5. Summer

5

SUMMER

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

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

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

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

Just like the silk suit.

And the swimsuit.

Damn him.

But wait. What’s that I see?

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

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

A girl can hope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does it meet the key requirement though?”

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

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

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

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

Something he knew far too much about.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still off.”

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

His gorgeous face.

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

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

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

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

And still, a tingle rushes through me.

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

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

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

I need him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Need any help?”

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

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

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

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

“I might as well be done with it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. Why?”

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

Totally discomposed.

It’s an odd look on him.

“And?” I prompt.

“Don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?”

“Something nice,” he grumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I need to remind you of Hazel?”

No. He doesn’t.

I can picture perfectly the day I saved his ass.