21. Oliver

21

OLIVER

Blinders come in handy.

I put mine on all day, zeroing in on the contract work ahead of me for Geneva’s firm, then on the deal memo for my new client, Helen Williams Designs.

I focus on that rather than on how utterly fucking complicated this fake fiancée gambit has become after this morning’s kiss.

I have half a mind to call it off. Because how the hell am I supposed to spend time with her and pretend I don’t want to kiss her again?

It’s all I want to do.

Wait. That’s not true. I want to do much more.

Which is the real problem.

So I bury myself in work, since the law is reliable.

With every line of legalese I write, I remind myself of why I am faking it—I have to protect this firm and its rep.

I meet with some of the junior partners handling various deals for the firm, and we review the terms. When we’re done, one of the newest attorneys here mentions that his one-year-old just took his first steps, and then shows us the video.

“What a cutie-pie,” one of the women says.

That’s another reminder.

These people depend on me. I sign their checks so they can pay their student loans and take care of their one-year-olds.

I can’t call anything off.

Even if I want to.

Even if it’s getting harder to pretend.

At the end of the day, I change into running shorts to hit the park, chatting with Jane on the way out.

“I see you’re the toast of Twitter now,” she says as the elevator doors close.

“Am I now?”

With a sneaky look on her face, she grabs her phone from her handbag, slides it open, and shows me the latest comments.

@LovesListsofMen: The kissing pics!!! Dying. Just dying.

@ManCandyFan: Dying twice. Dying dead again. Dying from the hotness of the kissing.

@GossipLover1andOnly: I am dead. I am literally dead.

@ManCandyFan: *collects your body* *gives it a proper funeral befitting a death from hotness*

I laugh at the exuberance. I guess it’s better than the first rush of tags. “That’s good. Wait—” I narrow my eyes and point to the next one in the thread. “Is that the pen twat again?”

@TheThird: I dunno. Something about the two of them is almost too good to be true.

@LovesListsofMen: Jelly much?

@TheThird: Not one bit. I’m just saying, who’s like that?

@HZRedhead: He wasn’t like that with me.

@ManCandyFan: Uh, hello. He’s not with you. He’s with her.

Jane closes the app. “Your public is amused.”

“Seems to be.”

She pats my arm. “You know, I’m happy to keep this up as long as you need me to, but do think about what happens down the road,” she says as we exit the lift.

Down the road . I let those words echo, as I slide a thumb across my mobile, checking out the latest text from Christian.

Christian: Tell me every entertaining detail. Also, have we discussed the importance of an exit strategy?

But I’ve got no time for down the road, or exit strategies, when I have to deal with now and with this morning and what will happen tonight.

I head to meet Jason in the park.

“It happens to the best of us.”

That’s Jason’s sage advice that evening after I updated him on my morning bolt-from-the-scene routine during our four-mile run through Central Park.

“And what exactly is the ‘it’?” I ask as we walk along the Reservoir to cool down.

“Being an arsehole,” he says.

“You’re saying I was an arsehole this morning?”

He blinks. “Are you saying you were anything but?”

“I had a meeting. I had to go.”

He rolls his eyes. “‘Had a meeting’ is a load of shite for an excuse. You kissed her in a diner full of people and then left like your trousers were on fire. Face it—you just punched your ticket at the ‘I’m an arsehole’ counter.”

I shoot him a betrayed look. I knew it was a dick move, but I wasn’t prepared for this sort of character assassination, not even from the renowned hitman of men’s characters. “And I suppose you’ve never done anything so stupid?”

He lets out a deep belly laugh, hands on his stomach. “How the hell do you think I know about the ticket counter for arseholes?” He pats his chest. “You’re looking at a once-upon-a-time card-carrying member. I did some very stupid shit when I was figuring out things with my wife, before she was my wife.” He gives me a wry smile, one that I know means he’s about to give me shit. “However, I never ran from a kiss like I might catch something. Now that I think about it, you’re the bigger knob. I’m getting you a plaque.”

“Thanks. This is grand. Simply grand.”

He claps my shoulder. “Just apologize. Say you were overcome by the taste of her lips or something.”

I recoil. “That does not sound like anything I’d say.”

“I know. With you, it’s more like grunt , tits , arse , sex .”

I roll my eyes. “Pot. Kettle.”

“I’m calling it as I see it,” he says as we head around the bend toward the park exit. “Anyway, say you were stressed about the meeting, you know it was rude, and you’d very much like to kiss her again.”

I flinch. I can’t say that. We can’t kiss like that again. “That won’t work.”

He stops at the edge of the park, trees overhanging us, other New Yorkers running, walking, blading by, and shoots a serious stare at me. “Why exactly did you leave?”

I stop, rubbing my hand across the back of my neck. I left because I didn’t know if I could stop kissing her. I left because I wanted to say, Screw the meeting, come spend the day in bed with me. I left because I want to know what the hell is going on with this brand-new mess of desire I feel for my best friend.

Somehow I wrap that all up into one simple answer. “Because it was easier.”

He drops a hand to my shoulder. “I hear you. But now you have to do something harder—find a way to say you’re sorry for being an arse. Probably won’t be the last time you have to say it, so consider it good practice.”

I blow out a long stream of air, nodding. “I hate that you actually know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t worry. It came from years of being a dickhead too.”

“I feel loads better.”