That was simply a smooch for the camera.

I’m not thinking about how it turned me on wildly. Definitely not contemplating how I touched her face, dragged her close, and brought her in for a hot, searing moment of passion.

If not for the guy on the scavenger hunt, I would have pushed her up against a carousel horse and continued for hours rather than seconds, kissing the breath out of her to the calliope music soundtrack until we were panting, groaning, putting on a show.

And see? That didn’t happen.

So it’s all good.

The plan is working, and Geneva doesn’t think I’m a callous arse.

I take another bite of the pepper steak, then fire off a text to Summer, sending her a link to the new hashtag.

Oliver: It worked. We are tops at faking it.

Summer: Well, I’ve been pretending to tolerate you for seventeen years, so this is easy enough.

Oliver: Absolutely. It’s been the same for me. It’s not easy, since you’re a terrible bore.

Summer: And you’re a humorless nitwit. :)

Oliver: And we have zero to say to each other.

Summer: Nothing but dead air when we’re together.

Oliver: Amazing that we’ve pulled off this friendship for so long when we can’t stand each other.

Summer: And no one can tell. They actually think we like each other. As if.

I laugh as I take another bite of my dinner. This is an excellent way to handle a kiss that didn’t feel like we hated each other whatsoever. That felt a little pent-up. Fine, a lot pent-up.

But whatever.

It was just a kiss for the hashtag.

The sighs, the gasps, the little murmurs were just by-products. If there was more to the kiss than damage control, we wouldn’t be joking so well, getting on like we’ve always done.

Summer: Little do they know we are experts at this ruse. Heck, we could enter a contest for most believable fake fiancée kissing. Oh, speaking of contests, I have news!

Oliver: I’m all ears. Digital ears. But ears nonetheless.

I reread my last note. I might sound like I’m trying too hard at friendship. But hell, we are friends. It’s not trying. It just . . . is.

I truly want to know her news.

Summer: The magazine just informed me I won the prize for the essay!

I pump a fist, thrilled for her.

Oliver: That’s brilliant!!! You deserve it! Everything is coming up aces.

Summer: Crazy, right? It’s $5000!

Oliver: Is it enough for the final funding for your gym, with the classes and whatnot?

Summer: Not quite, but it sure does make the shortfall a little easier to manage.

As I’m typing out a reply, a new post from Twitter pops up under the hashtag thread, with a series of replies too.

@MenAreJerks: I bet he’s still a douche.

@PeopleAreJerks: He looks like he’s a good kisser. Therefore, a douche.

@ILoveJerks: Jerks are the best kissers.

I take a screenshot and send it to Summer.

Oliver: Ah, Twitter still thinks I’m a jackass. C’est la vie.

She seems to take her time answering. The dots pop up, indicating she’s typing, but they stop every few seconds, making me curious.

What are you trying to say, Summer?

Hell, I’m dying to know.

And then, finally, she sends something, but not to me.

There’s a new post on the social media feed, in a reply to ILoveJerks.

@SummerTime: I don’t know if jerks are the best kissers. I do know that Oliver is.

And there goes my fucking resolve not to think about kissing her.

My brain can go fuck itself.

18OLIVER

“This tastes like blackberries and a fireplace on a cold winter’s night.”

The declaration comes from Geneva the next night at the wine tasting in Soho.

She holds the glass of merlot up high, sniffs it again, then takes another sip. “With a hint of . . . leather.”

“The finest leather,” Jane seconds from her post next to Geneva.

My client turns to Summer, who’s by my side looking elegant in a black dress that, if it were up to me, would plunge lower. But the V-thing it’s got going on works its powers of distraction nevertheless.

Geneva reaches for a fresh glass from a nearby table and thrusts it at my date. “What do you think, Summer? I’d love your opinion.”