My heart trips on itself, wanting to run to him and fling itself at his feet.

Must. Calm. Down.

“Good morning,” I say, all cheery and full of zest.

I’m not Summer the Sex Vixen anymore. I’m the cheery, sarcastic friend. I draw a circle in the air to encompass him, especially the hair. “I’m entering you in The Best Bed Head Ever competition. Because that all-the-strands-sticking-up look is adorable.”

I fix on a smile.

There. I sound like a sassy friend, not a lovestruck lover.

With a what can you do shrug, he drags a hand through his tousled hair, strides over to me, and drops a kiss onto my cheek. The minty scent of his breath drifts past my nostrils. He must have found my extra toothbrush and brushed his teeth when he woke up. Another point in his favor.

He lifts his face. “Morning.”

Gah.

Even the way he says Morning is making my heart do handsprings. What is wrong with me?

I straighten my spine and gesture to the coffee. “Want a cup?”

“There is only one correct answer to that question.”

I smile and pour him a mug, looking away and focusing on the role I’m playing. That role means steering the ship of us back into Buddy Harbor.

“So,” I begin, drawing a deep breath. “The verdict is in.” I spin around and hand him his coffee.

He arches a brow in question. “It is?”

I nod fiercely, making a big deal of this moment. Because friendships cannot be jeopardized with things like epic, earth-shattering, soul-searing sex.

“Good-looking men are not selfish lovers. Law abolished.” I make a big sweeping gesture with my free hand, like I’m striking down a statute.

He blinks, his brow furrowing. He takes a drink of his coffee, the crease in his forehead still present. “Oh, right,” he says. Then his expression shifts, like he’s clearing something up in his head. When he looks at me, he flashes that fabulous, famous smile—the one that melts hearts and panties, and might very well be doing a number on both those things of mine right now.

Damn him for being so damn pretty.

And kind.

And funny.

And caring.

Because that was what I saw last night. For all his cocksure charm, all his jokes about sizes, he’s the same guy in bed that he is out of it.

A good man.

He blows out a long stream of air, like he’s relieved too. “Glad to hear that. That law. Super important to strike it down.”

“Right?” I force out a laugh. “I couldn’t have Stella bad-mouthing your abilities. I had to know for sure, though, since she wouldn’t take my word for it.”

“Right, right,” he says, nodding as he drinks again. “Wouldn’t want that.” His voice tightens, goes a little crisper. “Maybe it’s time to let Twitter know too. I’m sure they’d be delighted to learn that I’m not only a spectacular kisser, but that I’m great in bed as well.”

My brow knits. Is he mad?

He sets the cup on the table and turns to head for the bedroom. In my alarm and confusion, I grab his arm. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it.”

He laughs, but it sounds bitter. “Nor did I. Hell, it’s great news. Let’s host a parade. Let’s tell everyone that the guy you all thought would be rubbish in the sack is a stellar shag.”

“Oliver,” I say, turning desperate. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not posting anything on Twitter. I was just . . .”

I was just covering up how I feel for you.

He waves a hand. “Whatever. It’s fine. I love being judged for completely unimportant shit.”

He doesn’t add like how I look, because that would be cocky.

And right now, he’s not cocky.

But he has been judged—unfairly—and that’s partly my fault.

I don’t let go of his arm, squeezing tightly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to judge you. I think you’re amazing. As a person, as a friend, as a . . .” I flap my hand in the direction of the bedroom.

A small smile plays on his lips. “Thanks.”

“And I would never say something online about . . .” I don’t finish that sentence either—how good you are in bed. That seems trivial, and this moment feels bigger, more important.

So I do the thing I ought to do—apologize again. “I’m sorry for judging you on your looks. You’re gorgeous, and I maybe assumed something that was stupid to assume.”

He laughs, and it sounds self-deprecating. “I sound like a total arse now. It’s all good. We’re good, I swear. I didn’t mean to get cranky.” He takes a beat. “But would you tell Stella your grade for me?”

The question comes out almost sheepish, like he’s embarrassed to ask.

I want to tell him the truth. That I would tell Stella as my friend. That I would tell her because she’s the only person to see through this facade of mine. Because she knows how I feel for Oliver.

Oh, how I want to find her, flop onto a couch, clutch my heart, and say it was amazing because it was him.

But I can’t, and I won’t.

“No,” I say. “It’s private.”

He shakes his head, like he’s clearing it. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said any of that about judgments and whatnot. I didn’t mean anything bad by it.”

I let go of his arm. “I didn’t mean to make it seem like it was only about that, Oliver. I didn’t sleep with you to test her theory.”

“You didn’t?” For a second, it sounds like he’s holding something precious in his hands, like a hummingbird, like hope.

I square my shoulders. “No. It wasn’t about a law.”