Almost.

When I hang up, I call Summer and tell her to meet me straightaway. Then I leave, telling Jane I’ll be back soon.

“Don’t forget you have a one o’clock with Hanover Media,” she tells me. “Prospective new client. Helen Williams Designs referred them, since she loved your work so much on the last deal.”

“And I love word of mouth.” Word of mouth is exactly why I need to stop this shitshow from snowballing.

Loosening my tie as I go, I head to Fifth Avenue, walk up a few blocks, texting my cousin in Paris as I go.

Oliver: Remember that time you engineered a marriage of convenience to save your company?

Christian: Hmm. Sounds a bit familiar. Care to elaborate?

Oliver: It worked brilliantly, right?

Christian: What sort of hot water have you gotten yourself into, cuz?

I stare at the text thread. Yeah, this might not be helpful right now.

Oliver: I’ll update you later.

Christian: Spare no details. I need a good laugh.

Yes, a laugh. This is funny. This is something we’ll all look back on and laugh. Putting my phone away, I find Summer outside the entrance to the park, waiting at a bench and wringing her hands.

She looks devastated, her big brown eyes brimming with worry. “I am so sorry. I am the worst friend ever. I never thought that would happen. Those people are dickheads.”

“Yes, and Twitter is the biggest dickhead of all.” I’m not in the business of holding grudges or staying pissed. There’s no point. Besides, I’m about to call in a big favor now. “But I knew what you meant. I know what you were trying to say.”

“You do?” she asks, and her voice is small, fearful. “You’re not pissed at me?”

I hold up my thumb and forefinger, showing a sliver of space. “Maybe a little at first. But not for long.”

“Oh, Oliver. I feel terrible,” she says, her brow knit with worry. “I thought it was a nice little way of saying thank you, but in a way where only you would know it was you.” She presses her palms together as if in prayer. “Tell me how I can help. I meant it when I said I’d do anything.”

I shoot her a wry grin, take a beat, then call in a your-turn-to-scratch-my-back. “Here’s what I need for the next three weeks.”

“Anything. Please. I’m dying to make this right.” The look in those puppy-dog eyes is a desperate plea. I sort of hate that she feels that way, but sort of not.

Because it’s going to make my outlandish request much easier.

“Good,” I say, with what I’m sure is a slightly evil grin. “Because I’m cashing in on the prom promise. Your sexy ex-boyfriend is about to become your fake fiancé.”

14SUMMER

Thirteen years ago

We huddled in the teen cave, the sprawling basement of Oliver’s home, music blasting, hands dipping into the popcorn bowl as the four of us plotted—Logan, Oliver, Phoebe, and me.

The mission? Prom-posals for my twin brother and the guy next door.

We’d already mapped out a plan for Logan to ask the foreign exchange student in his history class.

Now it was time to assist Oliver in asking Emily.

As for me? I planned to go with my friends, a big group of girls in pretty dresses and sparkly shoes, dancing with each other.

“How about I ask Emily when she goes for her run in the morning?” Oliver suggested, grabbing a handful of popcorn and munching.

Logan pointed his finger approvingly as he grabbed some kernels then headed to the Ping-Pong table. “Dude. Yes. You just get some Sharpies, write it on a sign, and boom. In like Flynn.”

I scoff-laughed. “I don’t think it’s that easy.”

From her spot in the corner of the couch, Phoebe shot her younger brother a look that said he was a dolt. It was a look she’d perfected with him. “Promise me you’re not going to do that, Ollie. Just promise me.”

Oliver turned to his sister, now nineteen. It was one of her good days. They were fewer and farther between, but she tried to embrace them when they came.

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.