Chapter 3

When I started to wake in the predawn hours, I instinctively reached across the sheet, searching for something. When I encountered only a slightly warmer spot in the otherwise empty bed, it jolted me into awareness—the wedding, the reception, the aftermath… Hugh.

I froze for a moment, listening for the shower, for the sound of someone breathing or the whisper of fabric, but there was nothing. I was alone in the silence. Hugh was gone.

I sighed and flopped onto my back, grinning up at the shadowed ceiling as I stretched out the pleasant ache in my muscles.

Christ, what an incredible night. Hugh hadn't lied when he'd warned me he was competitive, but he'd neglected to warn me how talented he was with his tongue. My cock twitched hopefully beneath the soft sheets. Very talented indeed.

Despite joking with him the night before, I was not in the habit of ranking sexual encounters. That would be shitty—not to mention pointless since I tended to forget most by the morning after. Still, I could say with confidence that sex with Hugh was some of the best I'd ever had. Scorching hot and thrilling, yes, but interlaced with comfortable periods where we joked about our worst dates and our favorite movie pickup lines.

I chuckled and rolled on my side, remembering how Hugh's impression of Princess Anna from Frozen—"This is awkward. Not you're awkward, I'm awkward. You're gorgeous. Wait, what?"—had been so pitch-perfect I'd burst out laughing, and the sound had echoed around the tiled bathroom. Hugh had blushed and tried to stammer out an indignant excuse involving babysitting his roommate's nephews, which had only made me laugh harder. The resulting splash fight had nearly drained the tub… and led to round three.

Being with Hugh had felt like stepping out into the first winter frost back when I was a kid—like the dormant brown-and-gray world had acquired a new sparkle, like I was suddenly wide-awake and conscious of every cold, clear breath I took—and I was greedy for more time with him. Greedy enough to wish Hugh hadn't already left the suite. Almost greedy enough to wish I could call him and ask him out…

Almost.

I levered myself up to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing my hair off my face, and saw a small white scrap of paper on top of my phone on the nightstand, gleaming like a beacon in the murky light.

Oscar—

If you're interested in continuing to practice your oral skills, give me a call. If not… well, thank you for a truly lovely evening.

Give my best to Frank.

—Hugh

I stared at the words written in a confident masculine scrawl, along with the phone number written below them. My gut tightened, and my mouth went dry.

There was a time not long ago when I would have already saved Hugh Linzee's number in my phone, set up our next date, and sent him flowers just to make sure he was thinking of me.

The man was head-turningly handsome. Mature. Engaging. Funny. So damn kind. He wanted romance—deserved it—and I could give it to him easily if I let myself…

But then what?

A few weeks or months or years down the line, the spark between us would die, either with a bang or a whimper. No doubt about it.

Maybe Hugh would have a career opportunity on the West Coast he couldn't say no to. Perhaps I'd start to wonder why paparazzi showed up each time we left my apartment or get tired of him expecting exorbitant presents all the time. Maybe he'd throw a temper tantrum when I refused to pull strings to get him a job he wanted, and the antique Steinway the movers had just brought to my new place would be damaged almost beyond repair again. Or worse—I physically shuddered at the thought—perhaps he'd look at me with sad, gentle eyes and say something incredibly kind about how he loved me but wasn't in love with me; that the timing just wasn't right; that it wasn't me, it was him,and really, wouldn't we be better off as friends?

I didn't want to think any of those things would happen with Hugh… but then, I hadn't foreseen them with any of the men I'd spent time with over the years either. I wanted to think that Hugh was different… but every man had seemed different until he wasn't. And no matter how hard I'd tried, the result had always been the same: I started out excited and hopeful, and I wound up alone, having lost another small piece of myself.

No more.

I dragged on a pair of shorts and headed for the other room to give Frank his breakfast. On the way, I crumpled up the note and tossed it in the bin without saving Hugh's number. There might come a time in the future when I was weak enough to think that maybe this time with this man could be different, so better to remove any temptation now while I still could.

I would not be contacting Hugh again.

* * *

It only tookthree months for me to break that vow, but in my defense, it was for a good cause.

"Hey, so, I wanted to discuss something with you. No pressure…" my assistant, Lesya, began, then hesitated.

I glanced up from the reports I'd been reviewing and eyed her over the top of my desk. She was alternately toying with a strand of hair that had fallen from her tidy bun and fiddling with the string of the tea bag on the to-go cup that she'd had delivered along with our lunches.

A clear, deep blue sky stretched out beyond her over the city skyline, giving a false sense of mild fall weather when I knew for a fact it was cold as balls outside. Another few weeks of the newly frigid temps and I'd be looking for any excuse to visit a nice sandy beach somewhere.

"No pressure," I repeated, cocking my head. "I get chills when you say those words. Like, remember last month when Chan Greely wanted me to increase my pledge to the youth arts foundation, and you wanted to discuss me finding some programs that ‘understood the concept of diversity' before I wasted my money again, no pressure?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Or like the time when you wanted to discuss the gift I'd ordered my mother and Birch for their crystal wedding anniversary and how it wasn't personal enough, no pressure?" I lifted my chin. "I still say you can't get more personal than a Swarovski-encrusted Rolls-Royce. You can put your entire person inside of it, for god's sake. And it was expensive."

"So what?" She folded her arms over her chest. "The gift you ended up getting them was so much better. Your mother told me Birch cried when he opened the first box?—"

I tried not to squirm in my seat. "Or is it like a couple weeks ago," I went on quickly, "when you no pressure strong-armed me into accepting Liam's invitation, even though you know Frank hates traveling during the holidays and I swore I'd rather dry-shave my balls than attend another wedding this year?"

"You'd regret missing it. You've adored Liam for years." She caught her lip between her teeth. "Aside from the melancholy period after you dated, of course."

"Of course," I agreed dryly. "Aside from that."

Lesya had seen enough of my relationships over the years to chart their phases like cycles of the moon—periods she referred to as the rush, the honeymoon, the rocks, the melancholy, and the renaissance—and to tease me about them. Realizing that she was correct—that every single relationship I'd ever had followed the same horrible pattern—had been a deciding factor in my decision not to date anymore, period.

"Or are we talking no pressure," I continued, "like that time you read that article about the history of ‘bring your kid to work day' and wanted to discuss disparities in access to mentorship for kids in disadvantaged neighborhoods, and I got stuck mentoring a bunch of teenagers?"

"Got stuck." Lesya outright snorted at this bullshit. "You mean the time you created and funded a nationally recognized and award-winning mentorship program that's been replicated in over a hundred other school districts?" She lifted an eyebrow and nodded at the bookshelf behind my desk. "Nice picture of you and Letisha over there, by the way. I had no idea you went to MIT to visit that particular teenager."

I turned to look at the picture like I hadn't been the one to put it there. In it, my most recent mentee, Letisha, stood in front of the MIT Stata Center, arms thrown wide and grinning wildly, while I stood proudly beside her. "It was only for an hour when I was in Boston for the CurEsys deal," I said, turning back around. "Her patent got assigned for examination, and I wanted to see how she was settling in at school. She's loving every minute, by the way."

Leyva's face softened. "It was a good thing you did, paying her way."

"Me?" I scoffed, feeling my face go warm. "Nah. She received an anonymous scholarship."

"Right," Lesya said softly.

I cleared my throat. "Enough hedging. You have something to discuss with me, you said. Out with it. What good deed are you no-pressure-pressuring me to do today, O Wise One? Single-handedly ending global warming? Acquiring you and twenty deserving orphans some Taylor Swift tickets?"

She snorted. "First of all, I would never ask you to get me concert tickets." She lowered her voice. "And second, we both know who the Swiftie is around here, Mr. Knows-All-Ten-Minutes-of-All-Too-Well."

"You swore you'd never bring that up," I said, all offended dignity. I braced my forearms on my desk and leaned toward her. "And stop stalling. What do you need me to do?"

Lesya laughed, then sighed again. "I don't need you to do anything," she said, shifting back into her seat listlessly. "It's just… Mila's getting married, remember? And I love her. You know how much I love her. But my sweet baby sister is turning into a Bridezilla, and she's transferring her stress onto me. And I figured since you go to so many weddings…"

I widened my eyes in alarm. "Do not ask me to attend your sister's wedding, I beg you."

"I wouldn't," she assured me. "No, it's that her wedding photographer, the one she spent months researching, just canceled, and she needs a new one. And I realize there are, like, ten thousand photographers in New York—which I told her—but she can't hire just anyone, she needs the best one, and the best ones book up years in advance. Seeing as how you've been to a few weddings, if you know anyone who might have an opening…"

The rush of temptation was so strong it stole my breath for a moment.

Three months of no contact with Hugh didn't mean I'd stopped thinking about him. In fact, only a few short days after Wells and Conor's wedding, I'd begun to suspect that when Hugh had teasingly boasted about our night being unforgettable and un-toppable… he'd been speaking the absolute truth.

I'd spent the last few months using every distraction technique in my well-stocked arsenal, trying to prove this suspicion wrong. I'd traveled for work. I'd traveled for pleasure. I'd thrown myself into sponsoring a new medical trial Wells's company was developing for children with cancer, underwriting most of the expenses and sending out so many memos about the best practices for running the project that Wells had begged me to be a little less invested. I'd kept myself busy with a myriad of handsome men whose names I couldn't recall. I'd reminded myself over and over that since the details of Wells and Conor's sudden summer wedding had blurred into a pleasant haze, any blistering-hot memories I had of that night were probably a product of my own imagination. And every day, I'd assured myself I was forgetting all about Hugh Linzee with his soft curls and his kind eyes.

Every day, I'd been lying.

Now, it felt like the universe was giving me a golden ticket—a chance to be in Hugh's orbit again for a moment while still maintaining my distance.

And still I hesitated, worried that by speaking his name out loud, I'd be setting something in motion, a kind of gravitational pull toward heartbreak that I couldn't fight. If Hugh could safe-crack his way into my brain after only a few hours, imagine the devastation he'd wreak if I unlocked the door.

You didn't get where you are by being this cautious, I chided myself. And after another glance at Lesya's anxious face, I made my decision.

"I… might know someone," I admitted. "His name's Hugh Linzee, with two e's. He's very personable." Understatement. "Professional. Can't say what his rates are or how good his work is personally, but Conor and Wells seemed pleased."

This was a blatant lie. I hadn't talked to Conor or Wells about this at all. Instead, I'd looked up the wedding photos on Conor's social media accounts two weeks after the wedding, and they'd been amazing. Perfect. As gorgeous as the man who'd taken them.

"I also have no idea how to contact him," I continued blithely, "so don't ask?—"

"Got it. Found his website with all his contact info. And his TikTok. And… oh! Oh, god, and his other TikTok." She hugged her phone to her chest with both hands and made a face like she'd seen something unbearably adorable. "Holy shit, how freaking cute is that?"

"His… what?" I demanded.

But Lesya didn't seem to hear me. "You are the best, Oscar. Seriously. You're so smart." She beamed a smile. "As evidenced by your choice of personal assistant."

I quirked an eyebrow. "Of course. You're… good now?"

"Absolutely. I'm going to call Hugh today and beg him if necessary. Wait till I tell Mila!"

She hurried out of my office, and I watched her go, feeling more jittery than I should have. All these weeks, I'd been congratulating myself for putting Hugh out of my reach, and his contact info had been right there on his website. I rolled my eyes at myself. And then, without making a conscious choice, I found myself opening a browser window on my laptop.

Hugh Linzee—Photographer came up immediately.

Hugh's face was on the front page, watching me with those shining eyes and that amused tilt to his mouth that said the world was mostly delightful. I soaked it in like a thirsty man. I was suddenly aware of my heartbeat— loud, fast, insistent—for the first time in months.

Swallowing hard, I clicked the Portfolio tab, and a new window opened. Hugh's photography TikTok. As I clicked through clip after clip of happy couples, I felt my shoulders sink away from my ears. His perspective on the world carried a special kind of magic. Maybe it was the editing technique or perhaps the composition of the images. Maybe it was my own damned emotional nonsense. In any case, it was incredibly soothing.

So soothing that, after spending at least a half hour absorbed by mindless, happy scrolling and semi-indecent memories, it seemed like the most logical thing in the world that I should contact Hugh—just a casual text, no big deal, right?—to let him know that I'd recommended him to a friend.

Oscar

This is Oscar Overton. Hope you're doing well. I wanted to give you a heads-up that I recommended you to Mila Velky who's planning a wedding early next year.

After hitting Send, I stared at the stupid, borderline arrogant message in horror.

Why had I done that? What purpose did it serve?

I clicked off my phone, tossed it on the desk, and went to close the TikTok tab on my browser when I belatedly read the caption on Hugh's profile. Founder, Real Life HEAs.

Helplessly, I clicked through to his second profile, and I immediately understood the face Lesya had made earlier because the Real Life HEAs TikTok account was saccharine-sweet romance heaven.

Reel after reel, post after post, Hugh celebrated true love in all its many forms by asking random people on the street how they'd found their happily ever afters. The answers were as diverse as the men, women, and nonbinary folx Hugh interviewed. I clicked one at random and watched two women and a man explain how their polycule had fallen in love back in college and taken their first tentative steps into building a relationship. In the next, a pair of women explained how they'd met decades before they'd believed gay marriage would ever be legal and spent forty years making a family before one had finally "made an honest woman" of the other. In another, two men explained meeting on a dance floor a few months before and how one "wasn't looking for anything serious, but Kyle was just so…" He'd broken off with a helpless gesture that had made his partner grin.

Shaken, I closed my browser.

Hugh had made no bones about being a romantic. He wanted passion and fireworks and forever, and I'd scoffed and said he was looking for a fairy tale. Seeing this though, I understood that Hugh wasn't just hoping a nice guy would come along; he was actively dedicated to the fantasy. To the dangerous delusion.

Something inside me shriveled up at that knowledge, and my hindbrain blared a warning. Danger, danger.

My phone buzzed across my desk.

Hugh

Wow. Three months of silence followed by a business referral? Six out of ten. Zero suave points, but it warmed my cockles nevertheless.

I immediately pictured the teasing quirk of his lips and his eyes sparkling with challenge.

Fuck.

Oscar

Not a pickup line. (Though if it was, it would be a solid 10 and you know it.)

Hugh's reply popped up before I could fully regret adding that last bit.

Hugh

Disagree. I know a 10 when I see one. Speaking of which, how is Frank?

I laughed out loud against my will.

Oscar

He's living his best life. Just this morning, I found him enjoying an impromptu spa day in the guest room sink.

Hugh

Found him? This implies you lost him again, Oscar.

Oscar

He wasn't LOST. Not exactly. He knew where he was the whole time.

Hugh

I'm going to require some proof of life, I think. Maybe you and Frank would like to come to dinner?

I tossed the phone down again and ran a hand over my face. There it was, the very reason I hadn't made any contact with Hugh for weeks. Because I liked interacting with him a little too much, but interaction led to dinner invitations, which led to sex, which led to… "the melancholy." Lesya's stages of my relationships were nothing if not accurate.

Before I could think better of it, I grabbed the phone and replied.

Oscar

Afraid not, darling. I wouldn't be able to enjoy the entree without fantasizing about dessert, and you are on a mission to find The One. If I'm in your bed, you'll be too busy to keep looking for him. *wink emoji*

My screen remained frustratingly blank for several minutes. Lesya bustled into my office for a few signatures before returning to her desk. My office phone rang, but I ignored it.

The longer Hugh's silence went on, the more I found myself wishing I could give a different response. Wishing there were a way that I could have him without falling into my usual pattern.

Hugh

I understand. I appreciate you being upfront about it.

I blew out a breath. There. That was an end to it. And the feeling nestled below my breastbone was not disappointment—definitely not. It was relief.

Hugh

But maybe we could be friends? Maybe even the kind who only exchange text messages.

I blinked at his text in confusion. It wasn't so odd that Hugh should want to be friends, I supposed. I had lots of them. But in nearly every case, friendship was the consolation prize a guy and I settled on after we'd unsuccessfully tried to be something more. And aside from a select few men I trusted—Wells, Roman, James, my childhood sweetheart Boone—those post-relationship-friends were purely social ones, where we met up at parties to trade air-kisses and they hung me on their arms like a designer accessory.

Like most things with Hugh though, this felt different. New. Pattern-breaking. Risky, but the kind of risk that might pay dividends.

Oscar

Texting only? Is that an actual thing? No requests to meet up in person? No sexting each other nudes?

Hugh

If that's what you're comfortable with, why not? (I may send the occasional non-sexy pic. Photographer, remember? And pics of Frank are always encouraged. In fact, required.)

I felt my mouth hitch up.

Oscar

This isn't about me at all, is it? It's about your love affair with my hedgehog.

Hugh

Oh, thank god you understand. For a minute there, I was worried you'd think your shitty pickup lines were actually working on me.

Hugh

I didn't want to be rude, 'cause you seem nice enough, but Frank and I had a real moment of connection under that table. I hope you won't stand in our way.

I laughed out loud, and now the feeling in my chest actually was relief. I could have this. I could keep this. I wouldn't be able to ruin it by turning it into something more.

I had no idea what we'd text about since I'd taken most of my favorite text topics off the table, but if Hugh was willing to try friendship… well, as he'd said, why not?

Oscar

Don't tell him I said this, but Frank's a terrible correspondent. It's probably the lack of opposable thumbs. But yes, you and I can be text friends. In fact…

Oscar

PICTURE ATTACHED>

Hugh

*cry-laugh emoji* Is that a terrazzo marble sink Frank's lounging in? Who put those tiny cucumber scraps on his eyes?

That was a silly question, so I didn't bother answering it. Instead, after a brief hesitation, I added:

Oscar

I'd better not find any pics of you and Frank on your TikTok. He is not your HEA, understand?

The dots beside Hugh's name swirled for a long time.

Hugh

Oh, lord. You saw that, huh? Did it make you break out in romance allergy hives?

Oscar

Something like that.

Hugh

lolol. What are the chances you won't tease me mercilessly?

Oscar

I'd say… slightly lower than your chance of getting Frank to text you back himself.

* * *

That first afternoon,I'd wondered what the hell I'd find to message Hugh about. I'd been willing to try friendship, yes, but even with my friends, aggressive flirtation was my communication style of choice. With a ban on flirty content, I'd half expected our text chain to become a barren desert with the occasional "Happy Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas" tumbleweed blowing through it.

Instead, it felt like the conversation never stopped.

At first, we exchanged a message every day or so—generally, him saying hello and asking after Frank, and me sending a brief reply after a carefully considered, not-too-eager span of time. Then, a few weeks in, I accidentally sent him a meme about Love Island—a show I'd never watched, for the record—and suddenly, Hugh was bombing me with GIFs and memes, insisting that I was missing the greatest cultural phenomenon of our time. And through some kind of witchcraft or trickery I would never fully understand, I caved and began watching the previous season, and then Bridgerton, and then Heartstopper, sending caustic and jaded comments after every episode and getting Hugh's heart-eye emojis and long-winded, earnest explanations in reply.

It should have been annoying.

It… was not.

Somehow, by the time Halloween rolled around, my camera roll was filled with images of gooey brownies I'd never eaten, people I'd never met, streets I'd never walked on. I knew far too much about Hugh: that his roommate had an "annoying" habit of bringing home wedding cake that Hugh promptly ate; that he volunteered at an adult training center in Brooklyn taking headshots for resumes and relished the personal connections he made with people there; that he had a sister named Abby in New Jersey, who he was very close to. That his parents had died within months of each other when Hugh was in college, leaving him and Abby with only each other to lean on.

There was something about his lack of family that spoke to me. My own father had left when I was young, and it had wrecked me. I hated that Hugh had lost loving, warm parents. While I'd lost a bigoted bastard who hadn't thought much of me, he'd adored my mother. After watching her mourn the loss of him for over a decade, I knew firsthand how destructive grief could be.

Apparently, Abby had recently gotten engaged to her boyfriend, which seemed to leave Hugh feeling both happy for her and a little lost. My heart went out to him—so much so, in fact, that I'd actively tried to bring the conversation back to a shallower level. I didn't want to feel so… whatever it was that Hugh brought out in me.

It was at this juncture that I appointed myself as Hugh's pre-date wardrobe consultant since the man's artistic eye ended at his closet door, and he seemed to feel personally responsible for keeping the Gap in business. I told myself it was important, if this text-friendship was going to survive, to remind myself that Hugh was out there doing the dating thing, the same way I was, at least theoretically, still hooking up with guys. The fact that my hookups were less frequent than usual was simply a product of boredom on my part—not to mention the whole slate of Netflix binging I had to keep up with these days—and had nothing to do with Hugh whatsoever.

Despite my best efforts though, the shallowness didn't last long. It couldn't, in the face of Hugh's cheerful and unrelenting openness. So, as the days went by, I found myself sharing bits and pieces from my life. It was mostly silly stuff no one ever really cared about, like the crazy first days of Overton Investments when my friend Boone had been my only financial backer ("My apartment was so tiny, even Frank couldn't have gotten lost in it."), or how I'd spent the last year giving small-business loans to my personal favorite eating establishments around the city ("It gives my finance team heartburn, which is part of the fun."), or how my favorite place to escape to was a secluded tree house cabin near Glacier National Park in Montana ("which my assistant annoyingly refers to as the Sulk Shack."). I'd told Hugh stories about my friends—about Wells and Boone and even James's entitled ex-boyfriend Richard, who was highly annoying and nothing like me, no matter what Hugh teasingly said.

Every once in a while, when Hugh got home from a date and I was home early from a hookup, we'd do a bit of a postmortem. This mostly consisted of me trying to cheer Hugh up by begging him to rate his dates' pickup lines ("Oh, now we think rating is rude? Remember you started this, Linzee!") and then seeing how much I could embellish my perfectly serviceable sexual encounters into something wildly exciting before Hugh caught on and called bullshit.

In short, it was… fun.

Good, friendly fun.

And then, in the beginning of November, Hugh had met someone named Jed—or was it Jeffrey… or Jeremiah?—and things shifted again. Within a week of meeting, J-bro had invited Hugh to the uncharted wilds of North Carolina to spend Thanksgiving with his family, and when I'd expressed concern at this speed, Hugh had gone unexpectedly quiet, his usual stream of texts slowing to only a trickle.

It wasn't hard to see why, of course. The guy seemed to be all in, and Hugh was giving the budding relationship his full attention while I was… Well, I was concerned, that was all.

Concerned. Like any good friend would be.

I was also profoundly grateful that I'd put the brakes on anything more than simple friendship with Hugh Linzee because otherwise I might have felt a bit put out. I might have wondered out loud to Frank whether J-bro was now getting the daily spam texts about Shonda Rhimes's brilliance that Hugh used to send to me. I might have been a bit—ha!can you even imagine?—jealous. I might have almost… missed him.

Fortunately, I told myself as I tucked Frank into the pocket of my Burberry suit and prepared to spend my holiday overimbibing with a few acquaintances at my ex Ivan's Friendsgiving bash, I'd been smarter than that.

You couldn't miss something you'd never had in the first place.