Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend (The Guys Who Got Away Book 1) Page 17

  “Maybe I did.”

  She pats my arm. “Or maybe you should just let Summer know you actually have feelings for her, like ManCandyFan thinks you do.” She takes a breath, showing me her phone.

  @ManCandyFan: He’s so in love with her.

  @TheThird: Is he though?

  @GossipLover1andOnly: Yes. It’s beyond obvious.

  For a second, I close my eyes, letting the comments sink in. By and large, the internet is pretty stupid. But Jane isn’t. So, I open my eyes and meet her gaze, asking her opinion, since she knows me well.

  “You think I have feelings for her?”

  “Yes. And that perhaps you have for a long time now.” Then she hails a cab. “Time for me to go.”

  “Thanks for leaving on that note.”

  “What better note to leave on than giving you something to think about? Especially when I need to get home to feed Daisy. She’s quite demanding when she’s hungry. Cats. What can you do?”

  “Feed them, I suppose.”

  When she’s gone, I walk up the street, trying to remind myself why I never pursued anything with Summer in the first place. Why I never let myself examine all those things I felt for her but couldn’t name.

  It’s because she’s practically family.

  Because she’s part of my life.

  Because I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.

  Only, none of those reasons hold as much weight as they did a week ago.

  The next morning, I meet up with Logan and Fitz to play paintball in Central Park.

  “I had an epiphany last night,” Logan announces.

  “You’re joining a monastery?” Fitz asks.

  “You’re dying your hair all the colors of the rainbow?” I put in.

  “You’re going to Vegas and betting everything on red?” Fitz says.

  Logan rolls his eyes. “No, dickheads. It’s about the strategy. I had it all wrong. It’s not about crushing the other team. It’s about how fucking awesome we are.”

  I shoot him a skeptical look. “Is this an empowerment moment?”

  “Yeah, because I don’t know if I’m ready to sing ‘Let the River Run’ with you cats,” Fitz says.

  Logan gives him the side-eye. “Did you just reference Working Girl?”

  “Yes, does this surprise you?” Fitz asks. “One, Harrison Ford is in it. Two, I grew up with three sisters and a single mom. We watched it together.”

  I snap my gaze to Logan. “More to the point, did you just recognize a Working Girl reference?”

  Logan ignores me and proceeds with “As I was saying—Amelia and I were talking last night, and she said I was going at it all wrong.” Amelia is his daughter, and I appreciate the image of her telling him he was all wrong. “She said the point of the game is not to crush the enemy but to have fun. And I realized I’ve been focused on the wrong thing—on some stupid revenge on the guy at Lehman. But you know what? He can have my ex. I am done being angry, and I am letting it go. I just want to have a blast and move the hell on.”

  Is he serious? I pull back to study him, and yes, he absolutely means what he’s saying. This is a huge step for my friend, and I smile, happy for and proud of him.

  “That is big of you.”

  Logan simply shrugs. “Time to move on. Also, my daughter is brilliant, so I should listen to her.”

  “Sometimes kids have the best advice,” I agree. I wonder what Amelia would tell me to do about all these feelings I have for her Aunt Summer.

  The advice she gave Logan is kind of all-purpose, and maybe I should apply it broadly. So I decide to follow the kid’s wisdom for the moment.

  Just have fun.

  Right now, though, we play, and Logan doesn’t obsess on crushing the competition to settle a pointless score. He seems happy, and like that—playing as a team, playing as friends—we win.

  Afterward, as he packs up his gear, I tell Fitz, “Bet he meets someone new and is arse-over-elbow in love before we know it.”

  Fitz claps me on the back. “My bet is you’re next.”

  I scoff, dismissing that with a wave, then tell them I’ll take them out for breakfast. But over eggs and toast, I’m still thinking about Summer and the story of how we fell in love in Central Park.

  Then I shove it out of my head because it’s time to play pretend with her again.

  31

  Summer

  “Thrifting?” Oliver arches a brow as we walk to A Taste of Champagne, a consignment shop on the Upper West Side, then he shakes his head like a dog shaking off water. “You’re really taking me thrifting?”

  “It’s apparently a very popular thing to do on a date.”

  “For who? Teenage girls?”

  “Well, the cookie-dough class seemed tailor-made for teenage girls, and women who were once teenage girls do most of the date planning these days, so I suppose, yes, dating trends are driven by teenagers.”

  “Can we go to the mall next?”

  I swat him and tell him no as we head into the vintage shop. As I comb through racks, he snaps pictures of me while I hunt for a cute jacket.

  Focus on the date, I remind myself.

  Focus on the article.

  Don’t focus on memories of last night and the swoony words that fell from his mouth as he spun the story of how he fell in love with me.

  Swoony words were part of faking it.

  Who knew Oliver was such a good actor?

  But he is. He’s a great actor.

  I find a rack of short sequined dresses, labeled The Bridesmaid Dresses You Really Want. I sort through them, paying undue attention to the sparkles to keep my mind off all the things I can’t have.

  Like him.

  Because relationships suck. I don’t have time for them, and they just distract you from your goals anyway.

  So there, I tell my brain.

  Really, I should tell my heart, which beats too fast for him.

  “Thrifting is fun,” I say as I sort through clothes, ever the cheerleader.

  “Why does it need a name like thrifting? It’s just shopping,” he says.

  I shoot him a look over a rack of red dresses. “See? You’re being all negative again.”

  “No, I’m being honest. It’s not like this is a new thing. Is it supposed to be a fresh fad because we gave it a new name? It’s literally bargain-hunting.”

  “Why do you have to be the fun police?”

  “I am not the fun police. I am the fun ringmaster. And I’ll prove it to you with our next activity. Did you see the link I sent you earlier? Today is a very special day at Central Park. Once a year. Swan boats.”

  “Yes. I did. I love that the park just started that,” I answer, then return my attention to the dresses, where I spot a sapphire sequined mini dress with spaghetti straps. “This is perfect. I’ll try it on, and can you take a pic?”

  “Yes, of course, and then we’ll Snapchat it to all our friends, like Madison and Hannah and Taylor,” he says, imitating a teenager.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re having a good time even though you don’t realize it.”

  He laughs, waving a hand toward the dressing room. “Let’s see the dress, Cassidy, and then we can show Grayson.”

  “Fine, but don’t forget to tag Braxton, Jayden, and also Carson.” I snatch the dress and saunter into the changing room.

  “I’ll get it on Instaface straightaway. And then ChatterSnap.”

  “You do that.” I shrug out of my cotton sundress and pull the snug little number over my head, yanking it down to my thighs, where it ends. Glancing at my shoes, I laugh out loud. “My yellow flip-flops look so cute with this sexy number, Jarret.”

  “All right. Show me, Isabella, and then we can post it for the squad.”

  I swing open the door, announcing myself with a “Ta-da.”

  Oliver’s jaw drops. He blinks then rubs a hand over his chin. “I love thrifting.”

  “You do?”

  He nods, looking mesmerized.
“I’m getting it for you. Wear it all day.”

  And I say yes.

  A bearded man chewing on a straw unties a swan boat, pats the railing on the dock, then tells us to get in.

  We step into a plastic swan paddleboat on the lake in Central Park. Normally, the park only has gondolas or rowboats, but once a year it’s Swan Boat Day.

  “No rocking. No swan boat bumper cars, and no making out,” he barks at us.

  “Aye-aye, captain,” Oliver says, backing the boat out of the dock, the churning of the paddles beneath the boat like a roller coaster chugging uphill.

  I push hard with my yellow flip-flops as we pedal around the lake at top speed—maybe three miles an hour. We cruise past other boaters, enjoying the sun and the water.

  “Is this too teenager-y for you, Mr. I’m So Sophisticated?” I ask. “Are you sure it’s not your fun police duty to arrest us?”

  “It’s more fun than shopping,” he says as we pedal through a sunny patch of water, past another group of boaters.

  I wave to them before turning my narrow-eyed gaze on Oliver. “But you seemed to be having fun shopping. You made me get the dress.”

  He eyes me from top to bottom, his green eyes shimmering with a hint of desire. He’s not trying to hide it, and that heats me up, especially when he says, “Well, it looks good on you. I had no choice.”

  “No choice? Really?”

  “When a woman looks this good, she can’t not wear the thing that makes her look this hot,” he says, his eyes locked on mine.

  His words and his gaze make my stomach flip as tingles spread down my chest.

  “See? You have your laws, and so do I.” The way he says it, all low and sexy, makes my pulse speed up.

  I shouldn’t like this, but I do. God, I do.

  I like knowing he’s still affected, still attracted to me, even though we laid down the rules.

  We made our choices.

  But it feels like the choices are making us.

  And try as we might to reroute back to friendship, we keep tipping into the danger zone.

  Soon we reach a quiet corner of the lake where it feels like it’s just us. He stops pedaling, and we soak in the sun.

  Maybe it’s best to remember those choices. To remind ourselves of why we’re here. So I try. “We made it through last night. We survived.”

  “Yes, the cookie batter. Don’t remind me.”

  I set a hand on his arm. He tenses, then, after a moment, relaxes. “No, I meant we survived moving past the sex.”

  “We did,” he says, pushing out a laugh. “Because I used my patented mind eraser.”

  “What’s that?”

  He mimes sweeping. “I just get out my broom and sweep the memory into a corner and pretend it never happened.”

  “Really?”

  “Men are simple, right?”

  “I don’t know. I think you’re complicated.”

  “Trust me. I’m not. I’m pretty straightforward.”

  “So, if I flash my boobs, are boobs all you’re going to think about?” I ask, challenging him.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say? I stopped thinking.” He lets his gaze drift playfully down to my chest. “Nice dress.”

  “But see, I don’t believe that. You pretend you are shallow, but deep down you think about things like friendship,” I say, as he looks me in the eyes again. “You think about life and death and your parents, and you think about your clients and fighting for them and doing the best you can.”

  He looks at me, quiet and studying. “True. Yet sometimes I’m still playing the same loop. Food. Sex. Money.” He takes a beat. “Sex.”

  And I might be playing that last one on a loop too. But I’m still trying to make a point, one related to sex, and to all the other things I like about him. “I don’t think that’s all you care about. You care about security. Reliability. Dependability. If you didn’t, we’d be sleeping together again.”

  He stares hard at me, his jaw ticking. “Is that why we’re not sleeping together?”

  I stare back, feeling the mood shift. My skin is hot, my breath comes fast, and the sun beats down. “Isn’t it?”

  “At the moment, I’m honestly not sure.”

  Heat roars in my body. “I’m not either. Going back to how we were sounds good in theory . . .”

  “But theories can be wrong,” he says, his eyes dark, glimmering with lust.

  But I don’t think it’s only lust I see. I think there’s so much more.

  No, I know it.

  My tingling chest is the proof.

  My aching heart is the verification.

  And my wild need is the driver.

  Of me.

  Because here on this sunny day, in this quiet nook of my favorite place on earth, I do maybe the craziest, most daring thing of all.

  I shift out of my seat, climb onto his lap, and straddle him. Then I kiss the breath out of my best friend in a paddleboat.

  32

  Oliver

  I’m a pretty open-minded guy.

  I’ll try nearly any position. I’ll break out toys, props, and loads of dirty talk.

  I’ll give the woman what she wants.

  And if the woman wants public sex, sure, that can be arranged, short of an arrestable offense.

  I just never put a paddleboat on the list of places I’d want to try.

  But then, I never expected Summer to initiate paddleboat sex.

  Here she is with her knees spread and her dress riding up, grinding against me.

  When in Rome . . .

  I cup her face, drag her close, and kiss her.

  Without any cameras, without any agenda, without anything to prove.

  There’s no reason but desire, and we kiss hard and hungrily in the lake at Central Park, and it feels like where we’re supposed to be.

  I trace her lips, parting them with my tongue then stroking inside her mouth. I tug her closer, kiss her harder, our lips marauders. We plunder and suck, tongues tangling, bodies pressing.

  She grinds against me, pressing on my cock, like iron in my jeans. And she’s relentless, a woman after her own pleasure, like she was the other night.

  And the source of it is me.

  It’s a thrilling and addictive feeling, knowing I’m the one she’s chasing like this.

  That’s how we kiss.

  Like we can’t get enough of each other. Can’t get enough lips, tongue, skin. My fingers curl around her skull, gripping her tight, slamming her against me.

  Her hands skate into my hair, her fingers roping through the strands as she brings me closer. She’s panting, moaning, and nothing on earth is sexier than this woman revealing her desires to me.

  For me.

  And with me. I slide my hands down her back, along the crazy sequined dress and down to her ass, cupping her cheeks.

  A groan rips from my throat as I squeeze her tight, firm ass. Yes, she was naked on me the other night, and yes, she was naked in bed, but it still feels like the first time.

  Like I’m just discovering all her curves, all the softness of her body.

  My hands slide lower, reaching the edge of her short dress. She feels too good. I break the kiss, panting. “So glad you got this dress.”

  “Me too.” She breathes out hard, then lifts up and grinds back down on me, sliding against my cock, humping me.

  Lust sizzles down my spine, radiating out through my whole body as she stares wickedly at me, a wanton, gorgeous woman eager for pleasure.

  “I want you again,” she whispers, her voice all smoky and sexy.

  It’s the hottest sound I’ve ever heard, and I can still barely believe it’s coming from her.

  From my friend, who’s shown me so many sides of herself over the years—except this one.

  “I want you again too. Right now, Summer.” I bring my mouth to her neck, kissing a decadent path to her ear. “But we really need to get to my place where I can strip you to nothing, worship your body, and make you come ove
r and over.”

  “Yes. That. Let’s do that now.”

  She slides off me a few inches, setting her feet down, hunting for her flip-flops. As she roots around for her shoes while tugging down her dress, she stumbles.

  Tips.

  Pitches.

  Right off my lap.

  Everything happens in a heartbeat.

  One second, she’s grinding on me. The next, she’s toppling off the side of the boat and into the lake.

  33

  Summer

  How to instantly become a social media sensation? Fall into the lake while humping your fake fiancé.

  Once I pop up from the murky depths of the lake, he’s fighting like hell not to laugh at me.

  I’m soaked, head to toe, and covered in algae or Central Park Loch Ness guts. Take your pick. Both are fetid.

  “I’m a sea monster!” I say, skimming my hand over my soaking wet and utterly disgusting hair.

  Oliver kneels on the edge of the swan boat, offering his hand as he cackles.

  “You’re evil! You’re laughing at me. You’re a terrible fake fiancé.”

  He rolls his eyes as he tugs me up by my hand. “I’m an amazing fake fiancé. Get back here, you sea monster of mine.” His tone is playful as he pulls me up out of the brackish water. I sling one foot over the edge of the white plastic boat then haul myself up the rest of the way, his hand an anchor.

  I am an ungraceful, sopping, smelly mess.

  I shove the strands of wet, tangled hair from my face.

  “I told you not to do that!”

  I jerk my gaze to the bearded man who rented us the boat.

  He’s on the shore, pointing at us, flapping his arms. “I told you the rules!”

  “Gee, thanks. I wanted to fall in the water. It was on my bucket list. Go to Central Park, ride a paddleboat, and fall in the cesspool known as this lake,” I shout back.