plate with the cake. “Ames, it’s like this cake. How did you get me to eat it?”

“I told you how good it was?” I ask, trying to connect the dots.

He lifts the mug. “And the latte I didn’t want?”

“I made sure you knew what you were missing.”

“Exactly.” His eyes twinkle with something like delight. “You can sell a cake and sell a latte. You can also sell the hell out of a story.” He gestures to the shelves in the store. “You had zero problem telling me everything you fell in love with about those books.”

“Because they’re incredible,” I say, my tone rising with the passion I feel for those tales. “It was easy to tell you why they rock.”

He sits up straight and fixes on a stern stare. “But you know what you can’t sell?”

“What?” I ask, dying to know.

“Yourself. You need to sell yourself.”

For a few seconds, I say nothing.

I let his words register.

But it doesn’t take long.

Because he’s right. Holy shit, he’s right.

But how the hell does a woman who hates selling herself improve her personal sales pitch?

6

Linc

Even though a bus tries to clip me on Monday, a cab attempts to ding me on Tuesday, and a silver-spandexed rollerblader flips me double birds when I have the mere audacity to cross the street at the green light on Wednesday, the first full week on the job appears to be smooth sailing so far.

After the angry rollerblader curses me with a string of invectives that suggest he might need anger management, I run into the spitfire brunette in the elevator. Her fingers are busy adjusting a silver chain around her neck. I can’t make out what’s on the pendant that dangles from it—looks like a slice of pink next to a pair of big eyes—before she tugs at the front of her short-sleeve sweater, covering it up.

The doors close, and I meet her gaze. “Question: is rollerblading a crime in New York City? Because it should be.”

“Let me guess. You were nearly mauled by Peter?”

“Peter? He has a name? The rollerblader who tried to kill me has a name?”

She flashes a sympathetic smile. “Assuming it was Peter, the Silver Blader, yes. But there aren’t that many homicidal in-line skaters who frequent this block.”

I shake my head like a dog clearing water from its floppy ears. “You actually know who I’m talking about?”

“Of course,” she says as the elevator chugs upward at a snail’s pace. Adopting a tour guide persona, she continues, “He dresses in silver spandex and plays chicken on the streets of New York. You’ll want to avoid him.”

“A warning would have been nice.”

“Consider yourself warned,” she says with a laugh, then shifts gears. “How are you liking the job so far?”

“It’s fantastic. I have some terrific books I’m working on, and the office vibe seems good. Honestly, it’s everything I hoped it would be.”

“What books are on your list?”

As I name a few, her green eyes light up like sparklers, and she says, “How do you control yourself? I’d be swimming in those titles. I’d roll around in the tub with them.”

Laughing at her imagery, I answer, “Maybe I did roll around in the tub with them. Maybe I even curled up under the covers with all of them too.”

“Stop, stop. You’re making me jealous.”

Then, in a deadpan voice, I say, “I guess you like books a little bit?”

She holds up her thumb and forefinger. “Only the tiniest bit.”

I adopt a blasé attitude, flicking my fingers across my jaw, Godfather-style. “Yeah, same here. Like, hardly at all.”

She scoffs. “For sure. I’m so take it or leave it with books.”

“I definitely wasn’t that kid who lost track of time in the library.”

“I never stayed up late reading. Ever.” As the elevator slows near our floor, she adds, “It’s good to work in a field where you’re sooo not passionate about what you do.”

“Passion for work is overrated,” I say, then I drop the sarcasm. “By the way, have you gobbled up Dan Stevens’s narration of Casino Royale yet?”

Her eyes twinkle with anticipation. “No. Should I?”

“Only if you like being blown away by a performance.”

“What do you know? I do. Thanks for the tip,” she says as the elevator stops and we step off, then head to the doors of our company. I do my best to resist staring at her cute butt as she walks past the receptionist.

“Hi, Zoe,” Amy says, waving to the freckle-faced woman manning the desk. “Did you see the newest episode of Schitt’s Creek?”

“Yes! Weirdest outfit ever on David.”

“I know, right? But he’s still the best.”

“No one is better.”

“Hi, Zoe,” I say to the blonde, but then my eyes return to Amy.

Turns out my best efforts to stop checking her out aren’t so good, because I can’t stop looking at the woman in front of me. Well, her butt is fucking adorable, like the rest of her, including her passion for books and her taste in TV, because that show is scathingly hilarious.

I’m this close to jumping into the conversational fray, telling her that David’s weirdest outfit was the flowered pants he wore, and then I’d like to add that the next best show on TV is the wildly sardonic cartoon Spying on My Neighbor and that Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None is one of the mystery queen’s greatest works. Also, I could share with her that cake is best eight hours after you bring it home.

I bet she’d get a kick out of any of those topics. I bet she’d dive right in, opinion at the ready.

Amy Summers is just so damn sexy-cute in all the ways that count, and she’s nearly irresistible.

Except resistance is precisely what I need to practice.

I should think of her like Peter the Silver Blader and stay far, far away. I don’t have time for a relationship right now, and office romances never work.

“Hey, Superman,” Baldwin calls out to me, rerouting my thoughts. I turn to see he’s just stepped off another elevator. “Can you do me a solid, bro-bro, and grab me a hot-as-the-surface-of-Mercury tea if you’re going to the break room?”

“I wasn’t, but—”

“Then we’ll go together, bro-bro.”

“‘Bro-bro’?”

“It’s a step up from just ‘bro.’”

“Alrighty, then . . . dude-dude.”

He rolls his eyes. “‘Dude-dude’ doesn’t have the same ring as ‘bro-bro.’”

I arch a brow. “Are we sure ‘bro-bro’ has a ring to it though?”

“Don’t make me take the double ‘bro’ back. It was a promotion on the ‘bro’ scale. Take it as such.”

“I accept the double ‘bro,’ then.”

“You’re a good man.”

I join him in heading for the break room and give myself a pat on the back for resisting flirtation so far this morning.

Even when I bend the slightest bit and send her an email a little later.

Can’t wait to hear what you think.

Then there’s a link to download the Casino Royale audiobook. Fine, it’s technically a present, since I’m gifting her the book.

But I’ll expense it. It’s just a work present. That’s all.

If it were anything more, I’d respond to her quick reply.

Wow! You are officially the best non-twin in all of Pine Crest View! Thank you!

But I don’t.

Proving to myself that I only sent that book in a professional capacity.

* * *

Later that day, I meet Raphael McNaughton, one of the VPs and my direct boss. I not only go straw-free, but also bring my coffee in my regular well-used to-go mug—and not just to impress him. I’m legit eco-friendly, sustainable, and Earth-loving, and not above showing that off a bit.

“Brother in arms,” the bearded man says, nodding at the cup appreciatively.

“Only way to be,” I say.

I tell him about the agents I’ve talked to already this week and the books they have coming down the pike that we want to pounce on. “And Viviana Grayson over at CMA is getting ready to shop Ice Cold Intent, a new thriller that she says will”—I sketch air quotes—“chill me to the bone.”

Raphael shudders. “What more can you ask for in a thriller?” He leans forward in his chair, his dark eyes challenging me. “But can you nab it?”

I don’t lack confidence when it comes to the job. Work has come easily to me, and my judgment has been unerring, my track record impeccable, and my rise to senior editor rocket fast. Had You Go, Girl come to me, no way would I have let that slip through my fingers.

My personal life though? That’s another story. As my sister would say when she feels like being kind, I don’t “make good choices” when it comes to the ladies.

“Can I get Ice Cold Intent? There’s no better house for it than Bailey & Brooks, and I’m going to do everything I can to make sure Viviana knows we’re the right publisher.”

“Damn. I’m sold,” he says with a grin, and I guess he’s not such a hard-ass after all.

* * *

More good news comes when I learn the company has a gym two floors down.

That makes my workout routine easier, and also gives me the chance to chat with Tiffany Chilton, one of the VPs, as she climbs the StairMaster next to me the following day at lunch, regaling me with how she snagged a hotshot author from another house.

“And then I was saying to her agent, ‘What’s it going to take for us to acquire the next Laney Turner romantic comedy?’” she asks, breathing hard as she climbs another set of stairs.

I’m at the hundredth story myself on my machine. “And what did Sandy tell you? Because she’s one of the toughest agents out there. She makes stone look like Silly Putty.”

“You’re telling me,” she says, and then shares the nitty-gritty on how she wooed the agent of the big-name author. I take mental notes, glad that Tiffany is a shark with agents but as friendly as a puppy with colleagues. Not a bad combination in this business.

After a quick shower, I return to my office, saying hello to Juanita, the quiet but capable senior editor in the other office next to me, and dive into the manuscripts I’m working on.

Soon, Baldwin raps on the door. “It’s nugget time.”

I wave him in. “Lay it on me, bro-bro.”

He likes to drop off tidbits of office advice around three every day—“afternoon nuggets of wisdom,” as he calls them—and I’m damn grateful he decided to make me his corporate project. I’ve learned the best lunch spots, the worst chairs in the conference room, and which VPs hate exclamation points. Rainey—no surprise—loathes them and wants them obliterated from all correspondence. Tiffany loves them.

“Did you read the most recent update to the HR policy?” Baldwin asks, flopping into the chair across from my desk.

I squint, trying to remember the details of the employee handbook. “Which one?”

“No romances with a direct report, but others are fine. The only rule is thou shalt disclose office romances to the HR manager.” He waves pointedly toward the lobby. “That means if you decide Zoe from the front desk is your type, you need to tell someone.”

I blink. “Zoe?”

“Yes. You seemed to be lingering by her the other morning.”

I stifle a chuckle. He has it so wrong, but I don’t feel the need to point that out. Besides… “Isn’t Zoe an intern?”

He glares at me. “Yes. Your point?”

“Doesn’t that mean she’s, I dunno, twenty?”

Another stern glare. “Twenty is legal in New York.” He furrows his brow. “Wait. It is, right? I better check, because the guy I took home last night said he was twenty. What if he’s not?”

Baldwin sprints to his office, presumably to check age of consent in various states. (News flash: twenty is well over it.)

But legality aside, his update on the HR update handcuffs my interest in Amy, even though our conversations at Gin Joint last week and in the elevator yesterday morning were two of a kind—the kind that makes you want to ask a girl out on the spot, and for a second date while you’re at it, because you know you’re going to hit it off with her.

We have that kind of chemistry.

But it’s all for the best that nothing transpired at the bar.

I don’t want to get involved with anyone I meet through work, policy or no policy.

Been there, done that, wish I hadn’t.

And I’m all about a fresh start in this new gig.

No work nookie, no work romance.

* * *

But I’m not going to lie. I do enjoy the hell out of bumping into her.

Especially when fate presents me as perfect a conversational entrée as it does in the break room on Friday.

After all, helping a colleague isn’t flirting.

I point as she opens the door to the fridge. “You have a paper clip stuck in your hair.”

“I do?” Her hands fly up to her head and she begins patting around furiously. The pose lifts her shirt the slightest bit, revealing a sliver of soft, kissable flesh at her waist.

That’s definitely not helpful.

“No. The back of your hair,” I say, and I’m tempted to reach for the paper clip, like in a movie. Theme music would play, and the video would slow, and we’d have a moment when my hand touched her hair. Our eyes would lock, then we’d blink. I’d cough, she’d laugh it off, and I’d say, Paper clips, am I right?

Or maybe I’ve seen one too many romantic comedies. Or one too many dirty videos, since I’m alternating between wanting to sling quips at her and wanting to kiss my way down her stomach . . . then up it, past her shirt, higher and higher still.

I’m so screwed if merely one visible inch of her belly can hypnotize me.

I have no choice. Must remove the distraction. I step forward and grab the clip from her hair, catching a faint hint of her shampoo. Of course it smells like peaches. What else would her hair smell like but my favorite fruit?

I swallow roughly, handing her the clip. “Paper clips, am I right?”

Her shirt sits properly now, exposing nothing. Mission accomplished.

She waves the office supply in front of her. “I was looking for this very paper clip.”

“That? Is it your special paper clip?”

She stuffs the clip into her skirt pocket then pats it. “It’s my good luck charm, and I definitely need it, since I’m meeting with Sam Salamander at Greenstone Agency later today.”

The name rings many bells and offers another distraction from too much flirting. “He’s a good guy. I bought a thriller from him last year. No Good Deed.”

Her green eyes sparkle. “That’s coming out next month. It got a huge buy-in from Target.”

“Yeah, here’s hoping it does well,” I say, holding up crossed fingers.

“You don’t need luck. Your books do great. I researched your list. Very impressive, Linc Silvers from Pine Crest View, home of a hospital, horse stable, and perfume empire.”

“As all good soap-opera towns are,” I say, enjoying our banter. “And thank you. I’ve had a good run, and I can’t complain.”

She spins around, grabs a Diet Coke from the fridge, and taps her nail against the top while shutting the door with her butt. Her cute butt, which I checked out the other morning. But I’m on the wagon now, looking only into her eyes when she asks, “But maybe you can tell me—as an icebreaker, does Sam prefer cat memes, banana jokes, witty banter, or something else entirely?”

“Cat memes, obviously. I mean, who doesn’t?”

“Exactly. There’s nothing better than a great cat video.” She strikes a pose, hand on one hip, the other in the air with the soda can. “And speaking of cat videos, did you know I am the world’s greatest purveyor of humorous feline visual content?”

I laugh because it’s one of the oddest things anyone’s ever said, and her pose seems to come out of nowhere too. “You are?”

She sweeps her arm out dramatically. “I have a collection. It’s going to blow your mind. They’re marvelous, incredible, death-defying,” she reels off like a circus showman.

“Sure. Let’s see this collection.”

She dips her free hand into her skirt pocket, grabbing her phone. “Step right up to my little mobile device. Prepare to be astonished.” She stops, slumps her shoulders, and shakes her head. Her voice returns to normal. “That was terrible, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” I say, treading carefully. “Were you auditioning for a role as ringmaster of a cat meme circus?”

“No. I’m trying to improve my salesmanship,” she says, tucking her phone away then popping open the can. “Specifically, my ability to sell myself. An editor position just opened up, and I’m trying to get the job. One of the things I have to do is prepare a sample pitch for a book I’d want to acquire.”

I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “Ah. I see now. Perhaps another tactic is better.”

“Ya think?”

“Just an idea,” I say, then latch onto her admission. “What’s wrong with your sales skills?”

“The truth?”

“Sure. Give me the truth.”

“I’m great at selling others, but terrible at selling myself. And I need to sell myself if I want the new job.”

“But you’re a good editor?”

She nods. “A wordsmith. I can make sentences sing and bring the core elements of a story forward.” She’s proud, but not boastful. “But I don’t think that’s enough to get to the next level. I need to improve my pitching.”

“Not that you asked, but you should do more of that.”

“More of what?” she asks, confused. “More pitching?”

I shake my head. “No. I mean the way you said you can make a sentence sing. Do that. It was full of confidence. I don’t know your work, but I do know how to sell the hell out of the books I want to acquire, and confidence is key. Think about all the things you do well, and lean on—” I stop, catching myself. “Wait. I hope that wasn’t mansplaining. I’ve made it my mission never to mansplain. Or manspread, for that matter.”

“You must listen to The Modern Gentleman of New York, then,” she says.

“I do actually. Love that podcast. You listen as well?”

“Sometimes. He’s good friends with my brother. And don’t worry. That wasn’t mansplaining. You have the experience to back up your advice. I appreciate the confidence tip and the cat meme tip. Too bad I’m not in the business of selling cat memes or skirts with pockets,” she says, patting the spot where she stored the paper clip.

“Are they easy to sell?”

“Obviously. Pockets on dresses are proof that God is a goddess and always thinks of women first.”

A laugh bursts from my chest. “And why is that?”

She stuffs both hands in said pockets and juts out her hip, a coquettish little pose. “They are one of the best inventions ever, right up there with vanilla lattes and cake.”

“And now I’ve learned something new.”

“And something vital.” She heads for the door then stops, hand on the doorjamb, and turns around. “Linc?”

My name sounds far too good on her lips.

“Yes?” My voice sounds far smokier than it should.

“Thanks again for the tip. It helps a lot, and I appreciate it.”

“Anytime.” I should let her go, stop chatting with her. But I don’t want to, so before she can leave, I say, “Is that really a good luck paper clip?”

“Nah. When I need luck, I just don’t change my socks for a few days.”

My eyes stray down, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see she’s not wearing socks.

She flashes me a wink, then says, “And thanks for saving me from the embarrassment of a paper clip in my hair.”

“If it’s any consolation, you wore it well.”

“Better than anyone else in Pine Crest View?”

“You’re the best paper-clip wearer in the whole damn town.”

“As long as you don’t say that to all your non-twins,” she says, her tone a little inviting, a lot enticing.

“I don’t say it to anyone else. Soap-opera honor code.”

She rewards me with another pretty smile, then leaves, while I contemplate banging my head against the wall.

I wish she wasn’t totally endearing.

Completely entertaining.

And incredibly kissable.

I return to my office, telling myself I’m not crossing lines by chatting with her. A simple flirtation is fine. As long as I make sure it doesn’t go any further.

* * *

When Baldwin raps on my door at the end of the day, he tells me there’s a going-away party that weekend for Mike Beanman before the editor leaves for London.

“Want to go?”

I say yes faster than a cheetah.

Networking—that’s the name of the game. I can chat up colleagues at the party and make sure I’m 100 percent oriented to the lay of the land here in New York.

The business terrain, not the landscape of eligible women.

Even though I admit that there’s the start of a story in my office banter with Amy.

That’s the trouble.

Talking to Amy has that easy feel of the last romantic comedy I acquired, and That’s What She Said was a huge hit.

But it also brought a ton of trouble to my life.

Trouble that’s behind me now, and needs to stay in the rearview mirror.

* * *

The next night, I drop by Tristan’s, a wine and tapas bar near my pad, and order a pre-party bite to eat. Going to a work party on an empty stomach only leads to embarrassment from a growling belly or accidental intoxication. Plus, stuffing your face is never a good look when you’re trying to impress your new colleagues.

Tonight I place an order of chicken kebabs and an iced tea with the owner.

“One order of kebabs coming right up. And how’s your first week in New York treating you?” Tristan asks. He’s a cool dude. We chatted when I was here the other night, clicking instantly.

“Let’s see. I was nearly hit by a cab, a rollerblader, and a cyclist. Also, I didn’t know anyone still rollerbladed.”

He pours some iced tea, nodding sagely. “Only people who are trying to murder newcomers to New York. Like Peter the Silver Blader.”

I crack up. “He must be notorious in these parts. A woman at the office mentioned his villainous intent.”

“We don’t always tell the new guys about him. It’s a good sign that your coworkers like you enough to give you the heads-up.”

“Thanks. Glad I passed the beware of murderers test.”

He slides me the beverage, then scrubs a hand across his beard. “If you’re going to pass a test, is there any better one?”

I gaze at the ceiling. “Nope.” I take a drink. “Any other words of wisdom?”

“Never get involved with a chick at the office. Words to live by. But you know that already,” he says, then heads down to wait on a new customer.

I do know that. So does Tristan, since I shared the SparkNotes version of my number one romantic rule when I was here the other night.

The longer version?

1. Avoid women in the same business. You’d have to be more daring than a stunt double to dally with anyone—from a boss to a coworker to someone in another department—who could affect a paycheck, even indirectly.

1a. That includes women who aren’t in the business but say they are. Because lies can bite you in the ass.

1b. And on the subject of untruths, give a wide berth to colleagues who are secretly married but claim to be single, and definitely don’t be stupid enough to believe them just because you’re seduced by a potent combination of charm and sass. Trust your instincts, because no one wants to learn they unwittingly screwed a married woman.

So, yeah, it’s a good thing I moved three thousand miles away from the scene of that crime.

After I finish my kebabs, I make my way to the party, armor on, ready to resist the woman who’s borderline irresistible already.

7

Amy

I get the call from Peyton when I’m forty minutes pre-party Saturday night. The party where I’m going to sell myself like a teen selling magazine subscriptions.

Wait. No. No one wants that.

I’m going to hustle like I’m hawking tickets to the return of Lin-Manuel Miranda in Hamilton.

As Inspector Poirot shamelessly rolls onto his back, wiggling his little legs in the air, I slide my thumb across the phone screen. “Talk to me. I saw your text. I refuse to believe it was as bad as you said.”

Peyton’s last text message read: I AM NOT ALLOWED TO SPEAK TO CUTE MEN EVER. MAJOR BLUNDER IN YOGA CLASS.

“It’s not like you fell out of a downward-facing dog and landed on his penis, right?” I ask, obliging my favorite little man, scratching his belly as he lolls on my bed, aka his bed.

“No, but close.”

“His butt? Or was there another kind of butt mishap? Because . . . my condolences.”

“No! It was more like a mouth mishap.”

“Got it. Your mouth fell on his penis,” I say as I swivel away from the attention hound, yanking open drawers and hunting for my cute little typewriter dress with the illustrations of raised keys on it.

“No, Amy. I didn’t know what to say to him. We’d finished with the Savasana and were putting away our mats, and I tried to say, Hi, my name is Peyton.”

“That’s an excellent start,” I say, pep-talking her.

“Except I croaked instead. Like a frog. It came out like ribbit mmffffpppp.”

I laugh as I locate the dress in, of all places, the freaking closet where it belongs. “I doubt you said ‘ribbit mmffffpppp.’ Maybe just ‘ribbit’?”

“Oh, I said both. And it wasn’t pretty. He stared at me and asked if I was on Molly. Molly! As if I’d take Molly.”

I wince on her behalf. “Ouch. Okay, so it didn’t go as planned, but you tried. There’s that.”

“There’s nothing,” she says, sounding utterly down and out. “I flopped. Horribly. I’m not ready to even talk to men, let alone attempt dating.” She’s not even whining. She’s legit sad.

“Peyton, you’re going to do fine. It takes time and trial and error, but you’re fabulous and funny and you’ll get there.”

“Ribbit,” she says, and I laugh as I shimmy out of my exercise pants. I conquered the StairMaster in my apartment for twenty minutes earlier, freeing myself up for cake and alcohol consumption later.

“See? Ribbit isn’t a terrible starting point. After all, you have to kiss a lot of frogs,” I say, hitting the punch line. “Bada bing.”

“Yes, but I don’t even think I’m going to reach the frog-kissing stage. How the hell is a newbie like me supposed to manage the dating scene? There is so much ugh out there. And I don’t even mean looks. I’m not searching for Scott Eastwood or Tom Ellis. I want a sweet, funny, smart, decent guy I can talk to. Someone who’s not obsessed with sports and Wall Street. Do those men even exist? And would a guy like that even want me?”

“Yes! Of course he would want you. You have so much to offer. You like badminton; you run a lingerie shop. You’re funny and smart, and you rescue injured birds and take them in cabs to Wild Care, and I don’t mean high-heel-ankle-spraining birds. But real birds. Maybe next time you meet someone in yoga, say, ‘Want to rescue injured birds with me?’” I suggest, as I cradle the phone while tugging on the dress.

“Nope. I’m sticking to badminton and yoga. And I’ll get any V-time I need with my BOB.”

That doesn’t sit well with me. “Listen, we are going to triage this. We’re going to fix it. Lola and I will confab tonight at our work party. I’ll devise a plan. You know how I love plans.”

“Speaking of plans, how is the promotion plan going?”

I smile, picturing the job description posted earlier in the week. As I told Linc, I’ll need to prepare a sample pitch, and I’ll also need to develop an editorial plan for a manuscript the VPs assign to me during the process. “I’m working on how to sell myself better. To pitch myself to my colleagues and bosses. Josh says that’s the key, and he knows his stuff better than anyone.”

“If I can help, you know I will.”

“I know.”

“I mean it,” she says emphatically. “You’re my person, and I adore you. If I can do anything at all to help you, I will. You’ve always helped me.”

My heart glows a little bit, like E.T.’s, I imagine. “I am one of the luckiest gals in all of Manhattan to have a friend like you. I love you bunches.”

“Love you more.”

I say goodbye, kiss Inspector Poirot on the cheek, slide on some shoes, then dart out of my building, texting my sister Quinn as I go.

Amy: Need ice cream? Pickles? A tent to wear? A personal pedicurist? A foot rub?

Amy: Wait. If it’s the last one, ask Vaughn. He’ll do anything for you right now!

Amy: Actually, he better do anything for you forever and ever and always.

Amy: He’d probably polish your toes too, so we can nix the pedicurist. But LMK if I can bring you pickles. Just walked past a new, trendy pickle shop. It’s running a special for preggers women. If you show a picture of your pregnant sister unable to touch her toes, you get free pickles! Can you say ‘deal’?

Amy: Hello! I know you’re there! I see the three dots. Are you taking the picture for me? You’re so sweet!

Quinn: No, I’m contemplating ways to torture you. Maybe I’ll break into your apartment to steal your Scrabble, dictionaries, and thesauruses, then string them up and take pics to send with the ransom note.

Amy: It’s a good thing no one ever said you were the nice sister!

Quinn: Especially not me. Also, yes to the pickles, please. Be here tomorrow by three or else fear for your dictionary’s life.

Amy: Yes, captain.

I put my phone away as I reach the subway entrance, then dart below ground, catching a train to Gramercy Park. Along the way, I click on my e-reader app, diving back into the tale of a woman who loses her bucket list only to discover a man has taken it on for her. I nearly miss my stop, it’s that good.

But I’m not a New Yorker for nothing. I have subway antennae and they twitch in alert right before the train is about to pull away from Twenty-Third Street.

I leap off the car in the nick of time, then adjust my Betty Boop necklace. On second thought, the necklace doesn’t quite match my dress, so I unhook it and tuck it in my purse as I scurry up the steps.

A few minutes later, I arrive at the rooftop bar in Gramercy Park, where I make a beeline for Tiffany Chilton.

You can do it. You can vanilla latte the fuck out of yourself.

With my mantra on repeat, I head for the bigwig at the bar. I’m diving into the deep end. Watch me go. “Hi, Tiffany. Do you want a vanilla latte?”

And I cringe.

Seriously? Did that just come out of my mouth?

Her right eyebrow rises in question. “They have vanilla lattes here?”

Mayday! I need to do everything in my power to right this ship.

Confidence. I’ve got this.

I lift my chin, owning it. “I mean, right? They should. Is there anything better than a vanilla latte?”

She smiles like I’ve just said something clever. “Not a damn thing.”

I seize the opportunity. “Why don’t we have a coffee table book by that name?”

She beams, with a picture this sweep of her hands. “Better Than a Vanilla Latte. I can see it now. It’ll have foam art on the cover.”

We might be playing around, but this is my chance, so I keep taking it. “And on the inside, we’ll have gorgeous photography of all the things that are awesome in life. Like Cinnamon Life cereal and afternoon naps and binge-watching Sex Education on Netflix.”

“And shoes. Finding an amazing discount on shoes is definitely as good as a vanilla latte.”

“And we’ll pitch it as the ultimate gift guide for girlfriends,” I say, since I would absolutely get that book for Lola and Peyton for Christmas.

“Yes! It’s the perfect giftbook.”

Holy smokes. I’m doing this. We riff a little longer about our vanilla latte title, and I can’t wait to tell Josh I turned a faux pas into a total win.

Especially when Tiffany smiles and says, “I hear you are applying for the promotion. Let me know if I can give you any pointers as you prepare for the pitches.”

I fly to the moon. “Thank you. I’d be so grateful,” I manage to say without squeeing all over her. Even though I want to jump up and down.

Another editor corrals Tiffany, and I say goodbye, feeling like confident Jo in Little Women. I’ll ride this wave. Strike while the iron is hot. Spotting Rainey holding a glass of champagne, an elbow resting elegantly on a high table, I take a deep breath. I gird myself, swallowing my nerves and chewing on steel for a snack as I make my way over. Smart small talk. That’s what I need to reel in one more VP.

She loves Broadway, so I lead off with a simple question. “Have you seen anything good lately on the Great White Way?”

“No,” she says in that cool-as-marble voice. “But I did go to the Rangers last night. And the new forward lit the lamp.”

Rainey likes sports? She likes hockey? Freaking hockey? Why didn’t I know this? Why can’t my brother be here? He knows literally everything about every sport played on the planet, and whatever lamps they light.

Also, where the hell are these lamps on a hockey field?

I mean, rink.

They play hockey in rinks. Obviously. Everyone knows that.

But I remember my mantra: confidence.

And I decide I can fake my way through this lamp-lighting conversation.

Think fast.

What do I know about hockey?

They use sticks and skates, and they have those ultimate plays, right? Or are they called something else? Whopper plays?

No, that’s not it.

It’s on the tip of my tongue, so I go for broke.

“Yes. Wasn’t that an amazing power play last night?”

Wait.

Who the hell stole the words right out of my mouth? Because I didn’t say that.

I turn around to see blonde. Everywhere blonde, plus some pink lip gloss and a smile that could grace the fanciest dentist office.

It’s Antonia, and she’s like a sports commentator, animated and passionate as she leaps into the conversational fray like a leopard. “Fitzgerald killed it. I swear, he came out of nowhere and then ate up the puck.” She lifts an imaginary stick and slashes it.

“He attacked with such ferocity,” Rainey says, passion in her voice, fire in her eyes.

I believe I’ve just learned how to thaw her. Hockey melts her inner penguin.

Trouble is, she’s now locked in a deep discussion about the nuances of the sport with the editor everyone loves.

Kill. Me. Now.

As they go on and on, I catch a faint hint of cedar.

“Power play, blah, blah, blah,” someone whispers near my ear, setting my skin to sizzle.

Clark Kent is standing so close to me. Closer than he should be allowed.

Except he should absolutely be allowed in my space. He should be permitted to lick the shell of my ear, brush his lips over my neck, and kiss the breath out of me.

Because this tingling sensation spreading over my shoulders, across my chest? I like it. I like it a lot more than I should.

I turn to him. Hotness overload. Those eyes. My God, his blue eyes ought to be illegal. Anyone with eyes that mesmerizing is dangerous.

To my self-control.

Because the way I feel around this man is waging a war with my work plans.

I try to stay rooted in the conversation. “Blah, blah, blah and yada, yada, yada is precisely how I feel about hockey. And baseball. And football. And whatever that other sport is that everyone talks about.”

“Shopping-cart races?” he asks playfully.

I snap my fingers. “Yes, that’s the one I keep forgetting.”

“You should try joining a shopping-cart-racing league. You’ll never forget the sport then.”

I tap my chin quizzically. “You know, I bet there is a shopping-cart-racing league somewhere in this city.”

“I bet you’re right. As for Rainey, she’s obsessed with hockey, which you probably gleaned,” he whispers. “I found that out earlier today, so I chatted with her about the game a little while ago.”

“Impressive, your prep skills. Now, did you chat about the trick play? Or power hat? Or whatever they call it,” I ask, still miffed that I lost my shot to chat up Rainey in a social setting.

“Actually, it’s called a hat rack,” he says. “C’mon, get it right.”

I laugh. “Talking about hat racks sounds like more fun than hat tricks.”

“I suspect sometimes it is, which is why I looked up what went down in the game before I arrived. So I’d be armed and ready.”

A waiter circles by, offering tuna tartare on fancy chips. Linc takes one then gestures to the plate, asking with his eyes if I want an appetizer. When in Rome . . . I take it and pop it in my mouth. He eats his too. When I finish, I ask, “You don’t like sports?”

He shushes me. “I know enough to finesse my way through a conversation about any of the four big ones, plus shopping-cart racing, of course. But I don’t watch, attend, or give a flying hootenanny about being the twelfth man, or whatever the saying is.”

God, could he be any more delectable?

I’m tempted to spend the night snagging appetizers off silver plates and eating tuna tartare as we chat. And then I’d say, Hey, want to get out of here and shop for fancy potato chips at Whole Foods, then conduct a taste test of the most absurd flavors, like red pepper poppyseed or salt and cumin?

But alas, I’m here to sell myself, not to talk to a man who looks like a superhero.

And smells as good as one too.

Note to self: look up what Superman smelled like.

Wait. Don’t bother. He smelled like cedar and desire.

“I don’t give a flying hootenanny either,” I say, reining in a grin.

He smiles back, showing off those damn dimples. “How was your meeting with Sam?”

I rewind to yesterday afternoon, picturing the burly agent’s delighted reaction when I showed him a video of a Scottish kayaker who cycles across Europe with a cat in the basket of his bike. “Never seen that one before,” Sam had remarked, then started following the adventures of the guy and his feline on Instagram.

“I introduced him to Nala. He’s now a big fan, and he’s commented on every post, it seems. Not that I, ahem, stalked him after to see if he’d comment on every single post about Nala.”

“Nala?”

“This Scottish welder ditched his job to bike across Europe, and on the way, he found a stray cat in Albania and rescued it. He named the cat Nala. Turns out Nala is one of those super-chill cats. The kind who’ll wear a harness and go for hikes with him, hang out in the kayak, curl up next to him in a tent, come when called, and so on.”

“Ah, so he found one of those dog cats.”

“Exactly.” I lift a finger, aha-style. “Come to think of it, that’d make a good book: Cats Who Think They’re Dogs. I can see the book jacket now—Fluffy chasing a tennis ball.”

“We need to find that book, Amy. Find it, buy it, and make it a best seller.”

The way he says my name, like it’s a tasty little treat, sends a shiver through me. And the way he looks at me, like he doesn’t want to walk away, triggers a fresh wave of butterflies in my chest.

I force myself to stay on the business side of the tracks. “I’m on it. I’ll be hunting for that book while you go work the party in Pine Crest View.”

“And work it, I will. See ya later.”

“See ya.”

Except I’m not ready to say goodbye. “Wait—” I set a hand on his arm.

“Yes?”

“Thanks again for Casino Royale. I finished it after my class this morning.”

“What class do you take?”

I shake my head. “I teach. Hula-hooping.”

“Hula-hooping.” He says it as if it’s something sensual and alluring, like white lace or honey body lotion. “You teach hula-hooping?”

The question comes out slow and luxurious, dripping with amazement.

I wave my hand like it’s no big deal. “Just a little thing I do for fun. Truly—she’s the gal at Gin Joint—takes all these crazy fitness classes, and she actually recommended me to her gym manager, who said he wanted to add hula-hooping to their offerings. So now I teach New York ladies how to shimmy their hips.”

His smile is almost too much. He looks like I’ve knocked him the good kind of senseless. Then he seems to recover fully. “Everyone should have an unusual athletic skill, especially a sports hater. Actually, that’s a perfect skill for a sports hater.”

“And what’s your unusual athletic skill?” I ask.

“I play a mean—”

Raphael McNaughton claps him on the shoulder. “Had an idea. Let’s chat.”

Linc says goodbye with his eyes and walks away.

I do the same. After all, I’m here to schmooze.

I work the room, chitchatting for the next hour. I focus on what I’m good at—listening. I listen to people talk about their passions. I listen to Mike wax on about London. I ask questions. And when I’m done, I’m exhausted.

But it’ll be worthwhile. I didn’t win the hearts of everyone tonight, but at least I made some progress in selling myself. And that’s what I came here to do.

Mission accomplished.

“Fun party,” Zoe remarks when I run into her in the ladies’ room, washing her hands.

“Definitely. And you never know with these things, right?”

“Exactly. It’s like online dating. You feel like you have to be on constantly, putting your best foot forward. You roll the dice and hope online dating doesn’t bite you in the patootie.” She smiles at her own euphemism.

I smile back as I dry my hands. “Definitely a good idea to avoid patootie bites. Unless you’re into that kind of thing.”

She blushes. “Well, you never know. Sometimes a nibble is just what you need.”

Once she’s gone, something she said tickles insistently in my brain—not about ass bites, though I concur with her about a gentle nip in the right mood. I replay our conversation and hit upon the next step in my path to winning the promotion.

Rushing out of the bathroom, I track down Lola and pull her to a quiet corner of the rooftop garden. “I can solve two problems at once. I can practice selling myself and we can get Peyton out there again.”

“Does Peyton want to get back out there?”

“Yes!” I tell her about Peyton’s phone call earlier. “She’s emotionally ready, but she doesn’t want to promote herself. Meanwhile, I need to work on my personal sales pitch skills. So my idea is this.” I bounce on my toes, amped up by the sheer awesomeness of the idea. “I’ll put together an online dating profile for her. Friends do that for friends all the time. And then I’ll weed out the candidates on her behalf and present her with the best options.”

The look on Lola’s pretty face tells me she’s weighing my idea and weighing it seriously. “Walk me through this. How does this help her?”

I’m certain about this plan, and I answer logically, despite the excitement that barrels through me. “Because she wants to try again, but taking the next step is hard, so I can help her with that stage. And it helps me because I can practice my personal sales and marketing skills. This is a great chance to learn how different people like to be marketed to. By the time I’ve found a great guy for Peyton to date, I should have all the skills I’ll need to crush the pitch for the potential new job.”

Lola hums, tapping her chin. “True. That’s all online dating is—promoting yourself. Putting your best foot forward. It’s marketing, plain and simple.”

“Exactly! If nothing comes of it, no harm, no foul. But if something pans out, well, then I’ll introduce whatever sexy nugget of awesome I meet to Peyton. You know, since I’m just . . . asking for a friend.”

Lola inhales deeply, the cogs turning visibly in her brain, I swear. “I thought you set the bar for crazy ideas when you wanted us to sign up for pole-dancing classes. But this is good. This is really good.”

“And pole dancing was worth it. We have two-packs now.”

She shoots me her patented you’re crazy look. “Speak for yourself.”

I poke the top of my stomach, then hers. “See? It worked.”

“I don’t have a two-pack, sweetie. And I think it’s your hula-hooping that formed yours.”

I raise a finger to make a point. “Be that as it may, pole dancing was a blast.”

“And we did keep it up for a few months. Now that you mention it, I should do pole-dancing class again.”

“Exactly. That was a good idea, and so is this. I bet I can find a great guy for Peyton this way. Because I’m not going to use Tinder.”

“What app are you going to use?”

I smile, a devilishly delighted kind of grin. “Boyfriend Material.”

Her lips curve in appreciation. “Ah, that one.”

“It’s the most likely to match her with the kind of guy she’d want. She’s not a one-and-done girl. She’s all about monogamy and dates with guys who could easily be a part of her life. And since it’s location-based, it’s even better.”

“That sounds like the best one for her, then.” Lola scrunches her brow. “If you’re handling the initial screening, does Peyton go on the actual dates? Because first dates are definitely part of the weeding out process.”

I consider her question for a beat. “Hmm. That’s a good one. Should I do preliminary dates?”

Lola takes a beat. “Sort of like an HR manager handling a first-round interview?”

My eyes widen. “Yes! Exactly! It’ll be part of my learning process, and I’ll winnow down to the best candidates, like promising manuscripts from the slush pile. Once I have them, I’ll introduce them to Peyton.”

“When will you tell the guys you’re the screener?”

I hum, thinking about the best strategy. “I’ll disclose it in the profile, but I’ll confirm that they know before the first interview-slash-date just to be safe.”

Lola nods thoughtfully, seemingly satisfied with this plan. “Basically, you’ll be surrogate dating for her.”

I take a deep breath, fueled by the glitter and thrill of this new plan. “Time for me to go ask for a friend, then.”

8

Linc

As a book editor, I’ve always believed first in the idea, then in the execution. You can’t have one without the other, but execution is nothing without a concept.

But ideas?

That’s what you’re actually selling, before anyone reads a word. It’s what the marketing department will pitch to bookstores and retailers—the YA dystopian, the new nonfiction self-help book, the police procedural that turns the genre on its head. That’s what I’ve banked on.

And the cat idea—it’s sticking to me like a hangover after a bender.

When Baldwin summons me to grab a seat with him at a table in the corner of the party, I mention the book idea to him. “But just to be clear, Amy came up with it,” I say, not about to take credit for her brainstorm.

His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “Amy Summers?”

“Yes, Amy Summers.”

He shifts from confusion to awareness to you dog over the course of three animated seconds. “Oh my. Do I look like a sheep? Baa! Because I’m feeling sheepish.”

“Why?”

He snaps his fingers. “Because I missed the goddamn neon sign! She was the one you were checking out the other morning in the lobby. I thought it was Zoe, but it was Amy. I can see why though. She’s like a Smartie and a cute little SweeTart all rolled into one.”

“So she’s two types of candy?”

“She is, because she has so much personality one brand can’t contain her. Anyway, I told you you’d clean up here at Bailey & Brooks.” He rubs his palms together, then pats the table. “The doctor is in. Sit, Superman.”

Grabbing the chair across from him, I oblige. “I don’t believe I need a doctor’s appointment though.”

“Oh yes, you do. Because I am the romance doctor, and you’re the first caller here in the Romance Hour,” he says with the smooth tone of a late-night radio host.

“First-time caller, long-time listener,” I say. I’ve learned with Baldwin you just need to go with it.

He smiles approvingly. “Let’s talk about Superman and the SweeTart. I’m here to help you win the woman of your dreams.”

“I swear, I’m not trying to win her.”

“Hush, you. Just hush. Let me tell you about Amy Summers. She likes books and dogs and treats, and she’s also into ramen noodles, but not the cheap kind that college students eat—the fancy kind. She digs her girl-power rock and Broadway shows, and is completely disinterested in sports. Also, she seriously enjoys those creeper mugs. You know the kind?”

I shake my head. “What on earth is a creeper mug?”

He gives a what am I going to do with you sigh. “Linc, your game is seriously lacking in the trendy but amusing kitsch department. They’re mugs with a ceramic thingy, like a cat or a dog or a skull or a unicorn, at the bottom, and it shows up halfway through your cup of coffee. I left mine in the break room once, and she thought it was adorable, so naturally, I bought her a set of six. I guess I’ve converted her.”

I arch a skeptical brow. “Dude, is she into creeper mugs or are you into creeper mugs?”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Can I help it if the woman knows good taste when she sees it? Also, she likes The Far Side, Jane Austen, and—”

“Agatha Christie, skirts with pockets, and word games. She thinks cat videos are the height of humor, and she is a devout follower of Nala, the cat some Scottish guy adopted and now cycles with across Europe.”

He whistles under his breath. “Someone does have a crush. I knew you were just like me. When you fall, you fall hard and fast.”

I shake my head, cutting off the idea with a slice of my hand through the air. “No. Just no. No office romance for me.”

He pouts. “But she’s a hoot. She’s funnier than Iliza Shlesinger. Wait. No.” He gazes skyward, then whispers in contrition, “I did not say that, Iliza. Forgive me, O queen of comedy.”

“Iliza’s not dead. Why are you talking to her like she’s in heaven?”

“Because she’s one of my heroes. But back to our girl. Amy Summers is clever and cute, and she likes dresses with pockets as you so wisely noted.”

“Yeah, she’s obsessed with them,” I say, a smile tickling at my lips because I like knowing this detail about her. I like that Baldwin isn’t the only one who’s privy to insight on the woman I want.

Wait.

The woman I can’t have.

I’d be breaking all my work entanglement rules.

Still, when he crooks a finger to beckon me closer, I’m an eager acolyte, ready to hear what he has to share.

“Do you know it says something about a woman if she likes dresses with pockets?”

“What? Also, how do you know so much about women?”

“I have lots of female friends. A man like me can be your most valuable asset, because women like to tell their gay friends everything. Which is how I know women who like dresses with pockets have a tendency to be . . .” He scans the area then lowers his voice. “Fun in bed. Because pockets are fun.”

“Wow,” I deadpan. “I just assumed they wanted to carry their phone or something. Who knew that pockets were a signifier of sexuality.”

He’s dead serious. “Of course they are.”

For a moment I imagine Amy in bed, and yeah, I bet she’d be fun. Because she is fun.

“And,” Baldwin continues, “she’s just your type.”

I groan, dragging a hand through my hair. That’s the problem. She’s precisely the kind of woman I could fall for. She’s enchanting, and that’s why I can’t let a damn thing happen.

I make stop signs of both my hands. I do not let him pass go. “Amy is definitely . . . a SweeTart and a Smartie and a Snickers bar too.” I take a deep breath, shaking my head at Baldwin and at myself. “But I’m not going to pursue her.”

He moans, sulking. “Why? I want to see the two of you together so badly.”

“Look, as much as it pains me to disappoint you, I won’t have an office romance.”

“Why not?”

I sigh. It’s not something I talk about often, but he’s been a good, fast friend, and he’s been honest with me, so I should level with him, at least a little. “Office romances and I—we don’t get along. There’s . . . baggage there.”

He perks up at the promise of gossip. “Do you have a dark and mysterious past with a coworker?”

“So tawdry”—I pause, and his eyes twinkle avidly—“that the tale is not for public consumption.”

“How many drinks would it take for you to dish the details?” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m happy to hit the bar and start plying you with shots.”

“One, I don’t do shots. My sense of self-preservation is too strong. And two, it’s seriously not a story I want to revisit.”

His shoulders sag, but seconds later, he pops back up like a jack-in-the-box. “I know how you can make this up to me, then.”

“I didn’t know I had to,” I say dryly, then sweep out a hand, inviting him to proceed. “But please, enlighten me. How can I make your night brighter?”

He pokes the table for emphasis. “We are going to find someone to distract you from all these feelings you’re trying to deny.”

“I’m not trying to deny a thing.”

He rolls his eyes so far I swear they reach Hoboken and back, before he pats my hand. “Right. Sure. But just in case, let’s get you online.”

“I’m not interested in getting laid online.”

Baldwin’s jaw drops, and he looks offended. “How little do you think of me? You think I’d try to get you to Bone Town?”

“Yes.” I laugh again. This guy does not have an off switch. “Yes, I do.”

He pauses to think, then shrugs. “You’re right. I do believe all routes should lead to Bone Town, but not every train is the express.”

He grabs his phone, swipes a few times, then taps furiously into it. “You’re not seriously signing me up for a dating app.”

He looks up and meets my eyes intently. “Do I look like I’d joke about online dating and matchmaking?”

“No. You don’t.”

“Exactly. And I am excellent at putting together pitches for people, so I’ve got this. My sister loves this app—Boyfriend Material. It’s perfect for you.”

“How am I boyfriend material?” I am, but I’m curious how he came to that assessment so fast.

“Because you don’t want to go to Bone Town on the first date.” He weighs invisible scales. “The tracks either go through Boyfriend Material or Bone Town.”

“I’m not averse to Bone Town. I like—hell, I love Bone Town.”

He stares at me. “Of course you do, but if you loved Bone Town so much, you’d be on Tinder. Are you on Tinder?”

“No,” I admit grudgingly.

“My point exactly. You’re a local train kind of guy.”

“But the two intersect, right? Bone Town and Boyfriend Material?”

“Oh yeah,” he says with a most satisfied grin. “But only for the very, very lucky.”

He swings the phone at me, declaring, “Avatar time. No photos on Boyfriend Material for the first forty-eight hours.”

I nod, since I’m cool with the app’s premise, then I check out the one he’s selected. An image of Bit-O-Honey candy.

“Yeah, that’d be a hard no. What kind of message does that send to the ladies? Come lick me? No. Just no.”

“Fine. How about this?” He swipes across the screen, then shows me some cartoon prince.

“Isn’t that the guy one of the princesses hated?”

He heaves a dramatic sigh. “This is not Gaston. This is Flynn Rider. From Tangled.”

“Never saw it.”

“Let’s hope third time’s a charm,” Baldwin mutters as he works his phone magic one more time, then swivels the screen toward me. It’s a cartoonish Clark Kent.

“I dunno. Isn’t that a little too on the nose?”

Exasperated, he tosses his hands in the air. “You pick, then. Wait. I spoke too soon. If I let you pick, you’d pick a freaking taco, and no woman wants to date a taco.” He studies my face. “I just need one little thing from you.”

“What’s that?”

“Take off your glasses for a second.”

I oblige, wary but also curious as to where this is going.

“Now, muss up your hair a little bit.”

“Seriously? Why am I mussing up my hair?”

“Humor me.”

I drag a hand through my hair.

“Yes! Spitting image. I freaking knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You are the stunt double for Dax Powers.”

A laugh bursts from me. “The cartoon neighbor from Spying on my Neighbor?”

“Uh-huh. C’mon, he’s a leather jacket–wearing, motorcycling-riding hot-guy librarian-next-door—who also plays Ping-Pong, coincidentally. He’s the poster child for hot nerds in leather jackets who play nerd sports. It’s all tongue-in-cheek and hilarious,” he says.

“True. I’ve seen the show.” After all, my magician cousin’s husband, Nick Hammer, created the satire about a romance writer who crushes on the guy next door and pens tales about their fictional escapades.

“And let’s be honest, we all had our sexual awakenings over cartoon characters—Fred from Scooby-Doo, Prince Charming, Flynn Rider from Tangled,” Baldwin says, going all wistful.

“Do you need me to give you a minute there with your daydreams?”

He sighs contentedly. “I’m all good. Okay, so we’re doing this, Dax?”

I have no more protest left in me. Besides, if I don’t do something drastic, I’ll be sending Dan Stevens’s entire catalog to Amy and then looking up Agatha Christie symposiums to invite her to, and even I’m not that big a geek. “Sure. Why not?”

“That’s the spirit,” Baldwin says, typing with a flourish then clearing his throat. He reads aloud. “Ping-Pong Champion and Book Lover in Manhattan enjoys tacos, Sunday Fundays, exploring the city, getting lost in a good story or two or three, and nights out with friends.”

It’s not a bad profile. And it solves a problem that’s gnawing at me more and more—my attraction to Amy Summers.

That’s an attraction I can’t afford.

This profile? It gives me a focus outside of the woman I shouldn’t be flirting with.

“All systems go? I used your email, so it’s all you from here on out. You ready, bro-bro?”

I take a breath, look around, and realize I’m looking for Amy, like a habit I can’t break.

“Put me on Boyfriend Material.”

9

Amy

First, the thesaurus.

“We can’t do this without our favorite book,” I say, scratching my min-pin’s chin as I grab the volume he’s been sleeping on.

He juts out his snout, asking for more scratches, and I fulfill his request. He lifts his chin higher, luxuriating in the attention.

“Fine. I’m filing an official name change. You are officially Shameless Whore.”

My dog jams his nose into my hand, proving how fitting the name is. “It’s better than Butt Licker.” I dot a kiss onto the top of his smooth head. “But we need to get down to business.”

I plunk myself onto my couch, cuddling with my laptop and my pooch. I crack my knuckles, open the trusty paperback thesaurus, and go straight to Boyfriend Material.

I haven’t used this app before.

I’ve been a Tinder girl.

Sometimes you just want nookie.

And nothing gets you nookie like Tinder.

I haven’t been on Tinder in a year or so, since the last guy I met there—a thirty-five-year-old who’d been recently divorced—cried after we’d finished. “God, that was so good. I haven’t had sex like that since my college days. You’re so aerodynamic.”

I think it was a compliment.

Before Mr. Waterworks, I had mostly swiped right on guys in their twenties. But a lot of them were simply machines in bed, and not the good kind. They were one-speed jackhammers.

Before I dabbled in Tinder, I was involved with Chad, my last serious boyfriend.

We met at a wine-tasting event for people who’d never liked wine but wanted to try. He seemed fascinating at first—he had two dogs named Peaches and Cream, produced science podcasts for a public broadcaster, and loved to entertain me by pretending to be a snooty sommelier who opined on cheap wines, describing them as tasting like shoe leather or bacon strips cooked too long.

We had a good run for a while, but he was all surface quirk, and soon, I grew bored with him. Trouble was, he beat me to the breakup, telling me one night that he just wasn’t feeling it.

I wasn’t feeling it either, but when he pulled the trigger first, it left me with the empty feeling not only of being dumped, but also of being too uninteresting for a guy who I’d already become uninterested in.

Now, here I am, back online again.

But this project isn’t about me. This is about Peyton.

I grab a raspberry bubbly water from the fridge—I’m following Truly’s habits, since she’s queen of her domain—crack it open, and begin.

Must love cakes and books.

Wait, that’s me.

But Peyton likes cake too.

I modify it a bit to suit her passions.

Must love cakes, books, badminton, and lingerie.

No, that’s wrong. She might attract cross-dressers. She doesn’t want a cross-dresser. At least, I don’t think she does.

“Okay, let’s try again,” I say, stroking my dog as I do my damnedest to channel Peyton.

I close my eyes, picturing my bestie, her wishes, her wants, her habits. Lola is my work friend who’s become mission-critical in my life, but I’ve known and loved Peyton forever. We met on the first day of junior high as the two new girls. It was instant friendship, and we stayed close all through college too, even when we went to different schools.

I know this girl. I get her.

With her in mind, I type.

If you see me on the subway, I won’t be that person playing Tetris or Pokémon GO on her phone. I’m the one reading the book, and when it comes to books, I love all types. I believe in kindness, flossing, caffeine, chocolate, and that Raiders of the Lost Ark is the greatest movie ever, but that Back to the Future is a close second. Fitness is cool, but being a protein-head is not.

Are you a guy who can sustain a conversation with words other than “awesome,” “cool,” and “dude”? Do you practice good manners? (Because good manners will get you everywhere.) And do you read avidly and often? Buzzfeed and the sports section don’t count.

Also, bonus points if you like badminton. Badminton high school champion in the house!

P.S. I’m just asking for a friend.

There. It’s all true. Nothing is a lie. I’m not catfishing or misrepresenting.

I read it aloud to my dog. “Thoughts?”

He snorts.

“I knew we were birds of a feather.”

I turn on Spotify, crank up some P!nk, and with a flourish, I hit enter.

I imagine the beep-bop-boop of the internet as the profile goes live and visible to guys within five miles of me.

And since it’s Boyfriend Material, it goes live with only an avatar.

I picked a sexy little cartoon Betty Boop, showing off her booted legs while holding a slice of pink cake.

My freaking hero. To look like her and to love cake . . .

Maybe I’ll lose out on some guys who are looks-centric by using this app. But I don’t want them anyway. I mean, Peyton won’t want them anyway. She said so herself on our call.

That’s why this is the perfect app for her—it doesn’t cater to those types. It matches you based on shared interests and likes and won’t reveal pictures for the first forty-eight hours, true to its marketing slogan.

Find out if he’s more than just a pretty face—is he boyfriend material?

I’m dying to hit refresh, but I know responses won’t come that quickly, so I pop over to my personal email, where I find a message from Madison Turnbell, the badass editor I admire.

Hey, Amy! Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow at Little Friends. I was hoping to catch up with you on some industry stuff. Shop talk!

Ooh, color me intrigued. I can’t wait to hear what’s on Madison’s sharp-as-a-tack mind. And since I’m embracing my inner badass saleswoman tonight, I reply with a cheery I love shop talk!

I close my email, step away from the computer, adjust my glasses, and gather ingredients for banana bread. Quinn loves it, so I can take some to her and take a second loaf to my volunteer time tomorrow at the animal rescue where Madison also helps out. They always appreciate banana bread. The people, not the dogs. We don’t give the dogs banana bread. Though I suspect they’d appreciate it too.

I whip up the batter, pour it into two loaf pans, and set it in the oven.

When I return to the computer, I spend a few minutes reading a manuscript and taking notes on how I’d edit it. There. This too will help my promotional pursuits. Plus, working on it proves I’m not utterly obsessed with finding out if I have any responses to my profile.

With the smell of bread rising, I finally check, and I nearly fall out of my chair.

My Boyfriend Material inbox is spilling over. It’s bursting at the virtual seams, and this calls for cheerleading.

It’s late, but I text Lola.

Amy: Are you entertaining?

Lola: I’m always entertaining. :)

Amy: I mean, are you entertaining a man?

Lola: If vampires count.

Amy: Ah, so it’s a Vampire Diaries kind of night.

Lola: Yes, Ian Somerhalder and I are having a thing. Shh. Don’t tell Fabian. He just left.

Amy: Didn’t you see him last night? You’re seeing Fabian more than one night in a row?

Lola: Well, he is attentive.

Amy: And attentive is the best compliment a man can earn in the entertainment department. Anyway, if you’re decent, FaceTime me. If not, call me.

When Lola video calls, I dance a jig and squeal, pointing wildly to the screen. “This is like a treasure chest. I have a ton of responses to Peyton’s ad.”

“That’s awesome, but you do know it takes about forty-eight responses to get one good one?”

My shoulders fall. “Seriously? Where did you come up with that number?”

“Girl, when was the last time you did online dating?”

“I was on Tinder a year or two ago.”

“And that was when all you had to do was watch football and swipe aimlessly?”

I straighten my shoulders. “I don’t watch football.”

She waves flamboyantly, as if reaching for an alternative. “Fine. You’d watch Raiders again for the fifty millionth time with Peyton and shout the words at the screen.”

“We love our retro entertainment, and eighties flicks are so retro. Plus, Harrison Ford was the ultimate fuckboy.”

Lola’s voice dips appreciatively. “My God. He so was.”

“And nothing confirmed that more than Carrie Fisher’s book.”

“After I read her book, all I could think was Princess Leia, why did you ever think anything more would come of it?”

“Lola,” I chide, “I don’t think you bang Harrison Ford because you’re looking for boyfriend material.”

“Right. You bang Han Solo.”

“And in my case, you bang Indiana Jones. But let’s focus—there is no banging tonight. Only chatting. Let me read you some of the responses.”

I clear my throat and take her through the inbox. “Here's the first one. Ice cream, soup, and you—all things I want to spoon.”

“Ewww,” Lola says, cringing on the phone screen.

“I know, right? He doesn’t even know what I look like. How does he know he wants to spoon me yet?”

She ahems me. “You mean what Peyton looks like.”

“Yes, that,” I say, quickly resetting my mind to Peyton. “Obviously. And he doesn’t know she’s gorgeous. Okay, here’s another,” I say, reading from the screen. “I like books. My favorites are the ones I use to prop open my door to let you know I have an open-door policy if you want to come into my life and move in with me forever.”

Lola waggles her finger in a big forbidding gesture. “And that’s a no. A no. And another no.”

I slump onto the couch. Maybe Lola was right about the number of responses I’ll have to trudge through. “Here’s one more. Big fan of Fortnite. Want to play?”

“Run. Run far away.”

I scroll on, all my excitement leaking out of me in a heavy sigh until I spot a particular reply. I sit a little straighter, lean a little closer. “Hold on.”

“Did you find a diamond in the rough?”

A frisson of possibility runs through me. “Maybe. Bear in mind, Peyton’s profile mentioned Back to the Future. Look what he did. Confession: sometimes when I’m impressed with something someone did, like, say, assembling Ikea furniture in under an hour or snagging a great deal on an apartment, I’ll say, ‘Wait a minute. Doc, uh . . . are you telling me you built a time machine . . . out of a DeLorean?’ Because that’s just a good line. But truth is, I’m more apt to be that guy reading a book too. Except not on the subway. I’m probably walking and reading.”

“Oooh, cute,” Lola says, giving a big smile. “He gets the Lola seal of approval.”

“And the Amy one,” I say.

After all, his avatar is a cartoonish image of Dax Powers from Spying on My Neighbor. It’s the perfect fit for a book-loving guy—looks like a bad boy in his leather jacket but inside he’s a hot-nerd librarian dude.

So, I write back: Don’t trip.

10

Linc

I’ll admit it.

I’m a virgin . . .

To online dating.

I’ve never done it, though I don’t have anything against it.

I’m all for people meeting in whatever way floats their boats. But I’ve never dipped my toes into the Match or POF waters because I've always met women in person. That’s not on principle; it’s just worked out that way.

In college, I dated Kelsey Simmons from one floor down, then I went out with Christine Waters, who worked on the school newspaper with me.

Postcollege I moved to Los Angeles and snagged an entry-level job at a talent agency. The grunts like myself operated as a pack. We left work together and went to the gym together, or to a bar, or to cheap eats. An incestuous troupe of young twentysomethings, we dated each other or friends of each other’s. When I moved up at the agency, work was all-consuming, and I entered a dry spell for dating and sex—but it was deliberate, the daily grind my sole focus.

Until I met Marisa at the gym.

She was on the elliptical next to mine and eyed my machine the entire time, watching my speed, my levels, and surreptitiously adjusting hers to go faster, harder.

When I finished my workout, I congratulated her on beating me. She blushed then admitted she’d been using me to pace herself.

We hit it off and went out that night for tacos at a food truck on the beach.

We were so very LA.

I’d just switched to the boutique publishing house, shifted to the editorial side of the business and away from agenting. Editing was less cutthroat, and I had a bit more time in my life for another person.

Marisa and I stayed together for a year, until she nabbed a fantastic opportunity to produce a TV show in Vancouver. She took off, and we said our goodbyes, but I missed her more than I’d thought I would. Or maybe I missed the idea of her.

I like the companionship. I like getting to know someone, and I like having that person in my life.

The one who you play Ping-Pong with.

Go to dinners with.

Curl up with at night.

When Marisa left, I missed the companionship more than I missed her.

That craving played a large part in what happened when Karina Leigh walked into my life.

Or maybe I was simply swept up in her orbit.

“You’re going to want to buy this book,” she’d declared when we met for drinks—a business meeting.

She was an agent, and she repped a pair of wildly successful podcasters who were writing their first book.

“Yeah? Tell me why I want it.”

Karina was passionate, intense, and smelled like she’d just stepped out of a perfume ad.

That wasn’t why I bought the book, but that was why I fell into a thing with her when the ink was barely dry on the deal sheet.

I say “thing” because what we had wasn’t a relationship like I’d had with Marisa.

It was a tryst, and something about it nagged at me from the get-go. But I ignored that little voice, the one that said dig deeper, ask more questions.

Karina had no ring, made no mention of a husband or children. She had her own place in Santa Monica, with plush white furniture and a view of the ocean—a bachelorette pad. We went out to dinner but never near work, always off the beaten path, then back to her place.

She was only in town a couple of days a week and said she had to tend to her sick mother on weekends in Palm Springs.

Her lies were believable enough for a few months, then a few more, until my sister came to town.

“I want to meet this new woman who’s got you all worked up,” she’d said.

“She’s taking care of her mom this weekend,” I said.

Lisa hummed. “And she took care of her last weekend too?”

“Yeah.”

“And the weekend before?”

I gulped. “Yes.”

Then Lisa big-sistered me. She sat me down, told me her radar was going off like a tornado siren, and made me tell her everything because “something isn’t adding up.”

My pride nearly kept it all bottled inside. But my morbid curiosity was stronger. Was Lisa onto something? Had she figured out what had been nagging at me?

Lisa suggested we follow Karina after work.

I hated the idea but loved it too. I had to know, so we Starsky and Hutched her, following Karina to her home in Palm Springs.

The sprawling ranch home she shared with her husband and two kids.

Turned out the agent I was seeing was actually Karen Lee, a married mother of two with a stay-at-home husband who doted on their four-year-old twin daughters.

That was what Lisa found on Facebook when she promptly stalked her.

I didn’t confront Karina in the driveway. I’m not the kind of guy to flip the table on her marriage by exposing her. Lisa and I simply turned the car around and drove back to my place.

I sent Karina a curt “it’s over, and you know why, but I’m not going to breathe a word of any of this” note.

Then I had to grin and bear it.

Because here’s the thing: even though Karina and I didn’t work in the same office, the fallout spilled into my professional life.

It fucking avalanched.

It was my dirty, filthy secret. Every day at work, I saw my bad decisions, my poor judgment, because we had a project together. No one else knew what had happened. But I had to work with her and shepherd that book into the marketplace with a woman I knew was a liar.

That’s why I instituted my rule—do not mix business with pleasure.

That may also be why online dating is appealing, or so I’m learning.

Yes, I know I could meet a liar online.

I’m well aware of catfishing, and that the web can be a hot cesspool of married scammers.

But I’m not bringing a book into the world with any of those people. I’m not tangled up professionally with anyone in this online realm.

And I’ve learned to trust my gut.

Right now, my gut says Asking for a Friend is someone I’d like to chat with.

Especially when she responds to my opening lines with her own quip: Don’t trip.

Then she quickly follows up with another note.

Asking for a Friend: Mostly because you never know who might be watching and/or capturing your call on cell-phone video, and then you’d become the next day’s walking-and-reading-and-tripping gif. And nobody wants that, right?

And just like that, we’re bantering like it’s a bag of potato chips I can’t stop eating.

Ping-Pong Lover: One of my goals in life is to avoid becoming a gif or a meme or a viral video.

Asking for a Friend: How are you doing with that so far?

Ping-Pong Lover: It’s working out well. Thanks for asking. Hey, is this where we segue into the “life goals” conversation?

Asking for a Friend: Why, yes! Now that you’ve asked, my biggest life goal is to end discrimination against jammies as all-purpose attire.

Ping-Pong Lover: Pajamas are so misunderstood.

Asking for a Friend: That’s why I’ve taken up their cause. Someone needs to be their champion.

Ping-Pong Lover: The sleep garments thank you, I’m sure.

Asking for a Friend: BRB. I need to grab the banana bread from the oven.

Ping-Pong Lover: You’re making banana bread at eleven thirty on a Saturday night?

Asking for a Friend: You’re chatting with a banana bread maker at eleven thirty-one on a Saturday night. So there.

Ping-Pong Lover: But maybe I’m chatting with the world’s finest banana bread maker. So, tell me. How is it? The finest?

Asking for a Friend: You tell me. I’m waving it in front of the screen. Can you smell how delish it is?

Ping-Pong Lover: Oh yes. My phone screen is the scratch ’n’ sniff kind. That smells incredible.

Asking for a Friend: Amazing, isn’t it, since bananas are a bad idea.

Ping-Pong Lover: Like, in general a bad idea? And if so, why on earth are you baking banana bread?

Asking for a Friend: Because even though bananas are a bad idea, banana bread is always a good idea. Which often makes me wonder—how is it possible that one can despise bananas but love banana bread?

Ping-Pong Lover: One word for you.

Asking for a Friend: What is that word?

Ping-Pong Lover: Sugar.

Asking for a Friend: I disagree. I think the one word should be . . . butter.

Ping-Pong Lover: Clearly, we disagree on some fundamentals of life. Sugar versus butter. Raiders versus Back to the Future.

Asking for a Friend: Whoa. Not so fast there, buddy. I have enough love in my heart for both flicks. Don’t you?

Ping-Pong Lover: Of course I do. I’ll prove it. *clears throat* *recites line* “C’mon. Show a little backbone, will ya?”

Asking for a Friend: The plane! After Indy escapes from the South American jungle and jumps on the seaplane and the pilot’s pet snake, Reggie, crawls into his lap.

Ping-Pong Lover: *long slow clap*

Asking for a Friend: *takes bow*

Ping-Pong Lover: Not that I’d ever advocate getting a snake for a pet, can we just agree that Reggie is a great name for a pet?

Asking for a Friend: We can agree on both counts.

Ping-Pong Lover: Then we should discuss flossing too. You listed it in your top things, and I have to know now—are you secretly spying in my medicine cabinet?

Asking for a Friend: Maybe I am. Are you a mad flosser too?

Ping-Pong Lover: Thirty years and zero cavities.

Asking for a Friend: I see what you did there.

Ping-Pong Lover: What did I do there?

Asking for a Friend: You dropped in your age, oh so cleverly. By the way, I’m twenty-eight.

Ping-Pong Lover: I can see that. It’s on your profile!

Asking for a Friend: Oops! Ha! I forgot! Also, yes, daily flosser here too. And brusher. Confession: I carry a travel-size tube of toothpaste in my purse.

Ping-Pong Lover: Of course you do. Because you are clearly a civilized person. I, on the other hand, do not carry a purse—or a murse, for that matter. But I do have toothpaste and floss in my desk drawer.

Asking for a Friend: Sooooo glad you don’t carry a murse.

Asking for a Friend: Or a fanny pack.

Asking for a Friend: Wait. Do you carry a fanny pack?

Asking for a Friend: Don’t answer. I’m being judgy. I shouldn’t be judgy. Feel free to wear a fanny pack. Wear two if you want.

Asking for a Friend: But, side note, isn’t fanny pack like the worst name ever?

Ping-Pong Lover: Damn, woman. You type so fast I couldn’t get a word in edgewise! But don’t worry—no murses or fanny packs on this guy. That’s one of my principles: never wear a murse, use a murse, or advocate for murses.

Asking for a Friend: Let’s be honest here—we both have super-noble life goals.

Ping-Pong Lover: The noblest . . . but back to your profile. That’s one helluva take on Betty Boop. I didn’t know she had pink knee-high boots.

Asking for a Friend: Betty is a fashionista and a pioneer at the same time. I LOVE her. And the image of her holding the cake plate is one of her lesser-known ones, but I love it so much I commissioned an artist on Etsy to make me a necklace just like this. Also, your Dax Powers icon is adorable.

Ping-Pong Lover: *cringes*

Asking for a Friend: Why are you cringing?

Ping-Pong Lover: Isn’t “adorable” the kiss of death for a guy? Like, “He’s as adorable as a baby duck”?

Asking for a Friend: First, who wouldn’t want to be compared to a duck? Second, if you’re as adorable as a baby duck, count yourself lucky. Third, “adorable” has many meanings. You might think it only means “cute,” but maybe I’m using it synonymously with “appealing,” “attractive,” “delectable,” “dishy,” or “dreamy.”

Ping-Pong Lover: Do you actually know those synonyms off the top of your head, or did you google them?

Asking for a Friend: Wash your mouth out with soap! I did not google them. I looked them up in the thesaurus. Also, “dishy” is a great word.

Ping-Pong Lover: Want to bring back “dishy” into popular vernacular?

Asking for a Friend: Yes! Let’s make that our new life goal.

Ping-Pong Lover: That’s quite a delectable life goal.

Asking for a Friend: Stop being so adorably dishy. :)

After thirty more minutes like that, I haven’t stopped grinning. This is just the distraction I need to stop thinking about Amy.

Because so far, Betty Boop is quite dishy indeed.

And my new life goal for the rest of the weekend is to keep talking to her.

11

Amy

Who knew surrogate dating for a friend would be so fun?

If I’d known, I would have started this project sooner.

Hunting for a man for your bestie is like living in a TV commercial. One with a woman blissfully smiling as she’s traipsing through a field of flowers, twirling in circles because her laundry smells so freaking good.

And hell, my laundry does smell amazeballs as I remove it from the dryer in the basement of my building the next morning. Bringing the towels to my nose, I draw in a deep breath of lilacs.

“Come to me, O fabulously clean clothes,” I hum around the dry items.

The lilac detergent does smell fantastic.

But I woke up with a silly grin and showered with one too.

I might skip through Manhattan picking daisies and singing to chipmunks. Because . . . tra-la-la.

Ping-Pong Lover is rocking my mood.

He has so much potential for Peyton that I chatted with him late into the night and again first thing after I woke up.

I’m learning so much about him as a possible suitor, plus I’m practicing all my marketing skills during our convos.

I have to be fascinating when pitching books, and these random yack sessions are a crash course in putting myself out there, since I need to be delivering wit at rapier-sharp levels.

What more could I ask for?

Especially when the chats make me laugh too.

We talked about silly things that are fun to discuss, like how amazing sleep is, how fantastic naps are, and how much better society would be if nap time were mandatory every day.

I even confessed my deepest secret.

Asking for a Friend: I’ve been known to snooze at my desk right around three p.m.

Ping-Pong Lover: You daring scofflaw, you.

Asking for a Friend: I wish I could say it’s deliberate. It’s totally accidental snoozing.

Ping-Pong Lover: I’m going to pretend it’s a flagrant disregard for societal conventions and call you a nap gangster.

Asking for a Friend: Best nickname ever. I will henceforth be known as the Nap Gangster. And I’ll dub you the Mad Flosser.

So we both changed our names in the chat.

The Mad Flosser: Let’s make mandated napping a new life goal.

The Nap Gangster: Yes, and until then, you’ll find me on the other side of the law.

* * *

I’m a good girl, though, so I ignore my phone for the next hour while I dive back into the manuscript I’m working on for my sample editorial letter to submit with the job application due at the end of this week. This is separate from the sample pitch, but it’s critical too, since it’ll show my vision for how I can make a good book even better. After all, that’s what any editor worth her salt and pepper will do.

I review some of my notes then shut down my machine and leash up Inspector Poirot for a short walk.

As we wander through the hood, I have a spring in my step, and nothing knocks it out, not even the bearded guy who smacks into me while hoisting a beanbag onto his shoulder.

“Sorry! Didn’t see you there,” he says, apologizing fitfully.

Even though my elbow smarts from the impact, I’m mostly unfazed. “No worries. I’ll live.”

He laughs then turns up the steps into a building.

Damn, that laundry detergent is a potent drug.

Or, really, the Mad Flosser is.

And as my little pooch embarks on a deep inhalation of a patch of grass, I click open the app and send him a note. Naturally, I have to update him on my morning. How else will I learn if he’s good at discussing everyday life matters with my bestie?

The Nap Gangster: A beanbag just accosted me on Ninety-Second and Lexington.

The Mad Flosser: Reason number 111 why we should abolish beanbags. Also, I’m new to New York, but I hear there are fewer beanbag attacks on the Upper West Side. Something to consider?

The Nap Gangster: But all the locals will tell you there are more futon mishaps over in that neighborhood. So it’s six of one, half a dozen of the other.

The Nap Gangster: Also, welcome to the city.

The Mad Flosser: Thank you. Now I’ve learned another insider tip: whatever side of the park you’re on, you are in peril from a piece of Peter Pan furniture.

As my dog pees, I laugh over the Mad Flosser’s last note, ticking off another item on the suitor checklist: good on his feet.

The Nap Gangster: Neither beanbags nor futons should be allowed in the home of anyone over twenty-five.

The Mad Flosser: Beanbags are basically boneless sofas.

The Nap Gangster: It’s weird, then, that my elbow still smarts from the impact.

The Mad Flosser: My point exactly. They are deceptively dangerous to denizens of the city.

The Nap Gangster: Alliteration will get you everywhere.

I stare at my note. That’s kind of flirty. Did I just say that? I study each word again. Yup, seems I did. But isn’t it useful for this project to learn how he handles flirting? Of course it is. That’s just good intel to keep in mind when assessing promising mates.

I glance down at my dog. “Hey, Shameless Whore, meet Shameless Flirt. But it’s all for a good cause, right?”

He wiggles his butt.

“Why, yes. Thank you for agreeing.”

Trouble is, the Mad Flosser doesn’t reply for the next block. Or the next one.

Have I gone too far?

We’ve been flirty already, haven’t we? Sort of like how I am with Linc?

An image of my off-limits coworker flashes into my mind. His carved cheekbones, full lips, and hot-nerd glasses. His voice, low and smoky. His smile, and those damn unexpected dimples.

I’m quite flirty with him too, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He seems to like it.

I hope I haven’t overstepped with this Boyfriend Material prospect for my friend.

When I reach the front stoop of my building, a notification pops up.

The Mad Flosser: I hear that “everywhere” is an excellent destination.

I grin as I unlock the front door and bound up the steps to my floor. Everywhere! Yes, everywhere! He gets it—the man knows how to flirt.

Major points for the Mad Flosser.

I’m beaming, too, when his next note lands on my screen.

The Mad Flosser: Also, in honor of those pink boots on your Betty Boop avatar, and how “adorable” they are, I’m changing your name to Betty Boop.

The Nap Gangster: In honor of how adorably dashing your avatar is, you’re now officially becoming Dax Powers.

Dax Powers: How dishy.

Betty Boop: How dishy indeed.

* * *

For some reason, the new names delight me more, probably because his avatar reminds me of Linc.

I didn’t see the similarities at first, but now I do as I study the cartoon. Linc without glasses, and maybe with his hair unkempt, bears a striking resemblance to this illustrated bad boy.

Plus, Dax Powers is the ultimate book girl’s wet dream—all rough and tumble on the outside, and on the inside, he’s the town’s sexy librarian. I’d be at that library daily.

I’d be racking up late fines on every single paperback. I’d sidle up to the counter, acting all contrite as I hand him an overdue book. “Oh, Linc, it seems I owe twenty cents on this Judith Krantz. Do you want to spank me for returning it late?”

Yup. Linc can be my librarian anytime.

Sexy, witty, wordsmithy Linc. Linc, who isn’t into sports and loves books, and has a certain easy charm about him. He’s perfect for . . .

Well, wouldn’t the office hot tamale be a great type of guy for Peyton to date?

Except the second that thought bubble falls from the sky, I crush it with my bare hands. If I can’t date Linc, no one can.

Besides, I don’t want to date right now anyway. I’m zooming down Work Street and Work Street only.

That’s why when I pack up the banana bread in Tupperware and head to the animal rescue for my volunteer time, I send a message to Dax Powers as I walk.

Since I won’t be dating him, he won’t be distracting me from work matters.

In fact, I’m more focused, because I need to be on my game when we chat—engaging, interesting, selling, selling, selling—which often starts by listening.

I fire off a question asking about him.

Betty Boop: Tell me more about your prowess at the Ping-Pong table. Are we talking amateur, professional, or world-class Ping-Ponger? Also, is that a word? “Ponger”? *goes to dictionary right now*

Dax Powers: The way Urban Dictionary tells it, “ponger” refers to either a smelly person or a dude who’d rather hang out with his beer-pong buddies than members of the female persuasion.

Betty Boop: And I ask again—are you a ponger?

Dax Powers: Let’s see. Does this sound like ponger behavior? I’m at the local laundromat, watching my clothes tumble in the dryer and reading Where’d You Go, Bernadette (since I didn’t read it when it came out, and I figure I should read it before I watch the movie).

Betty Boop: Because books are always better than their movies?

Dax Powers: Always. Without fail. The movie is never better. Except for Fight Club.

Betty Boop: The Princess Bride too. I swear, when you read the book, all you can think is, “Are you sure that’s where all those fantastically colorful characters came from?”

Dax Powers: Ah, you got me there. I’ve never read that book. Once you experience Mandy Patinkin’s Inigo Montoya, you’ve reached one of life’s true pinnacles, and it’s better to quit while ahead.

Betty Boop: Advice that would have been helpful before I subjected myself to the book, Dax.

Dax Powers: The only cure is to watch the movie over and over until it pushes the book entirely from your brain, leaving only fond memories of Wallace Shawn shouting “Inconceivable!” and then this . . .

Dax Powers: *inserts gif of Mandy Patinkin as Inigo Montoya*

Betty Boop: Yes, I can watch those five seconds of “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means” over and over and over.

Dax Powers: It washes all the bad memories away.

Betty Boop: *plays gif again* *falls under gentle spell of The Princess Bride in cinematic form*

Dax Powers: And see, isn’t the thoughtful sending of that gif proof that I’m not a ponger?

Betty Boop: Yes. Also, reading and cleaning make excellent supporting evidence too. Major points for you, Dax! I feel I should mention that I did my laundry this morning too. Just so you don’t think I’m a slovenly banana bread maker and gif consumer. Plus, I walked my dog. (That’s when the boneless bag attacked me.)

Dax Powers: I want to ask what your dog’s name is, but it might be weird if I know Fido’s name before yours, and since we’re still in the forty-eight-hour window, plus the nickname window, I’m going to exercise restraint.

Betty Boop: Grrr. That only makes me want to tell you more. But I will behave too. Except to say he’s named after a literary character.

Dax Powers: Of course he is.

Betty Boop: He’s also dashingly handsome. But enough about Christian Grey, my teacup Chihuahua.

Dax Powers: I literally just cackled at the laundromat. Well played.

Betty Boop: Thank you. Also, I’d say how cool it is that we both did laundry, but I’m being nonchalant about our matching Sunday morning laundry habits.

Dax Powers: And I’m totally nonchalant about our matching taste in books made into movies. Also, did you know that before gifs, humans had to communicate in actual sentences?

As I stop at a light, I consider the last few notes. Hmm. Seems I might have overstepped with the dog comment. Peyton doesn’t have one. But I did say I was asking for a friend when I started this profile, so I’ll tell him the screener is the one with the dog, just in case it’s not clear. But I don’t need to clarify it quite yet, because I’m having too much fun. Holy smokes—I’m having a blast as I work on selling myself. This rat-a-tat-tat pace makes excellent target practice for work and assessment. Onward!

Betty Boop: Sentences? No! How does that even work?

Dax Powers: No idea. It is mystifying to me too. To answer your original query, Ping-Pong players are called . . . wait for it . . . Ping-Pong players.

Betty Boop: Oh. That’s disappointing. I was hoping for a much more exciting title.

Dax Powers: You could call me Ping-Pong champion, since I did win the last tournament I played in. I know, I know. Try to contain your excitement.

Betty Boop: My excitement is uncontainable! I do think that’s cool. Especially since I’ve never played, beyond picking up a paddle in a game room now and then.

Betty Boop: Oh and yes, as I reread that last part, I see it does sound vaguely naughty.

Dax Powers: Just vaguely, Betty? When you combine game room and paddle, you could get some interesting results. Plus, there’s the Christian Grey reference . . .

Dax Powers: Wait. I totally didn’t just talk about BDSM in this chat. I swear I didn’t.

Betty Boop: And yet it looks like you did.

Dax Powers: Shoot, I’m sorry.

Betty Boop: I’m not offended. I feel like if you were trying to pick up a woman for BDSM play, you’d be on a different app.

Dax Powers: Whew. Thank you. Which also reminds me that I need to switch over to my Paddle Me Please app and keep up the convo there with Ms. Bend Me Over the Chair.

Betty Boop: No worries. I’ll be on Spank Me Tonight, so I guess we’ll miss each other.

Dax Powers: Good luck. I hear all the pongers hang out on Spank Me Tonight.

Betty Boop: Oh damn, you are good!

Dax Powers: Thank you. I am indeed quite good. *inserts devil emoticon*

Betty Boop: And a little cocky too?

Dax Powers: Just a little. But you know what it’s like when you’re champion of a nerd sport, Miss Badminton Champion.

Betty Boop: Hey, you’re assuming I’m a nerd.

Dax Powers: Am I wrong, Miss Badminton Champion? *smirks*

I gulp, nearly dropping my phone in the drain as I cross the street. Shitballs on fire. How do I reply to this? I glance around as if I can locate the answer on the sidewalk.

Am I Peyton? Or me? Do I remind him I’m asking for a friend? It was in the profile though. The description closed with “asking for a friend,” for Pete’s sake.

It must be obvious.

Okay, fine, maybe he thinks I meant it to be tongue-in-cheek.

Someone could certainly read it as tongue-in-cheek.

Because the entire saying is tongue-in-cheek, and no one is ever asking for a friend—they’re asking for themselves.

Ugh.

So I was only honest on a technicality.

My stomach swoops, and a teeny bit of guilt weaves through me.

Who am I kidding? This is a massive, crushing tsunami of guilt.

Ping-Pong Lover Mad Flosser Dax Powers is a darling. Chatting with him is better than drinking a vanilla latte.

And I can’t lie. I won’t lie to this potential suitor.

As I walk along the park, making my way toward Little Friends, I return to the chat, drawing a deep breath.

Betty Boop: Moment of truth. I don’t play badminton. My friend does. Hence that’s why I said “asking for a friend” in my profile.

Dax Powers: Wink, wink. Got it. We’ll table badminton for another time. But thanks for the moment of truth. Here’s mine: I’m having a blast chatting with you.

And there goes my stomach again—swooping up, sweeping down. Not with guilt this time, but with tingles, butterflies, and everything good in the world.

Dax Powers is too much fun, too clever, too everything.

Guilt wiggles through me again because he doesn’t seem to have fully grasped that I’m not who he thinks I am, but I swat it away.

Because I am me.

If he’s having a blast talking to me, I must be doing something right.

That’s why I’m here. To practice confidence.

And maybe confidence comes with honesty.

So I decide to give him some more of that too.

Betty Boop: Another moment of truth: I’m having a blast too.

Betty Boop: But I do need to sign off. I have a volunteer thing, and I’m going to share the sugar-butter goodness with the other volunteers.

Dax Powers: I’m sure they’ll agree that sugar and butter are both good ideas. Certainly enough to outweigh the badness of bananas. Catch you later, Betty. I’m off to the park to go for a run. You know, so I can continue to crush it in Ping-Pong.

Betty Boop: Crusher! That’s what we’ll call you. A crusher!

Dax Powers: Works for me. Also, stop distracting me. Go. Do good. Volunteer.

Betty Boop: You were distracting me.

Dax Powers: Bye, Betty.

Betty Boop: Bye, Dax.

This time, I do end the chat. I sign out of the app, tuck my phone in my pocket, and map out the rest of my afternoon.

Even though I feel the slightest bit wrong, I remind myself that I was honest, I was up-front, and I’ll try harder again later. But tonight, I’ll talk to Peyton and tell her my plan. I can let her know how well it’s going.

I should prime her, after all, that I’m reeling in a big catch.

Because Dax Powers seems like one helluva catch indeed.

With my plan settled, I head inside and say hello to the woman who runs the place then join some of the other volunteers in the back room, where we sort donations.

“Hey, Madison!” I call out when I see the woman who wants to “talk shop” today.

She swivels around from where she’s stacking blankets and smiles. She looks fantastic in a V-neck tee that says “My dog was right about you.”

“Hey, Amy,” she says.

Before she can say another word, I point excitedly at her shirt.

“I must know where you procured the world’s most perfect T-shirt.”

She plucks at the hem. “Would you believe it? Duane Reade.”

“Stop. There is no way Duane Reade could peddle that.”

“That’s the God’s honest truth.”

“I know where I’m going when my shift is over.” I place the bread on a nearby table and sort through donations of leashes and dog beds for a few minutes, placing them into separate piles.

Madison clears her throat. “Hey, Amy.”

Her tone is completely different. It’s an I’ve got to tell you something voice, not a let’s talk shop voice. But what on earth would she need to tell me in that tone?

“Yes?”

She tucks a pink blanket onto a shelf. “The reason I said I wanted to talk shop last night is that I wanted to let you know I’m applying for the editorial post at your company.”

My stomach drops to my knees. To the floor. No, to the fucking magma center of the Earth.

Madison Turnbell, kick-ass editor at Athena Publishing, wants my job? Well, the job I’m gunning for.

“You are?” I rasp, my voice pocked with gravel.

“Yes. I assume you’re applying for it too?”

I nod, because speaking is too hard.

“I’m just not happy at Athena, and I hear great things about Bailey & Brooks, so I wanted to throw my hat in the ring.”

I already have to compete with the company’s golden child in Antonia, and now I have to compete with the industry’s badass-chick editor?

“You don’t mind, do you?” she asks.

I swallow the vinegar in my throat. “Go for it,” I say. “Want some banana bread?”

“Sure,” she says, sounding as awkward as I feel as I thrust the baked goodness at her.

She takes a slice, smiling.

I take one too, hoping either the sugar or the butter softens the gut punch.

* * *

I message Peyton when I leave Little Friends.

Amy: You around? I have stuff to tell you. Good stuff, I promise.

Peyton: Ooh, my favorite kind of stuff. I’m heading to Tristan’s restaurant with my mom, but let’s talk later?

Amy: It’s a date.

Peyton: If it’s a date, why don’t you take me out for dessert? Dr. Insomnia’s tonight?

Amy: Twist my arm, why don’t you?

As I head to the pickle shop, I avoid the Boyfriend Material app. I’m not in the mood to be “on” after learning Madison tossed her hat in the fray.

But I also don’t believe in being a Debbie Downer.

And when I get in a funk, the most surefire way out of it is to focus on someone else. That’s what I’m thinking when I pick up pickles for my sister—some peaches too, since she’s craved those every day of her life. Then I pop over to the apartment she shares with her husband.

Vaughn is out, so I get to dote on my very large sister, whose belly is so touchable right now.

“You’re the cutest pregnant woman ever,” I tell her as I rub her belly.

“I bet you say that to all the pregnant women you see,” she teases, and I hand her the food gifts.

“Bless you,” she says, setting her free hand to her heart. “Your Scrabble will now be safe because of peaches and pickles.”

She waddles into the kitchen, grabs a cutting board, and slices a peach. As she hands me a section, she asks what’s going on at work. I tell her the news about Madison, ending with “But that just means I have to try harder.”

The peaches-and-pickle visit is doing double-encouragement duty.

“Exactly. Don’t let it get you down,” she tells me. “There will always be other talented people vying with you. You can’t control what they do. You can only control what you do. And all you can do is be your best. You know what you do better than anyone?”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“You’re funny. You’re clever. You make people laugh. That’s your secret weapon. So don’t worry about Madison. I’m sure she is great at some things, just as I know you are the queen of others. Don’t forget—comparison is the thief of joy.”

“I love you. And thank you.” And because I’m a little stinker, I have no choice but to say, “And I won’t compare your belly to a house.”

She narrows her eyes and manages to give me a noogie, which I thoroughly deserve.

We hang out for a little while longer, then I say goodbye.

On my way home, my phone pings with an email. It’s from Tiffany, and she wants to know if I can stop by her office on Tuesday so she can give me pointers for my pitch next week.

Hell, yes!

I reply with I’d love to, as a smile hijacks my face.

I should text Josh or Quinn and tell them about this.

But the next person I think of is Linc. He’s the one I want to share this news with.

And that’s both a good idea and a bad idea.

Inside my apartment, I flop down next to Inspector Poirot, groaning.

What have I gotten myself into?

“What would you do if you liked two guys at once? Especially if you’ve earmarked one for your best friend?”

He licks his hindquarters.

“You’re so not helpful, Christian Grey.”

12

Linc

It’s official. I’ve been in New York for a little over two weeks, and I can find anything. Today I made it to the West Village to meet a college buddy for lunch, then walked to Bryant Park in Midtown, and after that, I ventured to the East Fifties to run some errands.

I tell my sister, Lisa, about my accomplishment as we walk to Tristan’s for dinner on Sunday night. “I don’t need a map or GPS. I can find anything in the city.”

She pats my head affectionately. “Linc, I hate to break it to you, but that is not an accomplishment.”

“I beg to differ. Finding your way around a new city is not easy.”

“If you were anyplace but New York, I’d agree,” she says, gesturing to a street sign as we cross the avenue. “But this city is literally a grid. It’s child’s play finding your way around here.”

“Do you let Katherine find her way around New York?” I ask.

“My daughter is one. Obviously not.”

“I rest my case,” I say as we reach the restaurant and I hold the door open for her.

Inside, we head to the bar, where I nod hey to Tristan. He’s chatting with a woman, and Lisa nudges me. “The redhead is pretty,” she whispers.

“You have a wife.”

“I’m married, but I’m not dead. And trust me, if Paige were here, we’d both be checking out the redhead, because she’s a babe. But my wife is home taking care of our child so I can have dinner with my younger brother, who wants to chide me for pointing out an attractive woman,” she says, shaking her head in dismay.

“And women wonder why men don’t understand women. I swear, women make no sense sometimes,” I say.

“I’ll second that,” Tristan chimes in, then slaps some cocktail napkins down. “I was just telling my friend that women are wonderful and inscrutable.”

The pretty redhead in question rolls her eyes. Something about her feels vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place her. “Why do I come here to suffer this kind of abuse?”

“I’ve been asking myself that for a long time,” Tristan says, then winks at her.

“You’re the worst.”

“I bet you say that to all the guys you’re friends with.” Tristan nods at her, then us, saying, “This is my friend Peyton. She’s a total pain in the ass.”

Peyton gives him a sharp stare. “This is my friend Tristan. He’s a complete ballbuster.”

“Ouch,” Tristan says, then doubles over as if she’s injured him. “Wound my pride a little more, woman.”

Lisa extends her hand to Peyton. “I’m Lisa, and this is my brother, Linc. He just moved here from LA. He’s single, gainfully employed, and doesn’t live at home with his parents.”

Peyton laughs. “These days, that’s about all a woman can hope for in a man.”

Tristan clears his throat. “Hello. I own my own business and my own apartment.”

Peyton smiles at him. “And on that note, I need to go to Dr. Insomnia’s.”

“Are you seeing other restaurants now?”

“It’s a coffee shop, silly. Also, I hung out with you for a full hour after my mom left. But I do have to meet Amy.”

My senses go on high alert when she says that name.

There’s no way she’s meeting my Amy, but even so, my mind immediately pictures the woman from the office.

Amy, sexy, brainy, bright, clever Amy. Who likes pockets and thinks the book is always better than the movie.

Wait.

Shit. It’s Betty Boop who said that about books and movies.

But I bet Amy feels the same way.

And just like that, I’m thinking about the woman I was trying not to think about.

I glance at the specials board, hoping it’ll get my mind off Amy, when out of the corner of my eye, I see Tristan watching Peyton leave.

Something clicks in my head. He’s into her. I can tell by how he looks at the woman who’s just a friend.

He seems to shake away some thought, then redirects his focus to my sister and me, gesturing to the napkins he slapped down when we arrived. “What can I get for you?”

After we order drinks and he heads to the end of the bar to hunt for my sister’s wine, Lisa gives me a pointed “Well. . .”

“Well, what?”

My sister nods toward Tristan. “He seems to like the pretty redhead. What about you? Are you seeing anyone?”

I give her a no way look, even though I want to tell her there’s sort of someone. “I just arrived in New York. I don’t have time to date.”

“Earlier you were bragging about mastering our complex grid in days. I figured you’d have learned how to master dating too.”

When she puts it like that . . . “There is this woman.”

Her brown eyes sparkle. “Tell me.”

There is nothing my sister loves more than stories of romance. I tell her how I got on Boyfriend Material and met someone I clicked with right away.

She practically bounces on the bar stool. But then she adds, “Just make sure she’s not married, engaged, or a rabid liar before you fall in love with her.”

“I’m not going to fall in love with her.”

“You might,” she says, nudging my arm with her elbow. “You should meet her in person.”

It’s not the first time the idea has occurred to me. It’s been occurring to me all day. Because Betty Boop is the first woman I’ve clicked with so quickly in a long time.

Besides Amy.

We clicked. We hit it off instantly. We had the same crazy chemistry.

But Amy is against my rules. Hell, Amy is the reason I got on Boyfriend Material in the first place.

Because I can’t pursue her. And if I can’t pursue her, there’s no reason I shouldn’t try with Betty.

When Lisa excuses herself to call her wife and check on the baby, I grab my phone, open the app, and see Betty’s online. God bless the green dot.

Dax Powers: Hey. How was the rest of your day? Mine was great. I’m at dinner with my sister and something has occurred to me. And that something is . . .

I stare at the note in progress. Am I rolling this dice? Planning to meet someone I don’t know and can’t see an image of till the forty-eight-hour avatar-only window closes tomorrow night? It’s possible I won’t find her attractive. It’s equally possible she won’t dig my looks.

But life is full of risks, and this doesn’t seem like such a big one, so I finish the note.

Dax Powers: . . . I think it would be a good idea (i.e., the opposite of bananas, or the equivalent of banana bread) if we meet tomorrow night.

But when I leave the restaurant, she hasn’t replied and that seems like answer enough.

13

Amy

I waste no time. I’m not a hemmer or a hawer. I’m a confessor.

I don’t even spare a second for the guy who runs this place to finish making my vanilla latte.

Instead, the second my best friend walks into the café, I grab her arm, pull her close, and blurt it all out at the counter.

“I made an online profile for you to get back into dating, and I was going to do all the vetting so I could present you with the cream of the crop, and that way you wouldn’t have to do it, because I know that part is misery for you, especially after the yoga incident.”

She gives me a quizzical look, then says, “That’s sweet.”

“It was, and you got a ton of responses because you’re so freaking awesome, and I didn’t even use your picture, but the way I described you was legendary, because you are legendary, so of course everyone wanted to meet you. But one guy stood out and I’ve been talking to him all day and . . . now I sound crazy,” I say, then gesture wildly to my mouth. “Like, as I hear the words pour forth from my piehole, they sound borderline insane. But we just clicked. And we’ve been talking all day, and he asked me if I want to meet tomorrow night, and I do, but, Peyton, he’s your potential boyfriend.”

Her face is expressionless.

Beautiful and stony.

Meanwhile, Tommy stifles a laugh as he works the espresso machine.

Or maybe fifty laughs.

I shoot him a look. “Tommy. This is all in the vault. You can’t breathe a word of what you just overheard.”

“Who would I tell? Do you really think anyone is coming in here demanding to know the secrets of my customers?”

“One can’t ever be too careful.”

He makes the monkey see-no-evil hear-no-evil gesture. Then whispers, “Go out with the guy.”

I return to Peyton, taking a shaky breath. “I feel so guilty because I’m interested in your prospect. And I didn’t want to be interested in anyone, since I’m trying to only focus on work. Then I was doing this for you, and also trying to get ready for my sample pitch for the new job by getting experience talking to someone new and gaining confidence. But talking to this guy, he reminds me of someone, and he’s just so . . . dishy.”

She laughs. “You don’t hear that word very often.”

“I know, and that’s exactly the point. He makes me forget that I don’t want to get involved with anyone, and he especially makes me forget the guy at work who’s a total babe, and the hottest hot nerd I’ve ever seen, and who is funny and sarcastic and gets me. But getting involved with someone from the office would be a massive mistake right now while I’m going after a promotion, and the field is even more competitive now because Madison Turnbell is also trying to win the job.”

“You’ve mentioned her before. She’s Wonder Woman or something?”

“She probably has a magical lasso too. And that’s yet another reason I shouldn’t get involved with the guy at work.”

“True, though office guy sounds kind of perfect. But it’s probably best to avoid a workplace romance when you’re going for a promotion.”

“And honestly, I shouldn’t get involved with anyone at all. But Dax Powers is so fun, and we hit it off and we connected.”

“Dax Powers?” she asks, as Tommy slides our drinks to us. I pay and we take the drinks to a table.

“That’s what I call him. It’s his avatar. From the TV show.”

“I love that show. I always thought that character would be perfect for you.”

“Yeah, me too. But I feel terrible, because cartoon Dax Powers is yours.”

Peyton laughs. “Ames, I love you. But he’s not mine. I didn’t know a thing about him, or this, or anything till two minutes ago. But it’s hilarious to hear you spit it all out like it would bother me when obviously it doesn’t bother me at all.”

“Are you sure? Because we received so many responses, and I’m sure you can meet Mr. Right. I can even turn over the profile to you and we can sort the other guys together.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not ready. I thought I was, but I’m not. But I love that you did that for me. Of all your harebrained ideas, this is one of my favorites.”

I let out a deep exhale. “Thank you.”

Her eyes twinkle. “And my not-so-harebrained idea is this: I think you should meet this Dax fellow—at a safe location, obviously—and tell me in advance so I can bring reinforcements if you need me to. Message him now.”

I breathe a heavy sigh of relief. But the guilt isn’t entirely gone.

When I click open the app, I begin my second confession of the night.

Betty Boop: I need to try the moment of truth again. Remember earlier when I said I was asking for a friend? I meant it. I know people say that when they’re really asking for themselves, but I truly did set up the profile for my friend. Her heart was broken, and she’s finally ready to start dating again, so I wanted to help her out by doing the legwork and finding some good guys for her. You seem to be one of those guys. You’re funny and clever and bright and adorable. At least, your cartoon self is adorable. In any case, I know it seemed tongue-in-cheek when I was saying I was asking for a friend, but I actually was.

Dax Powers: Ah. So you meant it when you said you didn’t play badminton?

Betty Boop: I don’t. My friend does. And I started talking to you for her. Except I’ve been having a blast talking to you. And, well, I don’t want to turn you over to someone else.

Dax Powers: If I wasn’t morally opposed to the use of LOL, I’d write LOL right now.

Betty Boop: Thank you. I think . . .

Dax Powers: It was a compliment. That’s one of the funniest lines ever, and I’m glad that you want to keep me for yourself. I’m kind of honored.

Betty Boop: I told her tonight what happened. How I started the profile but then enjoyed talking to you myself.

Dax Powers: What did she say?

Betty Boop: She said to go for it. To meet you tomorrow night.

Dax Powers: And what do you think?

Betty Boop: I think, if we’re still enjoying talking to each other tomorrow, that we should meet.

Dax Powers: Sounds like a great idea.

14

Linc

But the next morning when I see Amy in the break room, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea.

“Hey, soap star. How was your weekend?” she asks.

“It was good. Found out my father isn’t my real father, and that my brother is in fact my father, but hey, all in a day in Pine Crest View.” My reply is light, but a knot of guilt tightens in me. Why the hell do I feel guilty?

Because of that smile. Those eyes.

She looks dishy. Delectable. And so damn pretty in a blue-flowered dress with pockets.

“How was your weekend?” I ask.

“Not nearly as exciting. I worked on my promotion pitch and spent time with my dog,” she says, and her lips twitch at those words—my dog.

I want to ask, Is his name Christian Grey? Though that’s impossible because I know her dog’s name. “How’s the Inspector?”

“He’s a total ladies’ man. Yesterday at the park, he was trying to hit on a female Great Dane. What is he thinking? How is that going to work exactly for a min-pin?”

When I laugh, I’m struck by a sharp awareness—this is exactly what it felt like to chat with Betty this weekend. It felt like talking to Amy. And that’s why I liked talking to Betty so much. She talks like Amy, sounds like Amy, acts like Amy.

And for a split second—hell, for a minute—I’m wishing Betty were Amy.

But that’s ridiculous, so I focus on the woman in front of me, the one who’s still chatting.

“Oh, and Tiffany wants to talk to me tomorrow—give me pointers for the pitch—so that’s exciting.”

“That’s fantastic news,” I say, smiling widely.

“The only thing that’s potentially more exciting is—wait for it—I have to see the dentist today.”

I arch a brow. “And that’s exciting?”

“Yes. Can I confess something?”

Tell me you’re Betty. Tell me you’re the woman I’m making plans with tonight. Tell me she’s you.

“I was hoping you would,” I answer.

“I love seeing the dentist. Most people don’t, but I do.”

“You secretly love having your teeth cleaned,” I say in a knowing whisper.

“Yes! Isn’t that weird? But I do. I love it. I love that super-squeaky-clean feel afterward, and I kind of spend the day running my tongue over my teeth. They feel great,” she says, shifting a little closer as she shares her secret. When she moves into my space, I catch a faint whiff of her shampoo. That peach scent drives me wild. It makes me want to ditch all my rules. It makes me forget I have them.

“I love it too,” I say, offering my confession as well.

With her hand on her heart, Amy exhales deeply, like she was getting something weighty off her chest. Her fingers fiddle with the neckline of her blouse as she tugs at a silver chain. She pulls out the necklace, running a hand over the pendant. “Well, when you see me again, I’ll be the girl running her tongue over her teeth.”

And I’m the guy staring at her necklace. I can’t look away. Because I can’t believe my eyes.

Her pendant is Betty Boop, holding a slice of cake, wearing pink boots.

I blink in case I’m seeing things.

Imagining things.

But nope. It’s real. Her pendant is the avatar, and everything clicks.

Amy is friends with Peyton from last night. Peyton looked familiar to me because she was with Amy the very first night at Gin Joint. Amy said that night her friend’s ex was a dick.

Meanwhile, last night Betty Boop told me she was online-dating to help a friend who’d been heartbroken.

Plus, Betty has a dog named after a famous literary character.

So does Amy.

Fine, her dog is Inspector Poirot, not Christian Grey, but it’s another piece of evidence.

Betty loves to floss. Amy loves the dentist.

And then, the necklace. Amy’s wearing the lesser-known Betty Boop image because . . . of course she is.

My heart fox-trots with hope.

“Nice necklace,” I say, my voice a little gravelly.

She runs a finger across it absently. “Thanks. Got it on Etsy. Tracked down an artist to make it for me.”

I fight like hell to stave off a grin, to resist smiling as wide as the sea and saying I know.

Instead, when she heads to her office, I head to mine.

I shut the door.

Stare out the window.

Pinch the bridge of my nose. I need to remember why what I want to do next is a bad idea.

Why I first laid down rules. What I promised myself.

And I do. I’m keenly aware of every damn reason I have to kill this profile, ignore Amy, and forget I ever started to fall for her.

I’m aware, too, that there’s that looming issue of “disclosure.”

But fuck my rules.

Against all my better judgment, all my experience telling me not to get involved with someone I work with, I send Betty a note.

Dax Powers: I’ll be at Tristan’s at eight. I’ll be wearing Clark Kent glasses.

15

Amy

As the hygienist scalpels my teeth, I think of Linc.

I picture him in the break room.

I replay our conversations over the last few weeks. I rewind the conversation from this morning.

I return to the way he looked at me the night we met at Gin Joint.

The way we talk.

Our banter.

Our chemistry.

The zing I feel every time I see him.

The zing he seems to feel too.

“So how’s everything going at work? Acquire any new books?” the woman in the pink scrubs asks as she saws floss between my teeth. Why does the hygienist always ask me questions when she has tools in my mouth?

“Mrfghtsmh,” I say.

She flashes a huge smile. “Oh, that’s great. I bet it’ll be fabulous.”

Does she know what I said?

“Trghtyh,” I add.

She laughs lightly. “Definitely. So great.”

I try again. “Grhtthtty.”

“Yes, I’m the same way.”

Holy shit.

She has been faking it all along. She pretends she knows what I’m saying when I talk with my mouth full.

I can’t wait to tell Linc. He will get such a kick out of this story.

And for the second time in as many days, he’s the person I want to share with.

I’ve only known him for a short while, yet we completely click.

There’s something else too. Last night when I was telling Peyton how I felt about Dax, there was a part of my brain wishing Dax could be Linc.

Hoping.

That’s because Linc is the guy I want. He’s the guy I’m interested in. He’s the one I want to meet tonight.

As much as I loved chatting with Dax Powers all day Sunday, I liked it best when I was imagining I’d hand him off to Peyton. When I wasn’t truly picturing him for me.

I liked it when there wasn’t a real possibility I might date him.

Now, there is a real chance, and I don’t want to take it. I can’t.

Because I’m into someone else.

It would be wrong to see Dax when I feel this way about Linc. Not right, and not fair.

“And what are you doing tonight?” the hygienist asks as she squirts water in my mouth.

“Mrftthyup.”

Her eyes twinkle. “Sounds like fun.”

When I leave the dentist office and find a new message from Dax in the app, I swallow roughly.

I know exactly what I’m doing tonight.

Because Linc is the one I want.

That’s why I finalize my plans for this evening.

Nothing. I’m doing nothing.

Betty Boop: I have to cancel. It’s not you. You’re great. But there’s someone else I like, and it wouldn’t be fair or right to see you knowing I have feelings for another guy. Thank you and goodbye.

I delete my profile.

16

Amy

There’s only one thing I can do now.

Wallow.

Make a blanket fort and disappear for the night.

Buy a thick slab of cake and stuff it into my mouth, forkful by sad forkful.

But I’m not a wallower, so instead I turn my phone to “do not disturb,” go to Dr. Insomnia’s, and double down on work.

I need to focus on this manuscript. I power my way through another few chapters, marking up sections, taking ample notes, then crafting the start of my editorial letter.

I might not be Madison Turnbell, but damn it, I can write the freaking hell out of an editorial letter. I’m going to spit shine this to within an inch of its life. I can make it sing.

I channel my coconut cake and vanilla latte saleswoman, mix in a little Truly Goodman, and do my damnedest to be awesome.

Two hours later, I’ve made admirable progress, and I’m more than ready to meet with Tiffany Chilton tomorrow.

I say goodbye to Tommy, sling my messenger bag across my chest, and head into the Manhattan evening.

Popping my earbuds in, I hop over to my audiobook app, hunting for something to listen to as I make my way across town.

The first book I see is Casino Royale. My heart twinges then flutters, and I unleash a sad sigh.

I’m missing something.

That’s the feeling, but who am I missing? Or what?

Do I miss who Dax Powers might have been? Or do I wish that Dax were Linc? Or maybe I’m missing the possibility of more flutters like the ones I felt when I saw the book Linc gave me?

I sidestep a barrel-shaped man in a Yankees cap who trundles out of a bodega. I push my earbuds in further, like I can close out the noise of the city and only hear what’s in my head and my heart. But I can’t, because there’s too much static.

That makes no sense—nothing should be confusing now that I’ve said goodbye to Dax. My life should be neat and clean. My path clear.

There are no more distractions on the road to a possible promotion.

Except there is.

There’s the other guy. The one I told Dax about. The one I can’t stop thinking about.

I should focus on work. I should be thinking of promotions, and nailing my meeting with Tiffany, and getting a good night’s sleep, and plotting how to be a total badass, and grabbing a bite to eat, because I’m hungry.

But all I want to do is tell Linc about the dentist, ask him what audiobook he’d listen to next, find out what weird sport he plays.

I don’t know because we never finished our discussion from Saturday night at the party. As I walk across town, it replays idly in my head.

Everyone should have an unusual athletic skill, especially a sports hater. Actually, that’s a perfect skill for a sports hater.

And what’s your unusual athletic skill?

I play a mean—

Suddenly, the answer takes on critical importance. I open up my email and fire off a quick note to him.

Hey! You never told me what your unusual athletic skill is. We were talking about it on Saturday night when our conversation was truncated. I’m still dying to know!

Also, I’m meeting Tiffany tomorrow to go over pointers for my pitch and would love to chat more with you about that too.

And finally, I have big news about my hygienist. She’s literally been faking conversations with me the whole time I’ve been seeing her.

I read the note again, but before I hit send, I listen one more time to my heart and my head.

My head says stay the course, but my heart thumps louder, wanting what it wants, wanting something different.

I don’t know where this is going. I don’t know if it’s going anywhere, but I’d rather talk to him in person.

I don’t want another online conversation with a guy, a string of emails that bounce back and forth between us all night long.

I want to spend time with him.

And as soon as that thought crystallizes, the noise and the static die down, leaving only clarity and choice.

I add another line to the note.

I know this is last-minute, but I’m borderline starving, and if you want to grab dinner, I know the best cheap taco shop in the whole city.

There.

I’m ready.

Once I hit send, I notice my “do not disturb” icon still inhabits the corner of my screen.

I turn it off, and my emails from the last few hours download.

Ooh! There’s a note from him in there. Hot babycakes. He’s fast.

But when I click on the email, my brain registers that it has a different subject line than the one I just sent.

The subject line is Tonight, and he sent it a few hours ago.

Why would Linc email me and say Tonight?

And why the hell do I feel like a shaken-up bottle of soda as I click on the envelope?

With nervous fingers and a brand-new rush of flutters in my chest, I open it, read it, and clasp my hand to my mouth.

No way.

No effing way.

This can’t be happening.

This is finding out you won an auction for the hottest book on the market. It’s a huge print order from Target for your new title. It’s your book becoming a big best seller.

This email is better than ten thousand vanilla lattes.

Hi. It seems I need to try again. Would you like to meet me at Tristan’s at eight? I’ll be the guy wearing the Clark Kent glasses.

P.S. I didn’t know till I saw your necklace.

Then he ends with his number. My free hand flies to my Betty Boop, and I play with it as wild delight zips through me.

Dax is Linc.

Linc is Dax.

The guy I’m into is the guy who’s into me. And he asked me out tonight as me, knowing Betty is me. I bring the pendant to my lips and kiss it. “You gave me away, and I love you for it.”

Holy banana bread.

This is better than coconut cake.

And yes, all my reasons to avoid an office romance are still there, as strong as they ever were.

All that’s changed is the strength of my desire.

It overpowers all my reasons to resist.

My Betty Boop, cake-loving, hula-hooping heart takes the wheel.

With fleet fingers, I reply with one perfect word that needs no synonym ever.

Yes.

17

Amy

A woman does not go see a man she’s been into without showering first.

Or walking her dog.

One, I like to be prepared for every possibility, so I’m going to need to shower and shave my legs.

Two, my little dude needs tending to.

“How was doggie day care?” I ask when I pick him up from Fluffy and Fabulous, a salon that also has an all-day play area for dogs.

He pants and paws at me, whining happily. I scoop him up in my arms and kiss his soft head as I carry him out of the place, chatting as we head down the street. “We have a date tonight. Well, I do. Not you. And listen, if you meet this guy, please don’t hump his leg. It’d ruin all my cred,” I say, then turn the corner and set him on the ground “Wait. I don’t have any cred. And I know I’m talking in the royal we, but I don’t care because you’re a prince to me.”

He stops to stare at a German shepherd strolling by. I swear, he has such a thing for ladies ten times his size.

“Prince Pervert,” I add under my breath. We continue down the block as he sniffs the ground. Understandable. New York sidewalks are like the perfume counter for canines.

We reach my apartment quickly, and I give him his kibble then strip on the way to the shower. With laser focus, I scrub and rub and pluck as I review all the lovely giveaway details while the water streams over my body.

Ping-Pong Lover said he was new to town.

Linc’s new to town.

Ping-Pong Lover believes the book is better than the movie. He likes to walk and read. He loves all books. He’s an omnivore just like me. Everything adds up perfectly.

But the part that makes the most sense is this: I always felt like I was talking to Linc. Or the idea of him, at least. My conversations with Ping-Pong Lover Dax had that same rhythm, the same sense of verbal volleyball. We talked nearly all night, and that’s how I’ve always felt with Linc.

I rinse away the conditioner and body wash, then turn off the shower.

In and out in five minutes. Not too bad. Still plenty of time to slather lotion on my legs, put on panties and a bra, and blow-dry my hair.

A little gloss, some mascara, and I’m good to go as soon as I grab a skirt and top.

I gather my other clothes from the hallway floor, drop them into the hamper, and appraise my reflection, including my light-blue matching bra and panties. Of course they match. I like to be ready for anything, but I’m not expecting him to put out.

Even though I definitely want him to.

Because I like this guy so damn much.

Scurrying to my bedroom, I yank open the closet, sort through my dresses, and grab a cute little black-and-blue miniskirt with pockets for my phone and lip gloss. Pulling on a black short-sleeve blouse, I laugh out loud, thinking about murses and fanny packs, banana bread and bad ideas, Christian Grey and Paddle Me Please, life goals and everything.

Everywhere.

A shiver runs through me, and nothing about tonight feels like I’m crossing my own lines, though it should.

Everything about it feels right.

So damn right that I text Peyton as I leave and tell her where I’m going.

Amy: Guess what? In the most random of fantastic coincidences, the guy I’ve been chatting with is the guy from the office. And I’m going to meet him right now.

Peyton: Shut the fuck up.

Amy: I kid you not.

Peyton: Are you made of good luck? Did you just stumble into a pile of gold? Come across a winning lottery ticket on the street?

I laugh at her assessment, and even though it sounds unlikely, it’s also incredibly likely.

Amy: Actually, it makes perfect sense. The dating app we used matches you by location and mutual interests. We’re two book-loving nerds a few miles away from each other in Manhattan who’ve chosen to meet on Boyfriend Material rather than Tinder.

Peyton: Fair point, but still. Also, OMFG. You’re going to see him tonight? What about not getting involved with someone at work?

Amy: It’s a bad idea, right? You said that last night.

Peyton: I said that, didn’t I? I’m sure I felt that way at the time, but now, is it wrong to want a dirty, salacious, and super-romantic report about your night? Asking for a friend.

Amy: When you put it like that, how can I deny you?

Peyton: You cannot deny me. Also, if you deny me, you deny you. Don’t deny either one of us!

I arrive at Tristan’s on time, feeling like I’ve been chewing on tablets made of adrenaline and Pop Rocks. I stare at the door—and this is the moment of truth.

The line I’m crossing.

I take a deep breath, ask what Betty Boop would do, and decide she’d have her cake and eat it too.

Damn straight.

That’s what I’m doing tonight. Screw the consequences.

I walk into the restaurant, and he’s seated at the bar, his phone in front of him, a glass of beer next to him. The second I’m past the doorway, his gaze turns to mine, and he flashes a sexy, dimpled grin just for me.

He’s more casual than I’ve seen him at the office. In jeans and a Henley, he’s so Dax Powers but so Clark Kent too.

And all Linc Silvers.

The guy I want.

The man I like.

My date.

I walk over to him, shedding a coat of nerves behind me. I don’t look back.

“So I hear you play a mean game of Ping-Pong,” I say when I reach him.

“I am indeed a Ping-Pong player, but never a ponger,” he replies, all delicious smirk and twinkles in his blue eyes. “And how’s Christian Grey?”

“He’s probably hogging all the pillows on the bed as we speak.”

He smiles like he can’t quite fathom this is us, that we are Betty and Dax. I smile the same way, then say, “I can’t believe it’s you. And I might also need to give you the world’s greatest detective badge for putting two and two together.”

“I couldn’t believe it, but it also makes perfect sense.”

I nibble on the corner of my lips. “All the sense in the world.”

“Also, I got your email. I can’t wait to hear the hygienist story, and I’d love to talk to you about Tiffany, and I’m more than borderline starving, but I have to do this first.”

He lifts his hand and runs his index finger over my Betty Boop pendant, leaving a hot trail of goosebumps across my chest. Then he captures my lips in a kiss.

And I swoon.

18

Linc

I didn’t lie when I said I was ravenous.

But the second my lips touch hers, I know.

I’m not eating dinner first.

My appetite for food can wait.

I can’t wait any longer for her.

Her lips are so soft. Her taste is so sweet that my brain is going haywire with lust.

My thumb slides across her jaw, stroking her face as I sweep my lips over hers, softly at first, then a little harder, a little more insistent.

Because that’s what she does to me.

Makes me want more.

This Smarties SweeTart of a woman who came here tonight for me, who wants the same things I do.

She tastes like candy and sex. Like desire and need.

And I need more.

Our mouths collide as my thoughts go foggy and my body heats up from a druggy, delicious kiss.

We both pick up the pace at the same time, shifting from a gentle exploration to a hotter one full of teeth and tongues and dirty promises. I have to know her, have to have her. I’m getting drunk on these kisses, on her peach scent, on her brazenness.

The way she kisses back is a massive turn-on. She gives as good as she gets, and it’s not a surprise at all.

It’s who she is. She’s fire and spark.

My hand slides into her hair, and I tug gently on the strands.

She gasps, breaking the kiss. “If you do that again, I can’t be held responsible for the sounds I’ll make.”

A bolt of lust shoots down my spine, and filthy curiosity takes over. I grin wickedly, giving a quick tug.

“Ohhh,” she moans.

“Why, yes, I think I will do that again,” I whisper.

“Get a room!”

It’s Tristan, calling out from behind the bar, shaking his head.

“Thanks for the tip,” I say to him.

Amy looks embarrassed but not for long. She waggles her fingers in his direction. “Hi, Tristan. Bye, Tristan.”

She grabs my hand, and I don’t need to be hit with an anvil to know what’s happening next.

Out on the street, I gesture to the bar. “You know him?”

“He’s friends with Peyton.”

“The one you were asking for?”

“Yes. Enough about him. And them.” She grabs my neck. “Kiss me again, Dax Powers.”

“Gladly,” I say, and on the street, I kiss her hard.

This is not a romantic-comedy kiss. This is not the kind of kiss where the hero says good night and walks down the street in the rain smiling because they had such a great date. We haven’t even had a date.

This is the kind of kiss that goes one direction only.

And Amy Summers is making it damn clear that this train is the express tonight.

I’ll take a ticket, thank you very much.

I break the kiss, meeting her eyes. “I don’t want to assume anything, but I’d really like to take you back to my place right now and work on all the different ways to make you moan like that again. How does that sound to you?”

Her fingers tap-dance up my chest. “Dishy. It sounds dishy.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “And how about my place? It’s across the park, but my dog will appreciate it.”

“Anything for that dom,” I say with a grin, then I hail a taxi, and I’m pretty sure it’s taking us to Bone Town.

* * *

Her dog jumps on me. He leaps up and down. “Did he swallow a pogo stick?”

“No. He’s part kangaroo.”

Bending, I scratch his chin as she shuts the door. “Hey, Inspector.”

“Oh, just call him Attention Whore. He’s not usually this nice to strangers though. Are you wearing dog biscuit cologne?”

I pat my neck as I stand. “My aftershave is made with kibble.”

She laughs and grabs my shirt, jerking me close. Her humor fades, and her expression shifts to pure honesty. “Just to be clear, I really wanted Dax to be you,” she says, putting on a whisper.

I slide my hand down her bare arm, shedding everything and giving her the bare truth. “I was hoping it was you, Amy.”

She smiles at me, her grin a cross between giddy and give-me-some. Mine’s probably made from the same mix of emotions. The only thing absent is regret.

Thankfully.

Because though these confessions are making a mockery of my one big rule, I’m embracing being a rulebreaker. I savor every second that I flout my self-imposed guideline.

I may have test-driven Boyfriend Material to take my mind off her, but my mind never strayed far at all.

Hell, my thoughts were always on her. And even though I’m listening intently for that little voice that’ll tell me to stop, that’ll warn me that this might be a mistake, I don’t hear it at all.

Besides, she’s not my direct report or vice versa. We aren’t shepherding any books together, and we don’t work side by side on the same projects. This is manageable, even with that little old matter of disclosure that Baldwin warned me about. But I’ll deal with that at another time.

For now, it’s full speed ahead.

I seal my lips to hers once more as my hands explore her body, travel down her back. I make mental notes as I go, recording everything she likes. Her shiver as my palms coast over her lower back. Her moans when they slide along her waist. That sensual gasp when I cup her breasts. I nearly lose my mind as I squeeze and knead the beauties, stroking my thumbs over the pert nipples that poke through her blouse.

She wobbles then breaks the kiss, her hands clamping down on my hips. “You have to know I’ve thought of this so much.”

My chest puffs out. Obviously. “Tell me all your filthy thoughts about me.”

“They started from day one. You were so handsome, so damn sexy when I saw you in the break room,” she says, like she’s savoring the confession. She’s injecting me with so much masculine pride.

“Yeah?” I take a step, walking her backward.

“So hot,” she whispers. Another step. “I figured you had to be some sort of sexy motivational speaker-slash-author. Or Henry Cavill.”

Laughing, my hands roam down her waist. “Right now, I have only one motivation.”

“What might that be?”

“To get you naked. Which might have crossed my mind the day I met you too.”

“You dirty pervert,” she says.

“And the other thing that crossed my mind was that you were going to be trouble.”

She narrows her eyes, taking another step. “Why would I be trouble?”

“Trouble for me. Trouble for my plans. Trouble for my head.” I sweep some loose strands of hair off her cheek then run the backs of my fingers across her face. “Because you were irresistible from the start.”

She struggles to rein in a grin, then stops trying as we stumble in our two-step toward her bedroom. She jerks at the hem of my Henley, and I help her along, pulling it over my head. But we don’t make it down the hall. As she flicks open a button on her blouse, she pulls me to her couch.

Sitting, I grab her waist and position her over my legs so she’s straddling me.

I remove my glasses, setting them on her end table, and she does the same with hers.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her without them. “Your eyes are spectacular.”

Trembling, she whispers, “Yours too.”

I hold her face, and for a few seconds, neither one of us speaks. We just look at each other, the intensity of the moment a taut line between us. There’s certainty too—the knowledge that we both want all the same things.

And those things require no clothes.

I return my focus to her blouse, unbuttoning her shirt, spreading it open, and savoring the fantastic sight of her perky breasts in a light-blue lacy bra—a sight that makes my throat go dry.

She leans back, giving me room to explore her body, but there’s one thing I need to know. I pull at her skirt and peek at her panties, finding the answer when I see matching blue.

“Amy,” I say, low and smoky.

“Yes?”

“Your bra and panties match.”

It’s her turn to grin wickedly.

I meet her gaze, asking in a rough voice, “Did you come to dinner planning to fuck me?”

She laughs, then she grinds against my hard-on, and I groan so damn loudly.

“I did,” she admits, with an owning-it shrug. “Like I said, I’ve had my eye on you since I heard you say you were faster than a family of honey badgers at demolishing a cake.” Her honesty is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. It’s such a turn-on. I grab her hips, pull her down harder against the outline of my cock, and bring my mouth to her ear.

“Honesty will get you everywhere,” I say.

“Good. Because I kind of want to be everywhere with you.”

I thread a hand in her hair, wrap a chunk of it around my fist, and tug. Her lips fall open in an O, and her eyes float closed as she moans the most deliciously dirty sound.

“But you know where I most want to be right now?” I ask.

“Where?” Her voice shakes as I tug again.

With every ounce of the filthy intent I feel, I tell her, “Inside you.”

“Oh God. Yes, please. Now.”

We are speedsters, shedding jeans, skirt, boxers, and those beautiful scraps of lace.

After finding a condom from my wallet, I roll it on, and Amy positions herself over me, taking the reins as she rubs the head of my cock against her wetness. Rubbing and stroking and driving me wild.

She’s so damn wet, so fantastically slick, and I want to feel that heat surrounding me. Want to feel her on me, chasing her pleasure, coming harder than she has before.

But she’s content to play with me.

To toy with my dick.

With her fist wrapped around the base, she keeps up the game. Slide, play, tempt.

I close my eyes, groaning. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Death by a Sex Tease?” she asks, taunting the fuck out of me.

“If that’s another one of your book ideas, you better get plotting this second . . . plot it while you ride me,” I grit out, grabbing her hips, and looking her straight in the eyes. “Because I want you so fucking much that you really need to get on my dick right now.”

“As you wish,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows then sinking down.

As soon as I fill her, the naughty vixen act ends, and she shudders.

Just shudders.

Beautifully.

She gives a full-body tremble then a rough breath, like she can’t believe it could be this good.

Because it feels electric.

“Linc,” she moans as she starts to move, “you feel incredible.”

“We feel incredible.” Then I clasp her hips, helping her find the rhythm she wants, the pleasure she seeks.

She rides me like a woman who knows her mind, who knows her body. She’s shameless and bold, owning her pleasure.

“Use me,” I murmur. “I want you to feel so fucking good.”

“I do,” she whispers, rising up and down, up and down.

My hands slink around, and I squeeze both cheeks. She yelps in pleasure.

That’s a clear order if I’ve ever heard one, and I know how to follow directions. I squeeze again, gripping the soft flesh, kneading her ass as she rides me.

I lift a hand and swat her cheek.

“Yessssss.”

I smack the other one.

“Ohhhh God.”

She leans her head back, her hair spilling past her shoulders, her tits bouncing, and holy fuck, I’m in dirty heaven with this girl. She’s smart, funny, pretty, and fucking loves sex.

She’s made for me.

“Get yourself off on me, Amy. I want it. Want it so badly. Want you.”

My words seem to unravel her, because in seconds she’s riding me harder, grinding and fucking and chasing, and it’s the most alluring sight I’ve ever witnessed.

No.

I’m wrong.

When she comes on me, her lips parting; her eyes squeezing; her voice hitting the ceiling, bouncing off the walls, and sending her dog running to the other room, that’s the sexiest image in the whole damn world.

Seconds later, I flip her to her back, thrust into her, and tell her to wrap her legs around me.

She does, and I drive into her, desire and lust barreling down my spine, making my legs shake, radiating into every corner of my body as I seek my own release.

But before I let go, I rope my hands in her hair and tug one more time.

She cries out, and hell, if that doesn’t sound like she’s close again, I don’t know what does.

I tug again, and Amy pants, “Coming.”

Watching her second orgasm is better than watching the first.

So good, in fact, that I don’t hold mine back. White-hot pleasure takes my body hostage, obliterating everything in its wake but this moment, this desire, and this woman.

* * *

Later, after she orders tacos from the best hole-in-the-wall Mexican shop in the city and they taste better than nearly any I’ve had in LA, I’m pretty sure I know where we’re going.

“You know, Linc, you’re trouble too,” she muses as we eat on her couch.

“Is that so?”

“Complete trouble, but somehow a good idea at the same time.”

“Like on par with banana bread and tacos? That good an idea?”

She smiles. “Better.”

Yes, I have to agree.

Because this is what I suspected. The train didn’t go to Bone Town tonight.

It went to boyfriend material.

That’s where I want to be.

And exactly where I shouldn’t.

19

Amy

Did someone say good sex steals your brain cells?

Well, if someone did, someone was wrong.

Dead wrong.

Apparently, sex makes you stronger.

Smarter.

Sharper.

And more ass-kicking.

I’m ten-feet tall as I stride into Tiffany Chilton’s office the next day.

Sex, tacos, and a sleepover with a specimen of brains and beauty will do that to a girl.

Especially when said guy offers to walk your dog for you at ten at night.

Le swoon.

Maybe he was just trying to get in my pants again, and if so, it worked.

Oh hell, did it work when he returned with my pooch, tossed me over his shoulder, and carried me to my bed, where he proceeded to lavish attention all over my body with his magical tongue. Then he slid into me and wrung another orgasm out of me.

After, I asked if he wanted to spend the night.

He said yes and became the big spoon . . .

Until six when he slipped out, kissing me on the forehead, saying he’d see me at work.

That means I had four window-shattering Os, a full night of shut-eye, and a dog walker all in one.

Praise the goddess!

With a vanilla latte in hand, a plume of sweet steam rising from the top, I knock on Tiffany’s open door.

Smiling, she calls me in, her eyes landing on the cup. “That better be for me. If it’s not, the meeting is over, because I’m going to hunt one down.”

I laugh and set the drink on her desk. “It’s all for you. Courtesy of DoorDash. And straight from An Open Book.”

She takes off the lid, draws a deep breath, and says, “Yes. I say yes to whatever you want.”

Quinn’s words ring in my head. All you can do is be your best.

“Well, when you put it like that, what I really want to do is publish a coffee table book called Cats Who Think They’re Dogs. Imagine all the hiking cats, and cats on leashes, and cats chasing balls who would grace the pages.” My confidence comes from humor, so I lean on it, trying to make her laugh.

And laugh she does, then she whispers, “I have a tuxedo cat. Caravaggio greets me at the door every day with his stuffed mouse. That’s his most dog-like behavior, and I love it.” She takes a sip of the latte, puts on her serious face, then taps the cup. “Thanks again for coming to see me. And I appreciate the drink, but I want you to know I’d go to bat for you even if you didn’t bring me this.”

I sit up straighter. That has my attention. “That’s wonderful to hear.”

She swivels her laptop around, showing me a retailer product page from a book I worked on last year. “I’ve been watching your career, and your choices. Your books generate great reviews. And not just consumer reviews, but trade and industry ones too. Now, I know some of these are assigned to you and some are books you find, but universally, you have a more than solid track record.”

Yes, sex and tacos and professional praise. I’ve grown to twenty feet now. More than solid works for me. “Thank you.”

“The question is—what can you bring to Bailey & Brooks that will make the VPs want to move you into the editor position?”

I gulp, nerves swooping right back into me. I thought they’d vacated, but their return is swift because this is my Achilles’ heel.

Selling myself.

Taking a beat, I reflect on the past few weeks, on my conversations with Josh and Linc, with Tiffany and Lola, and with Quinn when I brought her pickles and peaches.

And with Dax. I was on fire with Dax, operating at my highest levels of pith and wit.

But it’s not them I picture when I draw a deep breath.

It’s my thesaurus. My energy source. My freaking life force.

I don’t trot out fancy synonyms or try to entertain Tiffany the way I would a pack of middle schoolers.

Even so, I turn to the thing that’s given me the most confidence over the years.

My words.

“Stories rock my world, and the chance to make them better is my jam,” I say, speaking from the heart. “I see myself as a book Sherpa, and I won’t stop climbing till I reach the peak. And I know how to reach it because words are my favorite things. They delight me. They always have. And I know how to make them shine. Take this book, for example.”

I launch into my sample pitch for a mock book we’d want to acquire.

I listen as she gives me feedback, then I adjust, make some changes, and try once more.

“Great job,” she says. “Just practice a little more—you’re almost there. The pitch is in six days, on Monday afternoon. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too.”

When I leave her office, I’m floating on feathers, and I nearly race to Lola’s office, but she’s not there.

And weirdly, that makes me happy.

Of course I want to see her.

But I also want to see him.

I head past Rainey’s office, saying hi to Antonia and waving to the boss lady, who barely looks up, then I turn the corner and tiptoe past Linc’s office.

He’s at his desk, on the phone, but he smiles the second he sees me and signals that he’s almost done with his call.

I slip inside, and a few seconds later, he ends the conversation. “Hey,” he says. “How was your meeting?”

I love that he remembered. “It was great,” I say then give him the lowdown.

“That’s fantastic,” he says. “I knew you were going to do great.”

“You did?”

He rolls his eyes. “Amy Summers, you are completely captivating and charming. As long as you harness all your natural awesomeness, you’re unstoppable.”

The smile on my face won’t budge. “Aww. You’re making me blush.”

He narrows his eyes. “And it’s adorable.”

I laugh, and he taps his pen on his desk, cocks his head, and seems to study me. Then he leans away from his desk, peering through the open door and into the hallway. Footsteps sound across the carpet, then fade.

Once they do, he returns his gaze to me and whispers, “I don’t know why you ever said you’re no good at selling, because I’m sold.”

My blush deepens. “Stop. You’re too sweet,” I whisper.

“I can’t stop,” he whispers. “And I can’t stop thinking about last night.”

Tingles spread all over. “Me too.”

Another whisper, so low I can barely hear. “What are you doing tonight?”

You. I’m doing you.

I adopt a nonchalant shrug. “Rearranging my board games. Cleaning my cutlery. Vacuuming in my matching bra and panties.”

There’s a rumble in his chest, and his blue eyes are fiery.

He reaches for his phone, taps away on it, then looks up at me.

I grab my mobile device from my pocket and read his message.

Linc: Go out with me tonight.

Amy: What if I want to stay in with you?

Linc: You are such a dirty girl, and I was trying to be a gentleman.

Amy: You weren’t a gentleman when your face was between my legs last night.

Linc: Thanks. Now I’m rock-hard under my desk.

Amy: If this were a filthy romantic comedy, I’d shut your door and get on my knees under there.

Linc: Death by Sex Tease indeed. I expect the finished manuscript on my desk by noon. Also, why don’t you come over after work so I can do ungentlemanly things to you, and then take you out after?

Amy: I like the way you think. Orgasms first. Food second.

Linc: Food and entertainment. Don’t sell me short.

Amy: There is nothing short about you.

* * *

By the time the workday ends, I’m pent-up and ready to climb the walls.

Linc steals away first, and I leave shortly after, catching an Uber to his place.

It’s early evening but it feels like an afternoon quickie, because we’re desperate and horny, and neither of us says much more than a word. He simply pulls me into his apartment, kissing me the second I’m past the door. His hands are on my face, and mine are on his pants, and in no time, we’re in his bedroom, his floor a pool of clothes, my body spread out on his bed.

I expect him to grab a condom and drive into me, given how frenzied we are, but instead he slides a hand around my neck, yanks me closer, and kisses me so passionately I see stars.

My vision blurs as his fingers slide between my legs, then inside me. I gasp, breaking the kiss so I can moan. My legs part, inviting him.

He groans his appreciation. “I fucking love how much you want it.”

“How much I want you,” I correct, and that seems to turn him on even more.

His fingers thrust deeper as his lips reclaim my mouth. He’s ravenous, and he doesn’t seem to want to stop fucking and kissing.

I don’t want him to either, because being fucked like this and kissed like this is a dirty dream come true.

My body is white-hot and electric. Pleasure pulses through me, swelling, ballooning, as he rubs my clit, hooking his fingers inside me.

I want to scream out in bliss.

I can’t handle how good this feels. It’s so intense, so mind-bending the way he tends to my body.

Pleasure coils low in my belly, tightening.

I’m going to come so hard, I swear it’ll hurt.

But it’ll hurt so good.

My hips rock shamelessly. He devours my mouth until I can’t hold on anymore.

And I don’t want to.

I break the kiss, and I break apart.

“God. Linc. Oh my God. Yes. Yes.”

I come so hard and for so long that I barely know what hit me.

Then he’s over me, rolling on a condom and pushing inside me.

With that, something shifts.

We go from hot, fevered, pent-up lust to something else.

Something more.

I know I’m in this deeper than I thought.

I’m sinking under, and I don’t want to come up for air.

The look on his face, the vulnerability in his eyes tells me he’s in the same damn place too.

He rises, bracing himself on his palms, meeting my eyes. “Look at you. So much trouble. So irresistible.”

“Am I?” I ask, savoring his praise.

“You’re irresistible in every way.” He swivels his hips, pumping into me, taking me there. “And you come beautifully. It’s so fucking sexy watching you lose control.”

I smile, blushing as my hands coast down his back, curling over his ass—his firm, yummy bubble of a butt.

He laughs lightly. “You’re not shy.”

“Not one bit,” I say as I squeeze his cheeks.

He groans savagely, clearly loving the way I touch him. “You,” he grunts. “You make me feel so good.”

He lowers his body, and then he slows his pace, moving with long, luxurious thrusts, and I get lost in the rhythm, lost in him.

Then we’re lost together in sensations as we surrender once more to the pleasure, reveling in mine, and in his, and in ours.

* * *

“You’re a maniac in bed, and that’s a good thing,” I say as I get dressed.

“That’s a compliment of the highest order,” he says as he slides his glasses back on.

“Yes, it is.” I point at him, drawing a circle in the air. “You, naked, wearing nothing but glasses. You are Dax Powers. You are the hot librarian of my dirty dreams.”

“And you’re the sexy bookworm of my naughty fantasies.”

I waggle my fingers. “I’ll meet you in an hour.”

“Bye, Amy,” he says, then walks me to the door and kisses me softly before he mutters, “Trouble. So much trouble.”

And there are no signs of trouble slowing down.

* * *

After I take my dog for a walk and feed him dinner, I leave to meet Linc. We talk until the ramen noodle restaurant closes.

I learn about his sister, his baby niece, and his passion for Ping-Pong that started when he was ten. He tells me he fell in love with books through Harry Potter, and that unlocked new worlds for him. He read till all hours of the night and all weekend long.

“You’re a kindred spirit,” I say.

“Yeah, that’s safe to say.”

Then it’s my turn, and I give him the nitty-gritty on being the youngest of four. I tell him about my brother and how much I admire him. I rave about Quinn and how excited I am to become an aunt for the first time. And I tell him all about Tabitha, who’s working in Paris, the lucky wench.

“I might have to hitch a ride across the Atlantic and coerce her into taking me on a personal tour of the best sweet shops in France,” I say.

He lifts one brow, oh so doubtfully. “Will that truly require coercion though? I for one would feel no pressure if my sister wanted to go on a tour of sweet shops.”

I tap my chin. “Hmm. Good point. I’ll call her tonight and book a jet. Also, my favorite bookstore is opening a shop in Paris. An Open Book.”

“You definitely need to go, then.”

“I do.”

He asks about my parents next.

“They’re great,” I say. “They supported me in everything. They weren’t helicopter parents, and they didn’t tell me I was perfect, but they taught me right from wrong, and they believe in me. That’s all I can ask for.”

He lifts his glass of beer and toasts. “I couldn’t agree more.”

The way he smiles at me, the way he takes my hand after dinner, the way he asks if I want another sleepover, makes me feel like we’ve already jumped over all the early relationship hurdles.

Come to think of it, relationships have never been the stumbling block for me. I’m not afraid of getting involved. True, things didn’t work out with Chad, but that was a compatibility issue.

My initial reticence over pursuing Linc was tied to work. But we don’t have any projects together, and we don’t work for each other.

That’s why I decide to let go of the vestiges of my worries over work versus romance.

Or maybe I let them go because it feels too good to curl up with him under the covers after he whispers dirty, sweet words in my ear while he takes me over the cliff again.

So good, it’s better than cake.

20

Amy

The next night, he takes me to Brooklyn.

To a sporting event, of all things.

But this race is just our style.

The shopping cart decorated like a Victorian lady’s undergarments flies by, rattling wildly on the Brooklyn street.

The woman folded up inside it wears a high-necked dress with ruffles and lace-up boots perched over the edge. She’s shredding the air with her screams. Her teammate looks like he’s stepped out of the pages of a Charles Dickens novel. He has the chutzpah, or insanity, of a monster truck driver as he careens down the road.

Close on their heels is a team with their cart styled in leopard gear. The big cats put the pedal to the metal and fly past the Victorians, nearly crashing into them before peeling away.

I shudder momentarily. “This is way better than football.”

“Worlds better than hockey,” he seconds.

I bump my shoulder against Linc’s then point at the next team screaming past the crowds. “Moment of truth. How much would they have to pay you to do that?”

Laughing, he shakes his head. “I can’t be bought. What about you?”

“Oh, I can be bought. Or simply bribed with a nominal amount of dessert. A chocolate buttercream cake would probably be enough to get me to put on a baseball uniform and catch fly balls.”

He sweeps one arm in front of me, like he’s writing on the sky. “Can Be Bribed with Dessert. That’s another book title for you.” He slinks his other arm tighter around me, curling his hand over my waist, and I sigh happily.

Dreamily.

Contentedly.

This. Feels. So. Good.

And the craziest part of being with him like this? Even though we’ve only been doing this for a few days, I feel like I’m winning at balancing work and romance. I had another great day at the office, powering through manuscripts and refining my editorial letter.

Compelled to let him know that everything feels doable, I turn to him and smile knowingly. “You know what?”

“What?” His face is hopeful, and that’s why I’m not afraid to say what I’m feeling.

But because I’m me, I keep it light. “Did you know you broke my man diet?”

He pinches my belly. “I didn’t know you were on one.”

“I definitely was.”

“And why were you going keto on men?”

“The whole work thing. I’ve always wanted to get a promotion so badly, I’ve needed to be laser-focused, but I felt like I nailed my pitch practice with Tiffany yesterday, and I’m delighted with how my sample editorial letter is coming together. I’m not saying I’m a shoo-in, but I weirdly don’t feel like you’re sucking up all my brain cells.”

He fashions a claw of his hand, drops his fingers to my head, and makes a loud slurping sound.

I moan dramatically and pretend like I’m about to collapse.

“Mwah-ha-ha,” he cackles evilly.

“So that was your nefarious plan all along. Trick me and steal my brain power.”

“You have a big brain. Why not go for a big haul?” He tugs me closer, dusting a kiss over my forehead. “I hear ya though.”

“You do?”

He nods, pulling back, his expression shifting. “I was wary too. About getting involved with someone at work. Let’s just say I’ve had a bad experience in the past.”

I frown. “Oh no. Office romance left a bitter aftertaste?”

He heaves a sigh. “That’s one way of putting it,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his jaw before he tugs me away from the races and toward a stoop, where we sit.

I’m wildly curious what he’s about to tell me, and though it must be painful for him, he doesn’t hold back from me.

“I went out with this agent in LA.” His tone is heavy, laced with regret. “We had a book together. Which made it ultra-awkward when she turned out to be secretly married.”

A chill stands the hair on my arms on end. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah, I felt like a complete asshole,” he says, then shares more details.

“It’s not your fault though,” I say when he’s through with the story.

“Yeah, but . . .”

I freeze. “Wait. Are you worried that I’m married? Because I assure you, my poker face isn’t that good.”

He laughs, runs his fingers along my cheek, and shakes his head. “No, I’ve seen your place and met your dog, and woken up with you. But it made me wary of ever having a workplace romance, even though this woman and I weren’t in the same office. I wanted to see a clear division. Having to work with her for weeks afterward was torture.”

“Sure.” I nod, and my throat tightens with the fear that he’s putting on the brakes, and with good reason. He’s crashed before.

He reaches for my hand, squeezing it, and that loosens some of my worry, but not all of it. “Coming to New York felt like a fresh start,” he continues. “I left all that crap behind and came here determined to not do one thing: get involved with someone I work with. And then look what you did.”

“I bamboozled you,” I say playfully, shimmying my shoulders as if that will keep the hurt away if he’s ending this. Is that what he’s doing?

“You definitely did, Amy. From the second I met you,” he says, emphasizing each word, and maybe my fears are for naught. “That night at Gin Joint, I was, like, ‘Universe, are you kidding me?’”

I smile, relieved that his tone has shifted from annoyed to humorous once more. “The universe wanted to tempt you, evidently.”

“And that’s why I got on the app. Because you were so distracting, so tempting, so delicious.” He nibbles on my neck, and yeah, I’m okay. We’re okay. “And I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

My skin sizzles, and I’m lit up all over. I’m so damn happy with the direction this conversation is going. “And then look what Boyfriend Material did to you. Tricked you into liking me.”

He shakes his head. “Nope. It didn’t trick me into liking you.”

I furrow my brow. Maybe I am still confused. “Okay, maybe not tricked, but kind of?”

“Nope.” He shakes his head.

“Well, we did kind of think we were other people, even though I did want Dax to be you. So maybe we were both tricked?” I’m so lost . . . am I misreading this entirely?

“Betty Boop, that is not what I’m saying at all.” His fingers drift from my shoulder to my neck as he fiddles with my necklace, and I wait.

Because he needs to go next.

There’s nothing I can say until I know what he means.

The air is charged. Ions are tap-dancing, and everything feels poised, swollen with possibility.

He stays quiet, though, and I can’t take it. “What do you mean, Linc?” Just then, I’m not bold or confident. I’m just a girl trying to understand the guy she’s falling for.

He slides a hand through my hair and exhales. “Don’t you see the real trouble? The app didn’t trick me into liking you. Nothing tricked me. I already liked you, and when we chatted, I liked you so much more. And now?” He tucks a finger under my chin. “Now I’m pretty sure I’m falling hard for you.”

This is better than vanilla lattes. Than Netflix binges. Than naps. Than Cinnamon Life cereal. Than pockets in skirts.

“I’m falling for you too,” I whisper.

And then we do that thing new lovers do. We gaze at each other, grinning like happy fools.

The happiest.

Because that’s what falling does to you.

He lets go of my hair. “You know what that means?”

“That we’re going to start doing shopping-cart races?”

“No, it means that, one, I need to get you naked again, and two, we’re going to have to disclose it at work.”

My stomach craters, a pit forming in it.

The last thing I want to do while I’m chasing a new job is to tell senior management about my love life.

* * *

But it won’t happen this week, because the VPs are on a two-day retreat.

It feels like a reprieve—and a chance to fall even harder for Linc, when he doesn’t just invite me for a sleepover the next night, Thursday.

He invites my dog.

I’m not a squealer.

Or a giggler.

But inside, I’m doing both when another text message from him lands on my phone that afternoon while I’m grabbing a Diet Coke from the break room.

I click it open.

Linc: Since we’re having a three-way sleepover tonight, I’m thinking we should take the world’s greatest dog detective to the dog park beforehand. This is only partly so he doesn’t feel like a third wheel when I’m making you cry out in exquisite, toe-curling rapture later while he waits in the living room.

Amy: What makes you think he has enough control to wait in the living room? What if, say, he’s parked at the foot of the bed during the rapture?

Linc: The door, Amy. The door. It closes.

Amy: Be prepared for the pawing at the door during the rapture. But even so, my answer to the dog park is YES! And you’re better than a hot librarian. You’re a dog-loving hot librarian who gives epic orgasms and tickles my brain parts.

Linc: I like it when you say YES. You say it a lot during epic orgasms. FYI. Also, I bought your dog a toy. I might have done it to make you happy, or maybe to get into your pants. The jury’s still out.

That’s when I squeal-giggle.

But the second the sound comes out, I’m mortified. I clasp a hand to my mouth and tell myself to shut the fuck up.

“Did you just get that ModCloth fifty-percent-off-sale email?” Lola asks, since she’s strolling by.

“No, better,” I say, scanning the hall, then I tug her in and show her the note.

“Shut up. How the hell did you find a keeper so quickly?”

I bring my finger to my lips “Don’t jinx it.”

“I’m not jinxing it. But for the record, you seemed perfect for each other from the start.”

“Well, maybe,” I admit with a goofy grin.

Lola is fully in the know, since I debriefed her the other day, and in true good-friend form, she oohed, ahhed, and asked if the, ahem, entertainment was good.

“It’s exquisite,” I’d told her.

“You’re such a cocksucker,” she’d said with a playful sneer.

“And I will take that as a compliment,” I’d said.

Now, she simply shakes her head in amusement. “Look at you, firing on all cylinders. Speaking of, do you want to see the mock-up I’m working on? It’s for that untitled YA Rainey assigned you.”

“Ooh, yes.”

We head down the hall, past Rainey’s office. The queen is out today, but her keeper is there. I smile at the bubbly blonde.

“Hi, Antonia.” I gesture to her green paisley dress. “Love the dress you have on.”

“Thanks. It’s my first dress with pockets. I remember you saying how much you loved them, so I snagged one the other day, and it’s fabulous.”

Stopping, I hold up a hand to high-five. “Welcome to the cult of pockets.”

Antonia smiles brightly. “That would be a funny name for a book.”

“I can see the cover now,” Lola says, her dark eyes filled with visions of, well, pockets.

We soldier on to Lola’s office, where she shows me the YA cover then begs me to entertain her more with my “sexcapades,” as she calls them.

“I don’t kiss and tell. Not in the office, at least,” I say.

“Then I’ll ply you with drinks this weekend.”

“Twist my arm.”

That night, I take my little man to see my main man, and when Linc gives Inspector Poirot a stuffed alligator with sixteen squeakers, I’m pretty sure I hit the jackpot.

And I don’t just mean the orgasm one, though Linc gives me a trio of toe-curling, earth-shattering ones that night.

The next morning, he brings me breakfast in bed, complete with what looks like my skull creeper cup. Mmm, coffee.

Except . . . wait. That’s not for me.

I sit up in bed, grab my glasses, and narrow my eyes. “I would be mad at you for denying my belly if you weren’t so damn dishy.”

Linc smiles devilishly, giving the dog water from the mug. Then he plucks the dog biscuit from the tray and offers it to my hound.

Inspector Poirot takes it, then scurries to Linc’s side of the bed, where he proceeds to devour the biscuit on his pillow.

“And I won’t even kick him out of bed for leaving crumbs.”

21

Linc

Baldwin called it.

But I knew it too.

Because I know who I am. I always have.

Maybe it’s because of my love of books and eighties movies.

Through them I’ve come to understand all sorts of men. I met the man with a plan in Aragorn in Lord of the Rings. I understood the guys who wanted the world to bend to their will, thanks to Jay Gatsby, and I got to know the rebel with a heart, courtesy of Matthew Broderick in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

I spent time with the ultimate playboy, too, when I was twelve and ran across Giacomo Girolamo Casanova’s autobiography at the library and read it from cover to cover. Man, that guy could put Wilt Chamberlain to shame.

I met so many others: the wise wizard in Dumbledore, the nerd who observes between the pages of Looking for Alaska, and the relentless assassin Jason Bourne. (Not sure what the Bourne takeaway was except to always watch your back, which is a worthwhile lesson.)

Through stories, I’ve learned what I want. What I need. What makes me tick.

That’s how I’ve always known I’m not a one-night-stand kind of guy.

I’m the relationship type, and that’s exactly what this after-hours time has become.

It’s become what I want.

Amy feels like mine. She’s not a sidepiece, she’s not a booty call, and she’s not an affair.

She’s real, and she’s everything.

The best part about knowing your mind is not having to struggle with your inner demons when you meet the girl you’re crazy about.

I tell Baldwin as much over lunch on Friday. “You were right. The app was a good idea.”

He buffs his fingernails against his chest, then blows on them. “I’m brilliant. Who is she?”

“She’s a Smartie.”

His eyes widen. “And a SweeTart?” His voice rises with hope.

“Perhaps.”

“Look at you, Superman. Fishing in the waters at home.”

“Yeah, I know. But we’re going to disclose it when the VPs are back on Monday.”

“Smart plan. Also, I want details.”

“What a surprise.”

He shoots me a harsh stare. “I deserve details.”

I don’t tell him much—I’m not that guy—but enough to make him happy, because I tell him I’m falling hard for Amy.

My sister is another story.

I suspect she’ll demand to know even more when I meet her at the end of the workday.

After Lisa and Paige drop off the baby with Paige’s sister, I meet them for an early evening game of Ping-Pong at the Lucky Spot.

It’s a tight match between Lisa and me, and I’m determined to win. Because tonight I’m Jason Bourne.

The white ball whizzes at me, and with laser focus, I lunge for it, smacking it to the other side of the table.

Lisa grunts, racing after it, slapping it across again.

The plastic ball screams in my direction, and I carve my best backhand, sending it over the table once more.

“Go for it, baby!” Paige shouts, and Lisa misses.

I thrust my arms in the air. “And the game goes to the champion.”

Lisa shoots Paige a look. “Thanks for breaking my concentration.”

Paige slinks an arm around Lisa’s waist. “Please forgive me.”

Lisa sighs happily. “Fine, you’re forgiven,” she says, then drops a kiss on Paige’s lips.

Or, I should say, she mauls her, dragging her wife in for a possessive smooch in the middle of the game room.

“Don’t mind me,” I deadpan.

With their lips still locked, Lisa flips me the bird and kisses Paige more deeply.

When she finally comes up for air, Lisa asks me, “Speaking of deep, passionate kisses that last for days, have you fallen in love yet? Since I know you’re partial to that.”

I shrug impishly like I have a secret.

Lisa closes the distance between us, clasping her hands on my shoulders. “Must. Know. Everything.”

I laugh. “The woman I was telling you about?”

“The one you met online?” Paige chimes in, and I guess Lisa told her.

“Yes. Turns out she works in the same office as me.”

Lisa’s eyes widen in curiosity. “She does? Tell me more.”

I don’t tell them the winding, twisty path to Amy Summers—that would require serving up more details than necessary. What I tell, though, is true: Boyfriend Material matched us, and Amy is smart and wildly clever and loves books and hates sports and has a wicked sense of humor and a goofy heart. She’s completely single, obsessed with her dog, and basically the most fascinating person I’ve ever met.

Two jaws drop.

“Someone is in love,” Paige says, singsong.

It’s still early, but I’d say it’s heading pretty damn close to that four-letter word.

“Falling,” I correct, like the distinction between the path to love and love itself matters greatly.

“Like a regular Casanova,” Lisa jokes.

“Yes, that’s me,” I say dryly.

Lisa nudges my elbow. “When do we meet this fabulous ball of energy?”

“Soon. We just need to tell the bosses at work that we’re a thing, but we’ll do that first thing Monday, and then it should be smooth sailing.”

“Can she come play Ping-Pong with us?” Lisa asks, like she’s five, pleading for ice cream.

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

I grab my phone and FaceTime Amy.

She answers right away. “Hey, hottie face! I’m heading to the gym to work on my booty, so this better be good if you’re interrupting buns-of-steel time,” she says as she marches down the street wearing yoga pants and a tank-top sports bra I want to peel off with my teeth.

I point to the two women by my side. “Hi, Amy. This is my sister and her wife.”

She waves. “Hi, pretty ladies! Nice to meet you, Lisa and Paige.”

“My brother really likes you,” Lisa chimes in.

Amy’s grin is magnificent. “I had no idea.”

“Like, a lot,” Paige adds.

“The feeling is mutual,” Amy says.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Lisa nods at the screen. “I don’t want to keep you from your buns time.”

“Actually, I’m teaching a Hula-Hoop class tonight. But it’s good for the butt too.”

“I’ve been dying to learn how to hula-hoop,” Lisa says, excitement dripping from her voice.

“Don’t die from wanting. Just come to class sometime. I’d love to teach you.”

Lisa gives Amy a big thumbs-up.

“See you later,” I say to the woman on the screen.

“Come over.”

“I’ll be there.”

I end the call, and my sister slings an arm around me. “Just letting you know my radar says keep her.”

Mine does too.

Especially when I go to her place that night and she tells me she has something very important to show me.

Her thesaurus.

From when she was a kid.

It’s like a window into her soul, and it delights me.

“Show me your favorite word,” I say.

She flips the pages to “serendipity” then says, a little shy, a little sweet, “Sort of like how we found each other online.”

I read the synonyms out loud. “‘Lucky chance. Happy break. Accidental discovery.’ I like those too.”

Then I strip her naked, and I spell “serendipity” with my tongue till she cries out my name, and there’s nothing accidental about that.

* * *

The weekend goes by and we spend it all together. On Monday morning I say goodbye and tell her I’ll see her at work, and then I go for a morning run before I head into the office.

I tackle some edits, but before I get far, Baldwin raps on my door. “One, you still owe me an update and many nuggets of info. I’m practically starving. And two, the VPs just called an unplanned morning editorial meeting.”

When I enter the conference room a few minutes later, one editor in particular looks at me as if all my secrets are written on the whiteboard.

22

Amy

My pitch is polished.

My editorial letter is scrubbed, glossed, and primped.

I’m walking on sunshine as I head to the subway on Monday morning after dropping off my dog at Fluffy and Fabulous.

I catch the train early because I’m proving to myself that my office romance won’t slow me down. If anything, it’ll speed me up. Make me better. Hell, I feel bionic.

I could lift a taxi, I tell myself when I exit the subway. I could leap across the block in one big jump.

Apparently, falling like crazy can fuel your creativity.

As I turn onto the block for Bailey & Brooks, I spot a familiar face leaving the building.

Walking in my direction.

Smiling.

Freaking smiling.

My heart pinches, and my smile erases itself. But I do my best to be friendly. “Hi, Madison,” I say when she’s a few feet away from me.

She flicks her chestnut-brown hair off her shoulder. “Hey, Amy. How are you?”

Is it me or does she sound as awkward as I feel?

I keep on the chipper path. “Great. How are you?”

“Oh, good. I had a meeting this morning with some of the VPs. They invited me back to do a pitch. I’m excited.”

I slap on a smile. “I’m excited for you.”

She sets a hand on my arm. “I’ll be happy for you if you get the job. I just want you to know that.”

I laugh it off, ready to say I won’t get it, you will.

But that’s what the old me would say.

That was how I felt in An Open Book when I told Josh about all the books I didn’t nab.

Only, that was before I realized I had it in me to climb a mountain.

It had been there; I simply had to look under the surface. I had to see inside myself and find my skills, with a nudge here and there from people I’ve known my whole life and people I’ve known a short time.

And I see it now.

I’m all about confidence. I won’t doubt myself anymore. I’ve done all I can to nab the job.

Let the best editor win.

“I’ll be happy for you too,” I say, then I laugh to defuse the air of awkward. “But let’s be honest—we both want the job.”

Her laughter is full of relief too. “I’m so glad you said that. I do want it. Gah. I just felt a little bad for wanting it. It’s so hard as a woman. We’re trained to be a certain way. To not always say what we want.” She squares her shoulders, her brown eyes vulnerable.

“Then let me go first. We shouldn’t feel bad for wanting things,” I say, and holy hell, I am a motivational speaker right now.

Madison grins. “You’re right. We shouldn’t. And here’s the full truth: I admire the hell out of you. I think you’re a total badass. And yet, I still want the job you’re going after.”

I beam at the compliments. “I admire the world out of you, and I’m also convinced you have a magical lasso.”

She cracks up, then acts indignant. “Please. It’s a cape.”

“Women who wear capes,” I declare.

She offers a fist for knocking. “Cape power.”

“Let’s agree that it’s cape power for us to want things for ourselves, and to want the best for each other.”

“That’s absolutely cape power, isn’t it?” she asks, swishing an imaginary cloak around her.

“Yes. It definitely is.” I don my virtual superhero accessory too, and like that, any latent jealousy, any ancient anxiety, dissipates.

I’m left only with what matters: my faith in myself, my certainty that I’ve done all I can, and an iron-clad belief that women can support each other even when they compete.

That wasn’t a piece of wisdom I thought I needed. It wasn’t something I was looking for, but along the way I found it, and I like it. It matters to me.

Inside the building, I stop by my office, drop off my bag, and then, as I start to slide my phone in my pocket, I spot a new notification.

An all-hands editorial meeting.

Huh. That’s odd. We don’t usually have those first thing Monday morning.

I head into the conference room and find the VPs—Rainey, Tiffany, and Raphael—and the senior editors too, like Baldwin, Linc, and Juanita. Junior editors and assistant editors are here as well.

When I sit, my skin crawls. Someone’s staring at me.

It’s odd.

I pretend I don’t notice as Rainey clears her throat, works her way down some agenda items, then takes a beat.

“And at our retreat last week, we kept returning to a nagging issue.”

I swallow roughly, wondering what it could be.

Raphael chimes in with his explanation. “Because it seems as if the lines of editors here don’t really intersect. We have VPs working with junior editors, but the senior editors understandably do their own thing.”

Tiffany bats next. “And we want to align the editorial departments more tightly. Make sure we’re instilling a true mentorship atmosphere at Bailey & Brooks.” She takes a deep breath. “That’s why we’re rejiggering things a little bit, and we’d like all editors, junior editors, and assistant editors to work in tandem with a senior editor.”

A stone lodges in my throat. My head starts to buzz with a swarm of impending bad news as Tiffany continues, outlining who Juanita’s working with, then Baldwin, before she turns to the guy I’ve spent the last several nights with.

“And Linc, we’d love for you to work more closely with Amy Summers on her books.”

A cough nearly bursts from my chest. My stomach pitches, and I briefly wonder how the conference table will look covered in the yogurt I ate for breakfast.

But I keep it together.

“How does that sound?” Tiffany asks the group.

But Linc’s not the first one to answer. Nor is Baldwin. Nor am I.

Antonia is.

The very editor who gave me the odd I know what you did last night look when I walked in.

She chirps, “Oh, that’s so perfect. Especially Linc and Amy, since they’re an item. They’ll work together so well.” She gasps, then her mouth forms an O. “Oh, but I just realized, that’s against the rules now.”

She doesn’t have to quote from the employee handbook for me to know what she’s referring to.

No romances with a direct report.

23

Linc

Turns out it’s Baldwin who’s Superman.

The second Antonia pastes on her clearly fake smile, my friend chuckles.

His laughter cuts the tension, and in a perfect kill-her-with-kindness tone, he says, “Antonia, I’m pretty sure what’s also against the rules of decorum is dropping inappropriate rumors like that at an all-hands meeting.”

“What?” she asks, her blue eyes wide.

He stares at her with the biggest let me help you grin ever grinned. “As your newly assigned mentor, I just wanted to share that bit of feedback. I’m sure you didn’t mean to do that now, did you?”

“Um . . .” She gulps, her face flushing red, and she shakes her head. “No. Sorry.”

“Exactly.” He takes a conversation-clearing breath, then says to the group, “Now, shall we move on? All this mentorship sounds great. What else is on the agenda?”

And like that, he pushes us past that fraught moment. Even though Tiffany’s eyes register surprise and Raphael’s show a bit of shock, none of the VPs mention Antonia’s bombshell.

I flash back to my first debrief with Baldwin when he told me that Antonia is a new editor but she’ll help with anything.

Yeah, if anything includes revealing your personal life in a corporate setting.

This wasn’t how I wanted to alert my new bosses to the situation.

And this wasn’t how the rules were supposed to work. Rules were supposed to prevent awkwardness.

But this is a pothole on the street to office romance that I didn’t see coming.

Baldwin’s words from one of our afternoon chats echo ominously in my ears. No romances with a direct report, but others are fine. The only rule is thou shalt disclose office romances to the HR manager.

Guilt churns inside me. I could have said something sooner. I should have gotten ahead of the situation. Now I’m playing catch up, and I hate this feeling.

The rules didn’t change, but the players did. And now, suddenly, Amy’s my direct report.

This is another reason why I should have stuck to my first rule—no workplace romance.

Because when you start making provisions and exceptions, you set yourself up for trouble. Real trouble.

I had enough trouble when I worked on a book with Karina, thank you very much. I spent the better part of a year miserable.

And when I got out of that bad situation, what did I do?

In less than three weeks on the job, I bent the rules, then I broke them and stomped all over them.

When the meeting ends, I don’t have the chance to talk to Amy, because Rainey calls her aside and asks her to meet in Rainey’s office shortly.

I know what’s coming. I’m next. There’s no doubt in my mind, especially when Raphael asks me to see him in ten minutes.

A dark gray storm cloud rolls over the building, splits open, and rains down only on me.

I’m so screwed.

And I don’t even have the excuse of being a Casanova.

I’m just a regular guy. A Dax Powers. A book-loving nerd who fell hard for a girl.

At the wrong time. In the wrong place.

Hell, maybe I should have been a Casanova. He was a wily one. He’d know what to do. He’d finesse the situation like only he could.

But that’s not the character I call on. In a crisis, I have no other choice but to channel Jason Bourne.

This situation calls for triage, nothing but triage. This is where the hero, stranded in the jungle, has to remove a bullet from his shoulder using his own teeth.

I head to my office, shut the door, grab my phone, and call Amy.

I will her to answer.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

“Hello?” Her voice is strained.

“Hey.” Mine is stretched like a high-tension wire. “Antonia doesn’t know anything,” I hiss. “How could she?”

“I don’t know.” She whispers too. “We never kissed or even said anything inappropriate at the office. Maybe she made a lucky guess?”

I scrub a hand across my jaw, my bones tight. “Maybe. Maybe she walked by the other day when you were in my office and leaped to her own conclusions.”

“Possibly. I didn’t realize she was so catty. So underhanded. Maybe she overheard me talking to Lola in the break room. I never used your name, though, or gave specifics. It was just general he’s a keeper stuff.”

Her words—sweet, fantastic words—barely register because I’m Jason Bourne and I have to extract the bullet before infection spreads.

I grit my teeth, pour some peroxide on, and yank it out.

“So we deny it. When you see Rainey and I see Raphael, we deny it,” I say, decisive as an antihero.

“Sure,” she says tentatively. “We can do that.”

“Because it’s against the rules now.”

“That much is clear.” She takes a deep breath. “But do we keep denying it and see each other on the down low . . .” She pauses like the next words taste bitter. “Or do we cool it?”

Cool it. Put us on ice.

I’d rather eat razors.

“I don’t want to cool it, but . . .” I don’t know how the hell Bourne does it. “Let’s figure it out later.”

Amy’s voice is businesslike, but a little sad, as she says, “If we have to cool it, I get it. I know you didn’t want to get involved in the first place.”

“You didn’t either,” I point out, my tone harsher than I intended.

But I have to focus on fixing this problem. I look at my watch. I’m due in Raphael’s office any minute.

“Amy, let’s talk later.”

“Bye, Linc,” she says, and it sounds permanent.

It feels permanent.

So I hang up.

If I stay on the phone, I’ll become another character. The guy who grovels. The guy who begs the girl.

Those guys never get the woman they want.

And apparently this guy doesn’t either.

24

Amy

Antonia doesn’t look up, just stares at her screen like it’s the most fascinating damn thing in the universe.

But I’m not letting her win.

I saw how the supposed good girl cowered when Baldwin called her out. She’s meek.

Her angel routine was just that—a performance to cover whatever cruelty lies under her “I’ll fix your printer” facade.

But I didn’t let the mean girls win when I was younger, and I won’t now. I learned how to fight when I was a kid—I fight with words, and I use them well.

That’s my talent.

I don’t put people down to get ahead.

I don’t trip them up and say Oops, did I do that?

I use my powers for good.

“Hi, Antonia,” I say.

“Hi.” The single syllable wobbles from her bubblegum lips.

She doesn’t look up, but I am undeterred. “How’s everything going?”

“Fine.”

Still no eye contact, but I won’t let her get away with this. “By the way, do you want to know something about girls who wear dresses with pockets?”

She snaps up her gaze.

I had a feeling that would get her attention. When she made the pocket comment yesterday, something about it resonated, but it’s just now clicking into place. She wants to be included. I don’t have the time or inclination to psychoanalyze her, but I think I understand now—she longs to be part of the party, so she spied on us and made a lucky guess.

But that’s not how cape power works.

I lay it out for her. “We talk to each other first, before we air dirty laundry. Especially before we air it in public,” I add.

Holy smokes. Did I just say that?

Oh yes, I did, and I continue, “What you did was hurtful, and I wish you hadn’t.”

Her lower lip quivers. “I’m sorry.”

I nod, accepting her apology. “Thank you.”

There’s nothing more I can say because Rainey calls me in. And I’m ready for whatever comes my way.

Except, as I cross the threshold to her office, I discover something else about myself.

I don’t want to lie to get what I want.

I don’t want to deny it either.

That’s not why I worked on becoming better at self-promotion. I put myself out there to excel and advance, not to spin tales to keep the guy or save my hide.

And if I’m giving Antonia a lesson in how to behave like a grown woman, I can’t turn around and spout off falsehoods like a brat.

The trouble is, the truth isn’t mine to tell.

It’s mine and Linc’s.

And since it would be wrong to decide for both of us, I’m neither going to confirm nor deny. I’ll plead the Fifth on my relationship status when she quizzes me.

Whatever happens, happens. If that means I’m fired, so be it. I can’t confess someone else’s actions, and I won’t misrepresent my own.

“Thank you for agreeing to come in. Take a seat,” Rainey says.

I sit, nerves tense as steel. “No problem. I’m ready.”

She tips her forehead toward the conference room. “What a fascinating meeting.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I say.

Wait.

It was one way to put it. She hadn’t said “interesting.” She’d used “fascinating” instead.

And suddenly the heavens part. The skies split and sunlight illuminates another way through this swamp.

She veered from the expected word, and it sounded like she was making light of the meeting rather than calling me out on my transgressions.

Maybe I don’t have to deny the truth, and I don’t have to admit it. I can steer this narrative, because “fascinating” means her mind’s not locked down.

One word, a host of different options.

What if I ask a hypothetical question, something like, Say I were involved with someone before I became his direct report. What rules would apply there? Could I switch to another senior editor? You know . . . theoretically.

The words are half formed on my tongue when Rainey says, “But let’s move on. I called you in here because your editorial letter was terrific.”

“Oh,” I say, flinching at the unexpected twist in the conversational path. But I recover quickly because I vastly prefer this direction. “Thank you. I’m thrilled to hear it.”

She reaches for a pair of purple reading glasses, slaps them on, then powers through my letter, asking questions about my proposed edits.

With my shoulders tall and my head held high, I explain why I made each suggestion.

I don’t say a word about hockey.

I don’t suck up like Antonia.

And I don’t pretend to be someone I’m not.

I’m me, and I’m good at what I do.

When we’re through, her lips curve into the slightest of smiles. “Very well.” She takes a deep breath, and I tense. This must be where the inquisition starts.

“Just one more question,” she says.

I’m braced for it—the moment of truth. “Sure. What is it?”

She shifts some papers around on her desk, scanning a schedule, it seems. “Would you be able to do the pitch this morning instead of this afternoon? We’re moving things along faster than planned.”

I blink, surprised. But I give her the only possible answer. “Yes.”

“Thank you. We’ll see you in the conference room in twenty minutes.”

She returns to her screen, and I’m dismissed.

She didn’t say a word about Linc or Antonia or my personal life.

I’m delighted and also incredibly confused.

I have no clue what happens next.

25

Linc

As I pass the men’s room on my death march to Raphael’s office, the door opens and a hand darts out to grab my collar and yank me into the washroom.

I flinch, but then stifle a laugh when Baldwin sets his finger to his lips, shushing me as the door swings closed.

“Why did you grab me?” I whisper. “Why not just lay a trap in my office?”

“Because I only now broke free,” he whispers harshly. “Tiffany cornered me to tell me I ought to become ruler of the universe, and of course I agreed. But I just escaped her shower of praise, which I absolutely earned, and I knew you’d walk past the men’s room on the way to Raphael’s office, so I’m here to give you a talking to, which you richly deserve.”

“Is that so?” I can’t believe that, even at a shitty moment, this man still makes me laugh.

“Yes!” he says, exchanging his whisper for a shout.

“Then, by all means, give me what I deserve.”

He heaves an exhausted sigh. “Listen. Considering I don’t know you all that well, I feel like I know you pretty well. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Sure.” He’s spot-on there. We got along well from the start, only a few weeks ago.

“And I know you don’t want work trouble again. I get it. I understand you have battle scars. And that’s why I’m betting there’s a part of you that’s resigned to ending things with Amy. Or you’ve already decided to call it quits. Am I right?”

Busted.

I look away, wishing he hadn’t nailed it.

“So, I’m correct?”

“Maybe,” I admit, a little embarrassed at my own answer.

He groans and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “I’d hoped you weren’t going to say that.”

“Why?”

He scoffs, jerking his chin toward the stalls. “Because I really didn’t want to flush your head in the toilet. It’s too late in the game for me to become a bully. But I swear I’ll flush your ridiculous male pride and send it swirling all the way to Queens if I have to.”

I laugh at the absurdity of his comments. “Is that what you were going to do? Locate my pride and dispose of it in another borough?”

“Yes,” he says. “That’s my job as your friend—to save you from the dumbest impulses of our species. And it would be dumb to end things with a fabulous lady over some stupid HR rule.”

I let out a long, frustrated breath, and I can’t seem to unclench my fists. I’m not pissed at Baldwin. I’m annoyed with myself. “I know, but I’m the new guy here. I moved across the country for this job. This is my fresh start. A chance to leave behind one massively bad decision. Don’t you see?” I tap my chest. “This is my Achilles’ heel, this stupid organ, and it’s tripping me up again. I met a fantastic woman, and it’s threatening to ruin everything I’ve worked hard for. I’m trying to make a name for myself professionally, and it’s working. I have a great list and great books. I’m simply trying to do things the right way, but it turns out I’m doing it wrong again.”

He claps a hand to my shoulder, shaking his head once more, his jaw tight. “Linc, do you know how lucky you are?”

I furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”

“You moved to a new city, you have a plum job, you’ve made fantastic friends literally within the first hour on the job, and trust me, I’m not one of those people are awesome people. I’m more like one of those I hate people people. But I like you. That’s saying something.”

“Thank you. I’m honored you don’t hate me like you hate everyone else.”

“And then on top of all that, you met a person you clicked with right away. Do you have any idea what I’d give to be you? Well, not with a woman.”

I laugh. “I didn’t think you were going to tell me you suddenly liked the ladies,” I say, letting the lighter mood wash over me. “But I thought you liked being a player?”

“Oh, please. I like being a player as much as I like My Little Pony. And I do not like Sparkle Dash or any of her crew. No one actually likes being a player. It’s a revolving door of misery.”

“I thought you liked man candy?” I say, sketching air quotes.

“Fine. I do have a sweet tooth, and that’s fun for a few nights, maybe a month. Okay, possibly a few years, but not forever. I’d like to meet someone I can love. Someone I want to be with, who feels like my forever, the way you feel for Amy.” There is no more chastisement in his voice, only support, only friendship.

“You would?”

He nods, big and long. “Absolutely. I want my own SweeTart, my Junior Mint, my peanut butter cup. And you”—he punches my arm—“you found one.”

He’s right.

My God, he’s as right as candy corn is wrong.

I found someone when I wasn’t looking.

When I met Amy, I tried to do anything but fall in love.

But fall I did, hard, fast, and fantastically.

And I can’t believe I was going to let her slip through my fingers. Life isn’t a soap opera. This isn’t Pine Crest View with complications we can’t navigate. This is the real world, and real people can choose to work things out, even if it’s hard, even if you work together.

She’s worth it.

I panicked after the meeting and let shock rule my tongue. I need to rewind and rewrite.

“What do I do now?” I ask.

As soon as the words come out, the road clears and I see the way forward. It’s not what Jason Bourne would do, or Ferris Bueller, or Mr. Darcy.

It’s what I’d do.

I’m not a guy who plays the “deny it” game like I suggested to Amy. I’m not interested in elaborate cover-ups.

I am, however, excited by honesty.

I dig it. I dig it a lot.

But I’m also a smart guy, and I can be forthright while still respecting Amy’s wishes.

I’ve got this.

“I’m good. I know what to do.” I clap him on the back. “And you are the real superhero, Baldwin.”

“Aww, you flatter me.”

“It’s all true. But we can do the compliments later. I need to go.”

He shoos me away.

I walk into Raphael’s office, and before my boss speaks, I raise a hand. “Hypothetically, if a senior manager were involved with someone before that person became his direct report, would the rule forbidding a relationship between them still apply, or would there, say, be a grandfather clause for preexisting relationships?”

Raphael tilts his head back and frowns at the ceiling like it has the answer. “That’s a question for HR. But I believe the scenario you outlined would be fine.” Reaching for his strawless cup, he contemplates the wall next, then finally turns to me. “Or another solution—theoretically—might be to switch direct reports.”

I smile inside, wishing I’d thought of that. But I’d been blindsided, which isn’t conducive to long-term planning. “That’s a great option too. Hypothetically.”

“Yes, I can think of several ways to resolve things to the senior manager’s satisfaction, especially if handled properly.”

“That makes perfect sense,” I say. “Good to know.”

He smiles, chuckling to himself, muttering “Young love . . .” before he clicks on his computer and shifts to business. “Now, about this thriller you want to acquire. That’s why I called you here. I ran the profit and loss statement, and it’s looking good . . .”

And that’s all he says on the romance front.

But I have more to say, plenty that I need to express—but not to him. They’re all things I need to say to Amy.

When I leave his office, I text her.

Linc: That guy who thought we should maybe put this on ice? The one who said “cool it”? I kicked him off my phone. He’s an idiot, and he was dead wrong. This thing between you and me should be on the front burner, hot and bright and turned all the way up. Meet me outside during your lunch break? I’ll be the guy wearing the Clark Kent glasses.

I send the text.

My greatest liability is also my greatest asset, and I know how to play to my strengths.

26

Amy

This isn’t quite like selling my brother on a slice of coconut cake. Nor is it the same as convincing my friends to take pole-dancing class, or like chatting up Dax Powers online.

But all those moments have funneled into this one.

In the conference room, I open the first slide in my presentation and begin outlining why I want Bailey & Brooks to publish a book I’ve made up, and I’m thoroughly in my element.

“Sex and Other Shiny Objects will be the ultimate romantic comedy—a wink and a nod to the entire romance genre. I can see it on shelves with that sassy title and a fantastic illustrated cover. It’ll be the rom-com to top all rom-coms, the one bookstores go nuts for and can’t wait to put into readers’ hands. After all, who wouldn’t want to read a romantic romp where the heroine enlists her best guy friend to test-drive common sexual tropes from romance novels?”

Tiffany chuckles.

Raphael beams.

And Rainey, the ice queen, cracks a grin.

“Just think about it. Buttons. Do they really go flying across a room—ping, ping, ping—when the heroine rips off the hero’s white dress shirt? Or what about bathtub sex? How easy is it to get it on in the tub without, say, hurting your knees? Throwing out your back? Or getting soap in places you don’t want soap to go?” I say, lowering my voice and adding in a gasp.

The VPs give a chorus of laughs.

This sample pitch is on fire, I can feel it.

I channel all the best parts of me as I walk them through what makes me this project’s ideal editor—my sense of humor, my penchant for wordplay—and how I can guide it onto shelves and into the proverbial front rows of online stores.

At last I wrap up with “Sex and Other Shiny Objects will be the must-read rom-com of next year. After all, who doesn’t like sex and shiny objects?”

Tiffany is the first to clap.

She actually freaking claps.

Rainey follows suit, and Raphael plays the caboose.

“Well done. We’ll let you know shortly,” Rainey says.

I leave, and I want to twirl down the hall at the head of a parade.

But there’s another deal I need to close. I need to make it crystal clear to Linc that he’s not getting rid of me so easily.

As I make my way to my office, I stop in at Lola’s and declare, “Nailed it.”

“Of course you did, you badass woman.”

“Cape power,” I say, still riding high from the meeting.

“What’s cape power?”

I’m about to explain when my phone pings with a text from Linc.

My stomach cartwheels with worry. Is this when he tells me we’re on ice? With a trembling finger, I open it.

And then my chest cartwheels with happiness. I bite my lip so my face doesn’t break from smiling.

“I have to go,” I say, since it’s lunchtime and that’s the appointed hour for seeing my Clark Kent.

I thrust my computer at Lola for safekeeping and hightail it out the door.

I rush through reception, stab the elevator button, and shoot downstairs.

The elevators are sluggish, so I have time to reply.

Amy: Good. Because you’re not getting rid of me that easily.

When I reach the ground floor, I’m dancing inside. I race across the lobby, push through the revolving door, and step into the sunshine of a New York day.

I don’t have on shades, so I shield my eyes, quickly finding Linc where he leans ever so casually against the cool black marble of the building.

He doesn’t notice me at first, and I steal a moment to revel in the view. I’ve admired the sight of him from the day I saw him in the hall.

The afternoon I first set eyes on the man, my lust glands went into overdrive. But now? Lust and passion and respect and joy have hopped into the feelings blender and mixed themselves into a new and effervescent concoction.

What I feel now when I gaze at that tall drink of a man is worlds better. It’s deeper, more potent, and so much more satisfying.

I love that guy.

So much that I wish there were a new word for it in the thesaurus.

But as I look at him and smile happily, I realize I don’t need a new word.

This feeling is worth a thousand of them.

I walk to him.

He smiles, those dimples and that sexy grin melting me.

Closing the distance, he cups my cheek and says, “I have two words for you.”

“I bet neither is sugar or butter.”

“Nope.”

I wiggle my brows. “I have more than two words, so you go first.”

His thumb strokes my jawline, and right now I don’t care about the promotion. All I care about is this man. He’s the chance I don’t want to lose. There will be other jobs and other promotions.

There won’t be another Linc Silvers from Pine Crest View. This guy is the real deal, and I want to keep him.

He whispers the two sexiest words ever: “Grandfather clause.”

And I squeal my solution. “Let’s switch direct reports!”

We both laugh, and then he runs his thumb over my top lip. “Of course you were thinking along the same lines. Because you’re brilliant.”

“We’re brilliant.”

He brushes his lips against mine, and it’s a sugar-sweet kiss with a cherry on top. It’s soft and gentle, and it makes me feel like I belong to him.

He breaks the kiss. “Raphael mentioned switching direct reports too. I just talked to him a little while ago. Don’t worry—I didn’t tell him we are involved. Not without talking to you first. But I did ask hypothetically. Because I wanted to find a way for us.”

And I fall a little further, a lot harder. “That’s actually crazy sexy hot.”

“Why, thank you. And it turns out there are lots of options. Options I didn’t realize at first because I was shocked and I panicked. Because I felt tricked by Antonia and by my own ridiculous feelings for you.”

“I don’t think they’re so ridiculous,” I say playfully, tap-dancing my fingers down his shirt.

“They’re not ridiculous, and that’s why I’m glad we have alternatives like switching or disclosing or grandfather clause–invoking or whatever we need to do.” He slides his fingers down my arm, his deep blue eyes full of intent. “But even if those options didn’t exist, I’d still find a way to be with you, Amy Summers. Do you know why?”

“Why?” I ask, sparklers lit brightly inside me.

His lips curve into a grin. “Because I have five little words for you.”

I float higher. “Do tell.”

“I’m in love with you,” he says, eclipsing my five previous favorite words.

I stand on tiptoes and hold his face. “Six words. I’m in love with you too.”

We kiss on the Manhattan street, lunchtime crowds streaming by. Somewhere I make a mental note that the heroine in Sex and Other Shiny Objects doesn’t need to test this trope.

Because I know it’s true. I know it works. I feel it in my heart and in the marrow of my bones.

I feel it everywhere.

When we separate, I nod to the building. “But we should probably go grandfather ourselves into that clause.”

He takes my hand. “Do you know that is the sexiest use of ‘grandfather’ as a verb ever?”

“I do know that. It absolutely is.”

A few minutes later, we head into the HR director’s office and tell her we’ve been together for the last week and ask if she’d be willing to switch our direct reports.

She makes a note in a file, thanks us for our frankness, and then calls in Raphael and Rainey, since they oversee the two of us.

“I’m good with this, and we’ll work out an appropriate solution,” Raphael says. “And I appreciate you disclosing it properly.”

Rainey doesn’t crack a grin. Instead, she says, “I’m glad to learn in this forum, rather than in front of others.” She looks at both of us. “This was handled well, and we’ll finalize a new direct report structure.”

The only thing that could make my day better is getting the promotion.

But when I return to my office, Lola is waiting for me with a vanilla latte and a frown.

“The editor job went to Madison.”

27

Amy

This might be a good time to adopt some new mantras.

Like I’m not upset.

Or I’m good with this.

Possibly everything is fine.

Except I’m immensely sad.

That’s the truth. No mantras can mitigate it.

I sink into my chair.

Correction: I slump.

Or really, it’s more like a plummet with a follow-up face-plant on my desk. “Seriously?” I moan.

Lola nods and pats my hand. “Sorry, sweetie. I just heard.”

I pout. “Ugh. I’m glad you hear everything, but just . . . ugh. I tried so hard.”

“You did. And I bet you were amazing.”

Amazing.

There’s a word that gets tossed around a lot.

You look amazing.

Lunch was amazing.

This weather was amazing.

It loses its punch. Its oomph.

But when Lola says “amazing,” it feels like the dictionary definition. I did feel amazing in there. I marched into the conference room in black stilettos and a cape, and I delivered a pitch for the ages.

So, I lift my face, meet my friend’s gaze, and erase the glum in my voice, speaking from my vulnerable heart. “I’m disappointed, but I’m not going to stop going after what I want. If the only thing to come of this is that I’ve become better at selling myself, then it was worth it.”

Her smile is magnetic. “It was worth it. Now take your medicine, and we will go out tonight and develop a new plan. That also means don’t be ditching me for a boy.”

“I’m all yours tonight, you cocksucker.”

She points at me. “You’re the cocksucker these days.”

“And I love it.”

I take a sip of my vanilla latte and lean back in my chair, wishing things were different. But I’m also happy that some things are exactly as they were when I woke up this morning.

Wait. Make that better.

Because being in love trumps everything else.

Lola leaves, and I return to my workload, powering through manuscripts as I’ve always done, taking notes, looking for the next big thing.

Until my phone rings.

It’s Tiffany Chilton asking if I can come to her office.

This day, I swear.

28

Amy

Here I go again.

Another chair. Another impromptu meeting. Another boss type.

But this boss type is my favorite, I’ve learned in the last week. She’s warm and supportive and sharp.

Tiffany ushers me into her office, telling me to sit, sit, sit.

The woman looks like she’s about to burst.

I do as she instructs, parking my butt in the chair where she points.

She sits next to me, takes a deep breath, and blurts out, “I’m so excited for this.” She flaps her hands in front of her face. “I had to go work out at lunch to burn off my nerves, but I’m so flipping excited.”

Color me flummoxed. “About hiring Madison? She’s great. I’d be excited too. She’s a true talent.” And I mean it completely.

Tiffany grins knowingly. “She is, and we’re thrilled to bring her on board. But I would never call you to my office to gloat about someone else.”

“Then what am I here for?” I ask carefully.

“Because I’m going to gloat about you.”

“You are?” I ask, still unsure where this is going.

Her delight stitches her smile. “Amy, do you remember when we talked last week?”

“Of course.” How could I forget? It was only a few days ago.

“And at the party too? Where you joked about your book ideas?”

“Sure.”

“But they aren’t jokes,” she says, dead serious. “They’re brilliant.”

The hair on my arms stands on end. “They are?”

“Your ideas are fantastic. Cats Who Think They’re Dogs, Better Than a Vanilla Latte, and, of course, Sex and Other Shiny Objects.”

“You like them?” This is quite a fork in the road.

“I love them,” she clarifies. “I don’t know if the finished books will be like your pitches exactly, because books tend to take on lives of their own as authors craft them. But we want to start pursuing those ideas, and we’d like you to oversee them as an editor.”

Is the sky raining gold coins?

Is this office made of rainbows?

Because holy dreams-I-didn’t-even-admit-I-had coming true. “You do?”

“Yes. I know that’s a lot to take on and you’ve been a junior editor, but we believe in your talent, and we’d like to move you into a newly created position as editor-at-large. You’ll still work on your existing projects, but you’ll also work closely with me on this line of books, finding authors for them, editing them, helping to develop the ideas. There will be a raise of course. Together, we’d shepherd them into the marketplace. That’s why I’m so excited. I’d love to work directly with you.”

“I’d love to work with you too, Tiffany,” I say, bursting with excitement. “You’re fantastic. A true cape-power woman.”

“I don’t know what that is, but it sounds like a compliment.”

“One of the highest order.”

“And you’d work with me, not Linc. There won’t be a need for a senior editor on this line, since it’s so new. But I think Madison would be a great person when we need an additional point of view.”

“Madison is fantastic,” I say.

“Perfect. Then we’ll start developing the concepts on later this week. Assuming you accept?”

She’s nervous.

And I realize something even more wonderful—I’m not the only one who believes in me.

This woman I admire does too, and has for some time. Knowing that is indeed amazing.

“I’d love to.”

* * *

That night, I go out with my friends, and we celebrate at Gin Joint. We toast to work and dreams and love and friendship.

As she knocks back a Hush Money cocktail, Peyton laughs, then she gasps with excitement. “I just remembered. I have to tell you this crazy story. I stopped at Tristan’s before I came here, and he told me about this couple who had been in, and they spent the entire meal at the bar working on their list of kinky things they want to try in the bedroom.” She flicks some strands of red hair then absently shakes her mane the slightest bit.

I shoot Lola a knowing look.

She nods equally knowingly back at me.

“What? What was that look for?” Peyton asks, narrowing her eyes.

Lola and I smile, then I say, “Shampoo commercial.”

“What does that mean?” Peyton asks.

“Look at yourself. You’re back in shampoo-commercial mode.” I gesture to her getup: short skirt, fabulous Ferragamos, long dangling earrings. “The heels, the lush hair, the mascara. I bet you’re wearing La Perla too.”

She tsks. “I always wear La Perla.”

“But you don’t always wear heels. You don’t always have that just-stepped-out-of-a-salon hair. So, is something going on with Tristan?” Lola inquires, never one to beat around the bush.

Peyton gives us a look. The look that says we’re crazy. “Guys. C’mon. He’s just a good friend.”

Lola draws a circle with her finger in Peyton’s direction. “Is he the reason you’re starting to look like your stylish and sassy self again?”

She crosses her arms, daring us to throw down. “What are you trying to say?”

Lola looks to me, and I shrug mischievously, then say, “I think what we’re saying is you’re ready.” I take a beat. “Are you ready?”

Peyton takes a deep breath then nods. “I think I am ready to get back out there. And yes, fine, maybe I have put back on my ‘I’m ready’ uniform of heels and long hair. But, for the record, nothing is going on with Tristan whatsoever. He’s only a friend.”

“And he’s a good guy,” I add. “I’m glad you have a good guy friend.”

“I kind of missed being able to talk to him like this when I was with Gage. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I wasn’t longing for him while I was with someone else, and I’m definitely not longing for him now. But I do love the freedom to chat with him whenever I want. It’s been . . .” She looks away as if searching for the right way to phrase it. “Enjoyable.”

“Enjoyable—sounds like someone is hedging her bets,” Lola teases.

Peyton rolls her eyes and smacks Lola’s knee. “If you would just let me finish the story about the restaurant. So the couple at the bar had their whole list of kinky things they wanted to try: blindfolding, handcuffing, candle wax dripping, flogging. They wrote it all down as they were waiting for their food. Marked the ones they liked, crossed off the ones they didn’t. And in the end, they picked a safe word too. They picked it when Tristan was flipping a burger. Guess what the safe word was?”

“Burger?” I ask, hoping that’s not anyone’s safe word.

Peyton smiles like she’s holding back, then bursts out with “Spatula!”

We all crack up. “Spatula is the worst safe word ever,” I say. “But have you considered that maybe the guy was going to spank the gal with a spatula?”

“Ouch!” Lola says, wincing.

“Is that from experience?”

“Girl, spatulas hurt, and I don’t mean hurt so good.”

Peyton clinks glasses with Lola, then me. “Let’s drink to spatulas used for burgers and not for safe words or spanking.”

“Amen,” I say.

We drink, and Peyton sighs happily. “I feel so much better than I did the last time we were here.”

“That calls for another round,” I say.

After we order, Peyton picks up her phone and mutters that she needs to answer a text from Tristan.

While she types, I whisper to Lola, “It’s so obvious.”

“Like lipstick on a collar,” she whispers back.

Something is brewing between Peyton and her best guy friend, and I can’t wait till she figures it out.

For now, I don’t ask again if she’s into him. I can tell she’s still not ready to share that or, frankly, to face it.

She’ll only be ready in her own due time—for spatulas and safe words and friendship that might become more.

* * *

When we’re heading out, Truly calls me over to the bar. “How’s it going, being queen of your domain?”

“I’m getting a tiara. I channeled you, and I got a new job,” I say, still beaming from today as I give her the highlights.

“Rock star,” she says. “Take a curtsy, please.”

“If you insist,” I say, then do as instructed.

“And I also insist on you coming to a costume party I’m hosting here in a few weeks. It’s a fundraiser for some animal rescues in the city.”

“I’m RSVPing right now, and I already know who I want to be,” I say, then I head home to see my dog.

And my guy.

Because on the way, I call Linc.

“Hey, Clark Kent. You better get your butt to my place or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Just ‘or else.’”

“Hmm. Is this a good ‘or else’ or a bad ‘or else’?”

“It’s a naked ‘or else,’” I say.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s waiting on the stoop when I reach my block.

He meets my gaze, looking as cool and sexy as a hero in a book when he says, “Hey, Betty Boop. What’s entailed in a naked ‘or else’?”

I sidle up to him, setting a hand on his firm chest. “Or else I was going to come to you, strip you naked, and reward you for being so hot and sexy by getting on my knees.”

“That doesn’t feel like a traditional ‘or else.’ Feels like either way, I’m winning.”

“That’s why I knew you’d like my naked ‘or else’ demands.”

When we’re inside my place, I strip him to nothing and drag my fingers down his body, savoring his muscles, his strength. Taking him in my mouth, I give him his reward.

It feels like mine too, because I love giving him pleasure.

He’s given me so much.

And he rewards me tonight too, flopping to his back, pulling me onto his face, and devouring me until I’m lost in the sensations that wash over me.

Afterward, we curl up, arms and legs tangled together.

“Have you ever wanted to try dripping candle wax on me?” I ask.

He laughs. “No, but if you want to, I’m game.”

Laughing, I shake my head. “Nah, I’m good with the hair pulling and the occasional spanking.”

“Occasional Spanking,” he muses. “Is that going to be a title in your new line of books?”

I drag my nails down his chest. “No, but that would be a good chapter heading.”

He wraps an arm around me. “You and your crazy ideas. So many of them are really good.”

I prop my chin in my hand and regard the man next to me. “You’re a good idea. Like banana bread.”

“You’re a great idea, Amy,” he says, brushing his soft lips over mine and kissing me tenderly, lovingly.

I murmur as he bestows gentle, open-mouthed kisses across my neck, my shoulders, and up to my earlobe. Shivers dance across my body as he maps my skin.

This man gets me.

In every way.

When he stops, I frown. “Don’t stop kissing me. Don’t you know I’m an attention monster?”

As if on cue, Inspector Poirot leaps onto the bed, tail wagging, tongue lolling as he burrows between us, flips to his back, and offers a belly for petting.

“Fine, he’s the real attention monster,” I say.

“He takes after you.”

“And I take that as a compliment.”

Linc draws me closer in his arms, his free hand petting my dog.

I regard the two men in my bed. Could this have worked out any better? My guy and my pup. I run my hand down Linc’s chest. “Question for you.”

“Hit me.”

“Is it possible to get the guy and the gig and the friends and the dog and this awesome life? I’m not asking for a friend.”

He grins and drops a kiss to my lips. “You know the answer.”

The answer is yes.

I’m living it, and I’m glad I asked for me.

Epilogue

Linc

I don’t normally wear contacts, but when I do, I rock them.

Especially when I add a leather jacket, black jeans, a bunch of rings, and a pocket chain thingy, which Baldwin insisted was the height of costume fashion.

The man knows what he’s talking about.

I drag my hands through my hair, making it puffy, as Amy likes to say.

Because tonight, I’m Dax Powers.

As I regard myself in the mirror, I can see the resemblance. Maybe I even owe my cartoon doppelgänger my thanks, because if it wasn’t for him, I’m not sure I would have found my way to Amy Summers.

But then, it seems impossible that I wouldn’t have.

Amy enchanted me from the get-go, and everything about us feels inevitable. Especially when I pick her up for the costume party and nearly stumble against the wall when I see her.

I’m gobsmacked.

She’s full-on Betty Boop, if Betty Boop were a strapless-leather-dress-wearing vixen. With pink thigh-high boots.

She holds a slice of cake. “How’s the resemblance?”

“Uncanny, and it’s turning me on so much that I think I do have to address my cartoon sexual reawakening issues,” I say.

“We can do that after the party. Also, have I ever told you how glad I am that you’re Dax Powers?”

I smile. “Only nearly every day.”

She pouts.

I slide a hand around her waist and kiss her. “And it never gets old hearing it, Betty Boop.”

At the costume party, we mingle with her friends and mine and ours.

Baldwin is dressed in flannel as a lumberjack, complete with a few days’ growth of beard across his jaw. He drapes an arm around me and another around Amy. “And tonight, I do believe I’ve met my Prince Charming,” he says, gesturing with his eyes across the bar to some guy who looks like . . . hell if I know.

But Amy does. She bounces in her pink boots. “That’s Flynn Rider. He’s perfect for you, Baldwin.”

My friend stares at the man as if hypnotized. “I know. Believe you me, I know. I’ve had a crush on Flynn Rider forever, and I’m going to take him home tonight.”

He leaves us and makes his way to the man across the room.

“I can’t wait for the Flynn Rider report,” she says, then brings me to the bar to meet her brother and his fiancée. We chat for a bit about movies and books, and then Amy introduces me to Quinn when she arrives.

She’s dressed in silver, with her belly a sparkly disco ball. “I’m getting rounder by the hour, it seems,” she says, rubbing her glittery center of gravity.

Her husband, Vaughn, is decked out in seventies Saturday Night Fever garb. “The countdown is on. The hospital bag is packed. We’re ready for when the baby says go.”

“Because my sister packed the bag seven months ago?” Amy asks.

Vaughn shoots her you can’t be serious look. “Don’t you know your sister? She prepped an overnight bag a few hours after the positive test.”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Did not. A few hours after the test, I was tracking you down and delivering news you never expected.”

He smiles at her like he’s the happiest guy. “The best news ever.”

Amy pokes Vaughn’s arm. “You better call me the second the baby is born. Promise me you will. I need to come to the hospital right away and start spoiling my niece or nephew.”

“That’s a promise. I know it’ll mean the world to Quinn,” Vaughn says to Amy, then kisses his wife’s cheek.

When the party ends, Amy and I walk through the streets of Manhattan, talking about the best costumes of the night and what we’d want to wear next time.

Because there will be a next time.

And another.

And another.

That’s the best part of us. Every night with her feels like a new chapter in a fantastic book.

But every night also feels like another stop on the train ride we’ve been on from the start.

Only, I have a feeling it’s going to speed up and make its way to a brand-new destination very soon.

I make a note to go shopping.

And to go shopping soon.

Another Epilogue

Baldwin

A few months later

I smooth the front of my button-down shirt with the purple paisley print, looking at the gorgeous man in front of me, and I don’t mean the one in the mirror. “How do I look?”

James is leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, and he arches a brow. “Is that a serious question?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because you literally just turned away from the mirror.” It would be undignified to pout. And maybe ungrateful, considering how much this man brings to my life. “I want to know how I look to you . . . I’m vain like that.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” But he grins as he pushes off the doorframe and saunters closer. “Like the fact that I’m sure you want to look good not only for me, but for our double date with your friends. And trust me, you do. I wouldn’t have picked out that shirt if I didn’t think you’d look hot enough to make an ice cream truck melt.”

I grin too, a little wickedly, and smooth my hand down my shirtfront again. “I do love ice cream trucks.”

“Among other things,” James says, doing the eyebrow thing again. Then he shifts, like he remembered something. “Oh, before we go out tonight, I have something for you.”

I park my hands on my hips. “Seriously? How many gifts are you going to give me?”

“As many as I want.”

I smile. “Fine. I’ll just have to deal with that.”

James grins at me over his shoulder as I follow him to our living room—ours because James lives with me—and he grabs a gift bag from the coffee table.

When he holds it out to me, I take it and reach inside, giving an appreciative murmur when I feel the ceramic. “Please tell me it’s the skull creeper mug I saw at that cute shop in the Village.”

And it is. God, I love creeper mugs, and he knows it. And I love this man too—Flynn Rider, aka James Hardaman. I hope he knows how much.

“I am going to give you an epic thank you tonight for this little prezzie,” I tell him. “And because I love you.”

“Baby, I love you too. And I love your thank yous.”

He’s more than just my boyfriend, and it’s not because we live together or because I get thoughtful gifts out of it.

It’s because he gets me, and I get him. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

I just took a number of trains to reach this destination. But I’m staying at this stop.

We leave, and I hold my boyfriend’s hand as we head to meet Amy and Linc for dinner.

And Another Epilogue

Amy

I march across the squeaky hardwood floors at the gym. Pop music blasts through the sound system, and I talk over it into my headset.

“Are you ready, ladies?”

The ladies shout back, “We’re ready!”

“Are you sure?”

“We’re sure!”

“Because today we’re going to learn how to hula-hoop up and down your whole body. This is one helluva party trick.”

I shimmy my hips back and forth, the hoop swaying effortlessly around my waist as I talk to the class.

I proceed to demonstrate how to send the hoop down to your ankles and back up to your armpits.

Lisa rocks it. So does Paige.

Well, not at first.

They are newbies after all.

But they’re making progress in my class, and I’m proud of them. They’ve been taking it for a few months now, and one of my favorite parts of them being here comes next.

When class ends, the three of us meet up with Linc, because my fantastic, sweet, sarcastic, smart, swoony boyfriend volunteers to babysit every time Lisa and Paige take my Hula-Hoop class. It’s seriously ovary-melting to see Linc playing with his baby niece.

Today when the three of us meet him at Dr. Insomnia’s, he’s drinking a cup of coffee, bouncing Katherine on his knee and reading to her.

Okay, that does it.

I’m definitely going to have to grab him, take him home, and do bad things to him, because that is tamale-level hot right there.

I don’t even want to have kids yet (though I do love babysitting Quinn’s little girl), but I’m overheating like a fried egg on a summer sidewalk.

Then I see his phone and what he’s reading to her.

It’s the political thriller he edited.

I shoot him a no you didn’t look. “You’re reading the baby a thriller?”

“She’s a toddler. Also, I read it like it’s a kid’s story.” He clears his throat and, in a singsong voice, croons, “John Cross never intended to be an assassin, but he turned out to be a damn good one.”

Lisa huffs then bonks Linc on the head. “You’re dangerous.”

He laughs, rolls his eyes, then says, “Don’t get your panties in a twist, ladies. I was just putting you on.” He clicks to the home screen of his app, then shows us an illustration of a boy wizard. “I was reading Harry Potter to her because everyone should read Harry Potter.”

“That is true,” I say, and decide I still plan to do bad things to him.

I tell him as much after his sister and her wife leave with Katherine. “You were pretty foxy reading to a little kid. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have baby fever. I’m not trying to follow in Quinn’s footsteps yet. But the point is—you’re smoking hot when you read to kids.”

“I’m smoking hot when I read to you. Want a little story time with the thesaurus later?”

I say yes, of course, since it’s my favorite book, especially the way he reads it to me.

One More Epilogue

Amy

A few months later

The cinnamon candy melts on my tongue.

My taste buds break into a jitterbug.

“C’est magnifique.” That’s the only word to describe the candy at a sweet shop in Paris.

“Told you it was incredible. Do I ever lie about sweets?” my sister Tabitha asks.

“Not about sweets,” I say with a wink.

She nudges my elbow. “Or anything. For instance, this guy you brought to Paris is a total keeper.”

“He can hear you, you know,” I say, since Linc is busy devouring a chocolate truffle a few feet away.

“Yes, I am a keeper,” he says around the candy in his mouth.

“And what about you, Tab? Have you met any keepers?” I ask my sister as we thank the shopkeeper and make our way onto the streets of Montmartre.

“Maybe I’ve met a handsome Frenchman who keeps me busy late into the night,” she says coyly.

“Maybe you better tell me everything.”

“I will. Next time I see you,” she says, then gives Linc and me both cheek kisses. “I must return to work. Au revoir.”

She heads off into the curving cobbled streets, and I imagine my sister is having her very own fantastic romance too. “I’m going to extract that story from her tomorrow,” I say to Linc.

“I’ve no doubt you will. For now, want to go to An Open Book?”

“Yes. You’ve been keeping it from me,” I tease.

He laughs. “Exactly. I’ve been hiding the fact that your favorite bookstore just opened a Paris shop.”

He whisks me away to the sixth arrondissement, where we arrive at the emerald-green storefront of a bookshop.

I hum with happiness. I’ve been dying to see this place since I heard the city of love was snagging its very own version of this American bookstore.

We go inside, wandering the aisles, running fingers along spines, inhaling the smell of new books.

I pick up paperbacks and hardcovers, indulging in a few pages of each. I remember the time I went with my brother to this shop in New York, feeling a pang of envy.

Today I feel pangs of hope and possibility. Soon, these shelves will carry the books Linc has worked on in the last year, and mine too.

“Look at this!” I whisper excitedly when I come across a romance I’ve been wanting to read.

“Or look at this,” he says.

And when I turn around, my eyes pop out on springs.

The pang in my chest? It turns from hope to glee.

Linc is on one knee, with a velvet box flipped open and a hopeful expression in his gorgeous blue eyes.

I gasp, and I want to say yes, yes, yes right now.

But I wait for him to speak first.

He clears his throat and looks at me with passion and honesty in his blue eyes. “Amy Summers, I started falling for you the day I met you, and every day that I discover new things about you, I fall further and harder. I love you ridiculously, and you’re an incredibly good idea. I want us to keep falling together for the rest of our lives. Will you marry me?”

“Yes! Because you’re the best idea I’ve ever had.”

He slides a stunning ring on my finger, stands, and wraps me in his arms, kissing me deeply in a bookstore an ocean away from where we live.

All the thesauruses in the world couldn’t give me six more perfect words to describe how I feel right now: And they lived happily ever after.

THE END

Eager to know about Peyton and Tristan’s lingering looks and burgeoning romance? Then be sure to grab SEX AND OTHER SHINY OBJECTS now! It’s a sexy, emotional, friends to lovers romance kicking off when Peyton enlists Tristan’s help in trying out popular sexy times scenes from romance novels! Find out if buttons fly!

You’ll find this sexy romantic comedy available on all retailers! Be sure to sign up for my newsletter to receive an alert when these sexy new books are available! Here is a sneak peek of SEX AND OTHER SHINY OBJECTS!

Before I open, 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 type 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 all along.

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 looks like he’s auditioning for a role on Hardy Men from Alaska thanks to his jeans and work boots, and the pullover shirt that hugs his chest.

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. “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 in the direction of 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 offhand as I hang the bra back on the rack.

He flinches. “Samantha?”

“Yes, 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.

Out of nowhere, a plume of jealousy twists through me. What the hell is that about? I know he slept with her. I know he dated her. Why would I be jealous that he liked it?

I turn around so he can’t see my face. But that doesn’t change this odd sensation in my body—like my shirt is too tight, or my skirt is scratchy, only that’s not the case at all. But I’m strangely out of sorts from his question. 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 stat.

I adjust a pale pink bra, forcing myself to focus solely on the here and now.

“Glad you enjoyed it,” I say coolly, like I’m a hostess at a fine restaurant, desperately sweeping away the images of him with someone else from my head.

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

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

“She was oddly jealous of my little brother. Go figure.” He holds up his hands.

I rein in the sliver of a grin, even though I’m more grateful than I expected. “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, loving that he’s found a way to ease 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 time goes better than my request this morning. “I’m hoping we can test fashion.”

One brow lifts in question. “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.”

Order SEX AND OTHER SHINY OBJECTS everywhere!

Acknowledgments

Big thanks to Lauren Clarke, Jen McCoy, Helen Williams, Kim Bias, Virginia, Lynn, Karen, Tiffany, Janice, Stephanie and more for their eyes. Much love to Helen for the beautiful cover. Thank you to Kelley and Candi and KP and Jenn. Massive smooches to Laurelin Paige for access to her brain and heart. As always, my readers make everything possible.

Also by Lauren Blakely

FULL PACKAGE, the #1 New York Times Bestselling romantic comedy!

BIG ROCK, the hit New York Times Bestselling standalone romantic comedy!

THE SEXY ONE, a New York Times Bestselling standalone romance!

THE KNOCKED UP PLAN, a multi-week USA Today and Amazon Charts Bestselling standalone romance!

MOST VALUABLE PLAYBOY, a sexy multi-week USA Today Bestselling sports romance! And its companion sports romance, MOST LIKELY TO SCORE!

WANDERLUST, a USA Today Bestselling contemporary romance!

COME AS YOU ARE, a Wall Street Journal and multi-week USA Today Bestselling contemporary romance!

PART-TIME LOVER, a multi-week USA Today Bestselling contemporary romance!

UNBREAK MY HEART, an emotional second chance USA Today Bestselling contemporary romance!

BEST LAID PLANS, a sexy friends-to-lovers USA Today Bestselling romance!

The Heartbreakers! The USA Today and WSJ Bestselling rock star series of standalone!

Contact

I love hearing from readers! You can find me on Twitter at LaurenBlakely3, Instagram at LaurenBlakelyBooks, Facebook at LaurenBlakelyBooks, or online at LaurenBlakely.com. You can also email me at laurenblakelybooks@gmail.com