“Are we talking about George Clooney?” Logan asks. “Because I can tell, empirically, that George Clooney is good-looking. Beyond that, no one.”

Fitz huffs. “So you’re saying you can tell if someone is good-looking only if they’re the gender you want to sleep with? Unless it’s George Clooney? That’s the line you draw?”

“It’s called the Clooney Line,” I supply. “He’s the only guy a straight guy can tell is empirically good-looking.”

Fitz smiles, wagging an I’ve caught you finger at Logan. “You want to sleep with Clooney—admit it.”

Logan laughs, nearly spitting out his beer. “No. I don’t.”

Then to me, Fitz says, “But if you had to sleep with a dude, it’d be Clooney.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to sleep with Clooney.”

“If not Clooney, who would it be?”

I shoot him a look like he’s nuts. “Are you barking mad? I’m not going to answer that. Can you say which movie starlet you’d shag?”

He shudders. “Fair point. But I’d do Clooney for sure. I don’t mind the gray hair.”

“How open-minded of you,” I say.

“But for the record, I can tell if a woman is pretty, unlike you dickheads.” Fitz gestures to Logan. “His twin sister. Very pretty.”

And here we go again. Back to Summer. Back to picturing her blonde hair, her brown eyes, her glossy pink lips.

I. Can’t. Win.

“Thanks. She takes after me,” Logan says, then swings his gaze to me. “Speaking of my sister, dude, what the hell? Why are you two engaged?”

I shake my head. “We’re not a real thing. Also, use your library voices, arseholes. It’s a bloody fake engagement. I don’t need the whole bar knowing.”

“Whatever. It’s funny,” Logan says, swiping his screen, then swiveling it around to show us Twitter, of all things. “So, now you’re America’s Best Boyfriend. You turned that shit around in two days. Well done, my man. Well done.”

I take a small bow. “Thank you.”

Fitz taps on the picture of Summer and me. “So, tell us more about this kiss, Ollie.”

My skin goes hot. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and every detail of kissing Summer flashes before me, image after delicious image. The moment should be no different than any other moment in my life, but it keeps flipping before my eyes.

Taunting me.

Teasing me.

I drag a hand through my hair. I should not be this affected by one little fucking kiss.

One kiss.

Hell, there wasn’t even any tongue. There were no fingers in hair, no bodies aligned together, grinding and pressing . . .

Well, maybe there was a little tongue.

And maybe that little bit of tongue is what’s unleashed this dragon of lust in me.

A dragon that did not return to its lair last night.

Nope, the wine-tasting handsy action only intensified the fire.

“Excuse me,” I say, pushing back in the chair and walking away from the table, heading straight for the men’s room.

Men’s rooms are reliable erection banishers too, especially if they are shitholes.

This one is mostly tidy. I’d give it a seven on a scale of one to not-a-shithole, so that’s a small miracle, but it still helps with deflation.

Because it’s still a toilet.

I set my hands on the counter, stare in the mirror, and do something I haven’t done in ages. I listen for my sister’s advice. I try so damn hard to conjure what Phoebe would say. Ever the older sister, she loved to tell me what to do. Sometimes it’d be a scathing wardrobe indictment, like That blue shirt looks wretched with those jeans. Please go change before all the girls never date you again, and other times it’d be a backhanded compliment, like Just ask the debate teacher if you can level up, since clearly you’ve never met an issue you won’t argue.

If she were here, I’d ask her how to put a kiss or two with Summer behind me.

But when I try to guess at what she’d say, I come up empty, so I’m left to answer myself. “One kiss with your best mate. Get over it, you twat.”

A toilet flushes, and I groan. Grand, just grand. Someone’s in here. I turn on the tap to wash my hands and don’t look at the guy who comes out of the stall and heads to the sink next to mine.

After a moment he asks, “But was it a good kiss?”

It’s the guy who was crushing on Fitz. I grumble my answer into the water. “Yes.”

“Then maybe you don’t want to get over it,” he says, turns off the water, dries his hands, and walks out.

I flip him the bird as the door closes. “Thanks for that profound unsolicited advice.”

Then I stare at my reflection.

This time I don’t say a word out loud. But in my head, I repeat my new mantra.

Don’t touch her again.

Don’t touch her again.

Don’t touch her again.

I’m sure Phoebe would agree that’s the right approach.

When I return to the table, I slap my palm on it. “Let’s review paintball strategy. We need to crush the opposition.”

That reroutes the conversation with the two most competitive friends I have, and for the next thirty minutes, I am laser-focused on paintball strategy and only paintball strategy.

Logan is determined to win the league, even more so because his ex-wife’s lover works at Lehman, an investment bank his firm worked with.