Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend (The Guys Who Got Away Book 1) Page 8

  We all did. She’d been fighting cancer since the family moved from England a few years ago so she could undergo an experimental treatment at a nearby hospital. It had worked . . .

  For a while.

  “Why not? Emily likes to run. She’s captain of the cross-country team. It seems perfect for a prom-posal,” Oliver said, being all boy-logical as he rose to join Logan at the table.

  But boy logic didn’t always sway teenage girls.

  Phoebe turned to me. The look in her crystal blue eyes said, Boys. You can’t train them to do anything. “What are we supposed to do with him, Summer? He’s hopeless. Utterly hopeless.”

  “It’s a condition of being male,” I agreed dryly.

  Oliver lifted his chin, standing his ground. “I think it’s brilliant.”

  “You would,” Phoebe said, reaching for some popcorn and tossing it at her brother. The kernels landed a few feet from Oliver. Her strength was waning.

  He bent to pick them up, but their corgi mix, Gloria, raised her snout from the floor and gamely trotted over to hoover up the spill as Logan served the white ball across the table.

  Oliver darted up in time to smack it back, and the rhythmic sound of the plastic ball hitting the table punctuated our romantic war room machinations.

  “Anyway,” Phoebe added in her best arch I’m your older sister and I know better voice, “I would strongly suggest something a bit more creative. Right, Summer?”

  “Perhaps balloons spelling out PROM,” I offered. “Or get a T-shirt for Gloria to wear with Will you go to prom with my person? written on it.”

  “Excellent idea. Dogs are perfect wingmen. Or wingwomen, in Gloria’s case. Another option is to rent the marquee at the local cinema and put a sign up there asking her.”

  Logan slammed a ball across the table. “No way. That’s megabucks. We don’t even know if Emily likes him.”

  Phoebe stroked her chin, brow furrowed. “Fair point. It’s hard to imagine anyone would, truly.”

  I held up a hand to high-five her.

  “You’re a little stinker,” Oliver said to her as he backhanded a ball. “But I’ve no doubt she’s into me. She has excellent taste.”

  “Then I bet she’ll go for that bloke who looks like Jude Law,” Phoebe offered.

  My gaze snapped in her direction. “You mean Colton Davis? The guy who plays guitar? Senior? He’s yummy.”

  “So yummy,” Phoebe said dreamily. It was the first thing that had come out of her mouth that afternoon that wasn’t laced with sarcasm or sass.

  Logan missed the shot, Oliver lowered his paddle, and I simply stared at her. Phoebe rarely talked about boys. With a determined look, Oliver walked over to his sister, sat next to her, and took her hand. “Do you want to go with him? We could ask him to go with you.”

  The sound that emanated from Phoebe was the most derisive snort to emanate from any person ever.

  “No!”

  Instinctively, I turned to the door, looking for Oliver’s parents to come running to see if she’d fallen, to see if she was okay. But she was more than fine, and they were out, their dad at work, their mom running to the pharmacy to pick up meds for Phoebe.

  She jerked her hand away from Oliver and pointed a stern finger at him. “Do not ever do that. Do not do something because you feel sorry for me. I mean it. I don’t want to get dressed up. I don’t want to wear stupid makeup, and I definitely don’t want to wear a hideous fucking wig. No, thank you. I’d rather stay home with Gloria than have everyone stare at me because I finally got to go to prom.” For a second, her voice trembled, but she swallowed and raised her chin. “Besides,” she said, collecting herself, a twinkle in her eyes, “I’d rather help Summer get ready, do her hair, and snap the photos when she has to take you as a pity date after Emily turns you down.”

  Her smile was slow to spread, mischievous and thoroughly Machiavellian.

  Logan mimed shooting a slam dunk. “Ohhh! You’ve just been burned.”

  We all laughed. Phoebe was still Phoebe—always finding ways to poke fun at her little brother.

  I joined in the laughter, knowing full well Phoebe’s prediction would never come true.

  Emily would say yes, Oliver would take her to prom, and I’d go with . . . well, a group of friends.

  Which would be fine.

  I liked my girlfriends.

  I didn’t have a crush on the handsome British boy next door.

  I didn’t long for my brother’s best friend.

  For my good friend.

  Not at all.

  At least, not very much most of the time.

  But enough, apparently, that butterflies flickered through my chest two days later when Oliver pulled me aside after fifth-period calculus, scratched his jaw, and said, “Listen. Turns out Emily’s involved. Dating some wanker in community college who’s taking her to prom.”

  “He’s definitely a wanker if he’s dating a high school student,” I said, quickly concurring. “What kind of college student dates a high schooler?”

  “The wanker kind.” His grin faded, his expression turning serious. “But I was thinking about what Phoebe said.”

  “Which part?” I asked, ever so casually, as if the details of the prom planning weren’t seared into my brain.

  “The part where she mentioned you getting ready. I think she really wants to help you get ready. Do the whole girly thing. And look, I know it’s not your thing. I know you’re more into sports and Phoebe was always more of the frilly one, but would you want to?”

  My heart sped up, beating a wildly fast rhythm. That was weird. Why would my heart trip over itself? I didn’t like Oliver like that. I truly didn’t. Fine, now and then I’d entertain little crush-like thoughts, but that was it, that was all.

  But I wanted to be sure I understood. “Would I want to go to prom?”

  “Would you be my pity date?” His lips curved into a grin as he repeated Phoebe’s words.

  “You make it sound so appealing,” I teased, but we both knew what the date was about.

  It wasn’t about us. It wasn’t about this skip in my heart.

  It was about Oliver giving something to his sister that she’d never ask him to give. Something small that he could do if I said yes.

  Of course I said yes. I didn’t say it for me, though, in spite of those butterflies.

  I said it for him and, most of all, for her.

  A few weeks later, Phoebe did her best to help me with my hair, flat ironing it until she was too tired to hold the iron.

  She applied my blush, then regarded me with the intense stare of a reality show judge. “You look smashing,” she declared, appraising my simple blue dress. No frills, no satin, no lace.

  “She does,” Oliver seconded, shooting me a smile that warmed me all over.

  Was the smile for her? Or was the smile for me?

  I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. Phoebe mattered.

  Oliver gave his sister a hug at the door, and Phoebe said, “That Emily doesn’t know what she’s missing, Ollie.”

  He simply laughed, soft and light. “I told you not to call me that.”

  “Oh, you love it,” she said, waving a hand dismissively.

  “No. I don’t at all,” he said, but his grin gave him away.

  “Then grumble every time someone calls you that, just like you do with me. It’ll be your way of remembering me when I’m gone.”

  His smile disappeared. His eyes narrowed. “Oh, shut up now.”

  “Just do it,” she said, and she wasn’t mad. She was simply . . . Phoebe.

  Especially when she turned to me and said, “Summer, call him Ollie now and then to get a rise out of him. Do that for me, okay?”

  Laughing, I gave her my oath. “I solemnly swear to call him Ollie every now and then.”

  “You’re a gem,” she told me.

  “And you’re a little stinker,” Oliver told her.

  She preened. “I know.”

  “So stop t
alking about when you’ll be gone,” he said, a hitch in his voice.

  “It’s the truth. I’m used to it. I’m fine with it.”

  “I’m not,” he said fiercely, then dropped a kiss onto her forehead and wished her a good night.

  As we left, he seemed to collect himself, to shift away from that tug I was sure he felt in his heart, that wish that things were different.

  “I love Phoebe,” I blurted when we slid into the limo, just the two of us.

  He offered a sad smile. “Join the club.”

  “It is not fair,” I said, my lip quivering, but I swallowed the threatening tears. It was his hurt, his pending loss. I didn’t want to co-opt it.

  “I know. Some days that’s all I think about.”

  “I wish everything were different,” I said, my voice catching once more.

  “You have no idea how much I want that. How much I hope for . . .”

  “For a miracle.”

  Glancing out the window, he nodded, swallowing tightly and swiping a finger across his face before looking back at me with a helpless shrug. “I’ll miss her so much,” he whispered.

  I set my hand on his, squeezing. “I’ll be here for you.”

  He pressed his shoulder against mine. “I know.”

  “Always. I promise.”

  “I know that too, Summer.”

  He squeezed my hand in return, and that contact was like a seal on our friendship. A promise that we’d look out for each other. That we’d have each other’s backs.

  We had a blast at prom, dancing, drinking punch, laughing, and hanging out with friends.

  Later, we lounged in our chairs at our table, watching the disco ball swirl its squares of light on the floor as others swayed and we talked.

  He lifted a brow in a question. “So, tell me, Summer. How was your first pity date?”

  “You’re assuming it’s my first,” I teased.

  “Oh, is this a service you offer other sorry boys?”

  “Only the sorriest.”

  “How lucky am I?”

  “Very lucky,” I said.

  “In that case, let me know if I can return the favor. Down the road, when you’re twenty-five or thirty, if you ever need a pity date, you call on me, okay?”

  I patted his knee. “You’ll be the first one I call. I promise. And same goes for you if you need my services again.”

  “It’ll be our prom promise,” he said.

  “A solemn vow,” I said, wiggling my brow and pursing my lips before I added with a smirk, “Ollie.”

  He narrowed his eyes, growling at me. “You’re evil. But even so, I doubt you’ll need to cash it in. You’ll have no problem getting dates . . .” He trailed off like he was waiting for me to say something more.

  Was I supposed to say something? Something clever or romantic?

  I didn’t know, wasn’t sure what he was getting at. Teasing him was easy. Understanding him was hard in moments like these.

  And deciphering my own tangled knot of emotions—friendship, a dash of attraction, a close family connection, and that terrible kernel of pending grief, cresting like a wave not far from the shore—was impossible. Best to not even try.

  So I simply laughed and said, “You’ll have no problem either, Emilys of the world aside.”

  The odd thing was that Emily didn’t go to the dance. She wasn’t there with her wanker boyfriend.

  The next week, I overheard her in the cafeteria line talking to a friend as she scooped salad onto her tray. “It’s strange,” she said. “I was so sure Oliver Harris was going to ask me to prom. He never did.”

  I blinked, my face flushing as she unwittingly revealed his secret to me.

  He’d never asked her.

  I never let on that I knew he hadn’t.

  It didn’t really matter anyway.

  I was his pity date, and Phoebe was the happiest we’d seen her in a long time.

  15

  Summer

  Present day

  All day long, all the time, all across the world people say, “I’ll do anything.”

  But it’s just a saying, like “I’m dying to see your dress” or “This song is the worst.”

  So when Oliver takes me up on my offer to do anything, my jaw comes unhinged. My brain buzzes with static, a radio stuck between stations.

  Did he just say “become your fake fiancé”?

  That’s the anything?

  Cashing in on our prom promise? Isn’t that what we’ve always done? First with Emily, and later with Drew the third and his pens, with Hazel and her tea, and with all the other douche exes we’ve both had.

  But not for three weeks.

  More like for a few minutes, an hour, a night.

  And now we’re making believe for twenty-one long days. I should be dreading it, like a twenty-one-day paprika-infused juice cleanse.

  When someone cashes in a voucher for a debt you owe, it’s not supposed to be enjoyable.

  But being Oliver’s pretend fiancée doesn’t sound that bad.

  It sounds weirdly sort of fun, when he explains why he needs one.

  Like being immersed in a great romance novel.

  Hell, maybe, just maybe, a touch of pretend will eradicate those occasionally pesky tingles from my body. Satisfy a craving or my curiosity perhaps.

  I confirm I heard him right. “So, let me get this straight. I wrote a letter for a contest extolling your virtues as an ex, the internet misinterpreted it, your client freaked out, and your solution is for us to pretend we’re engaged?”

  He quirks up an I’m so clever brow. “Brilliant, right?”

  I laugh. “That’s one word for it.” I shake my head, but I’m already in, and we know it. “A deal is a deal, and no prom promise shall be reneged on. So we better lay out the rules.”

  His eyes twinkle with delight, and maybe relief too. “We should. Rules are good, right?”

  “Rules are vital for any game people play.”

  As if we’d planned it, we both gesture to the park as if to say, Let’s walk and talk. There’s no need to say it. It’s one of the things we do, and the park is my favorite place in the city.

  We used to hop the train in from Connecticut and do teen things, and we usually ended up in the park eventually.

  Heading into the park, we roll up our fake fiancée planning sleeves. “So, how did this happen? Well, besides the obvious. My letter. I’m sorry for it,” I say, and I feel like I’ll be apologizing for this for the rest of my life.

  “Don’t. It was quite sweet.” His tone is neutral, though, and I can’t tell what he means. “Even if it was nearly deadly to my business.”

  I cringe. “So what happened?”

  “I didn’t see it at first, so I was a tad surprised when Jane alerted me to the things people were saying.”

  “Ah, Jane. Looks innocent on the outside, loves gossip on the inside,” I say.

  “That describes her to a T. Though it’s a useful trait in an aunt who runs the reception desk. In any case, she tipped me off, showed me the comments, then Geneva rang.” As we wander through the park, he goes into how his key new client reacted.

  “And that’s when I realized, I had to cash in on the prom promise,” he continues. “But we should probably get our story straight. Like, how this happened, and so on.”

  I tap my chest. “I’ve got this. You’ve come to the Queen of Brilliant Schemes. I’m thinking we keep it easy—we say we’ve known each other for ages, and—”

  He snaps his fingers. “You fell for me when you saw me get out of the pool. Couldn’t keep your hands off me, and we’ve been shagging like bunnies every night since.”

  I blink. “Whoa.”

  My mind is a carousel now. The merry-go-round of my brain whirls past an arousing array of images of Oliver unable to keep his hands off me.

  Because, hey, this is my inconvenient fantasy, and in it, he can’t get enough of me.

  But there is one little issue nagging at me, bac
k where I can hear Stella’s voice in my head. “So, that’s how it happened? Your fake fiancée backstory starts with shagging?”

  He scratches his head. “Yeah. I mean, how else would it start?” The corner of his lips curves up into the cheekiest of grins as we near the carousel.

  Carnival music floats out from the ride, a nostalgic sound that reminds me of our times traipsing through the park on weekend escapes into the city. I told Oliver once that I planned to have my first real kiss in front of the carousel. And now we’re talking about banging.

  “Right. Naturally, it started with sex,” I say, deadpan, and I’m thinking Stella is right. Good-looking men have no clue.

  Women fall at their feet.

  “Precisely. A very stellar shag,” he adds.

  Naturally, Oliver would assume I caught one look at his banana hammock at the pool and had to get his man meat between my thighs.

  God damn it.

  Why does Stella have to be a soothsayer?

  Oliver is surely awful in bed.

  I raise a palm as we near the pretty ponies. “Or, hear me out, we could keep the bedroom part private and maybe just say something generic, like After years of friendship, we realized the one we wanted was right in front of us.”

  He snorts. “Boring.”

  “Seriously? That’s boring? It’s kind of sweet.”

  “Nope. It’s dull. After years of friendship, we can’t just have a light bulb moment. We need fireworks.” He mimes an explosion with both arms. “A parade. A twenty-one-gun salute in honor of our hormones finally getting on the same page,” he says.

  “Fine, yes. That could work. Or maybe,” I say, as if offering an outlandish idea, “how would you feel if it wasn’t about hormones? If maybe it was about—gasp— feelings?”

  He sighs dramatically. “Only if we can still have fireworks. Don’t you get me, Summer?” He grabs my shoulders, gripping me. “We need the story of our fireworks.”

  Fireworks. The thing we will never have because the Law of Good-Looking equals bad in bed is as inescapable as E equals MC squared.