I gasp.

He breaks the kiss.

I’m not a fainter. But I’m about to tumble to the ground in a puddle of turned-on woman. He clasps my elbow, and I steady myself.

Oliver’s gaze stays on me, his green eyes growing darker, glittering with something new, something that looks distinctly like the start of a fire.

Like desire.

Like want.

And that—that look—sends a whole new rush of sensations through me.

Hot, wild, electric ones that threaten to consume my common sense, tenuous as it is right now.

The man behind the phone camera emits a low wolf whistle. “Hot damn. I think I’m going to enter that on a Tumblr feed of hottest kisses spotted in the wild. Or really, I bet my friend Ginny will. She’s into that sort of thing. She’ll dig it.”

“Glad to be of help,” Oliver says, his voice smoky.

I’ve never heard it like that before.

But I want to hear it like that again.

And that’s a problem.

The man leaves, and I turn to Oliver, trying to wrestle some semblance of control over my thoughts, when I remember—I’m due at work.

“I need to go.” I point in the general direction of Sunshine Living as explanation.

He drags a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath, like he’s centering himself.

“I’ll . . .” he stops, like he isn’t sure what to say, “see you later,” he says distractedly, and when he leaves too, I try not to glance back.

I swear I do.

But when I sneak one last peek, I see Oliver doing the same at me.

And when I reach the other side of the park, I’m still replaying that kiss.

17OLIVER

Evidently, one kiss does the trick.

Geneva sends me an email that night.

I’m so sorry again about earlier and my mistaken assumptions. I just stumbled across the photo of you and your fiancée in the park. How utterly delightful! You’re the toast of the town. See you tomorrow at wine o’clock!

I fire off a quick reply, thanking her, then segue to business, updating her on the deal and confirming we’ll be at the tasting.

Jane is next, sending me a text.

Jane: How dare you not tell me you’re betrothed? You naughty boy. Also, I expect all the salacious details tomorrow. :)

Jane: Wait. Not the salacious ones. Just the juicy little nuggets of how you found yourself in this pickle.

Jane: P.S. How long must we keep this ruse up? It is a ruse, no?

Oliver: Yes. Ruse. But you didn’t hear that from me.

Jane: I’ll be in early tomorrow for a full and proper download.

I sink down on my couch with my Chinese takeaway for dinner, put on my online hazmat suit—aka my I don’t give a fuck armor—and dive into the deep end.

I click on the hashtag “America’s Best Boyfriend” as I eat.

Well, well, well, look at that. That turnaround didn’t take long.

Apparently, I’m not such a knob after all. The internet loves me again.

@LovesListsofMen: SAD!!! All the good ones are taken! Do you think she runs her hands through his Harry Styles hair?

@ManCandyFan: If she doesn’t, I volunteer as tribute. But she totally does.

@GossipLover1andOnly: Among other places where she runs her hands.

@ManCandyFan: Arms. I bet he has good arms. Sigh. I love good arm candy.

I check out the guns. Not too shabby. Why, yes, ManCandyFan, feel free to enjoy the arms.

@RoyalWatcher: Did we ever figure out if he’s royal? He looks like a duke. Or an earl. That lady is lucky to snag an earl.

@Anglophile2200: I’d take a viscount.

@BritsDoItBest: I’d take the valet of a viscount if he could speak British to me.

@Anglophile2200: British is not a language, you twit.

@BritsDoItBest: Gee, thanks for horning in on my fantasy life.

@Anglophile2200: Maybe keep it off Twitter?

@BritsDoItBest: Maybe you should keep off Twitter. Maybe you’re America’s Worst Boyfriend.

@RomanceFanForLife: Can we please focus on the most important thing? How cute they are? That letter was like a love letter to him. It was her way of telling him how much she loves him.

I scoff at that last one. Oh, you are so very wrong, RomanceFanForLife. But who cares, because I righted this ship, and that’s all that matters.

That kiss barely matters.