With those eyes, that face, and that accent, what are the chances? Women flock to him, especially since he’s on all those most-bangable-in-the-city lists. Several years ago, he went to a few galas and premieres with a TV actress, shooting him straight onto the seen-on-the-arm-of pages of the gossip rags. Since then, he’s been spotted with plenty of well-known women, and, come to think of it, he’s not even on the apps.

Hmm. Maybe he doesn’t have to work for it. I bet they line up at his door. Send him perfumed panties in the mail. Leave keys for their hotels at his reception desk.

My shoulders sag. I bet Oliver’s terrible in the sack.

Dreadful.

I bet he kisses like a bore, bangs like a jackhammer, and licks like he’s painting a house.

Then I berate myself for thinking about Oliver’s prowess or lack thereof. Who cares if Chantal the heiress, or Dardania the TV lawyer, or Angelique the model ring him up for dates? Who cares if he takes women to O-town or not? That has no bearing on our friendship.

And that’s what we are. I’ve known the man since we were fourteen, when my mom drove him, Logan, and me to school nearly every day.

I’ve known him since his sister and I helped the boys plan their prom-posals.

I’ve known him since that night a few years ago, when Logan, Stella, Henry, and Oliver took me out for a night on the town to celebrate my recent and nasty breakup. When Douchey Ex himself waltzed into the bar and sauntered over to me, and Oliver pretended to be my new boyfriend.

Draping an arm around me.

Dropping a kiss onto my cheek.

Playing with my hair.

Making me momentarily believe he was.

But that’s just what friends do—help each other out in a pinch.

I push those thoughts out of my mind as I reach Melt My Heart. When I open the door, Oliver stands and flashes me that familiar grin—one that sends an inappropriate tingle across my chest.

I’ve got my own theories, laws, and rules too, and mine start and end with—ignore that inappropriate tingle.

I’ve done it most of my life.

5SUMMER

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 . . .?”