“Along with claiming any idea of yours is ‘fair game.’ Also, inviting an ex to your wedding should be in the guidebook.”
“That’s in the How to Be a Total Arse handbook.”
“Ah, but of course. Why did I take a job at this company?”
“You’re a glutton for punishment, clearly.”
“I know, and now I have to go to this wedding, says the rule book for being the bigger person compared to my douchey ex. What am I supposed to do?”
The answer was so simple I barely thought about it. There was one way to survive a black bear attack—make yourself look gigantic. I could help her in that department.
“I’ll go with you,” I said.
“You will?” Her voice lightened immediately. Gone was the anger. In its place was something else . . . amusement perhaps.
“I’ll be your pretend boyfriend,” I offered. It seemed like the ideal solution.
My normally confident, outgoing friend was quiet for a beat. “Like we’ve done before?”
“Exactly. Unless you don’t want me to, in which case I will spend the time showing my hapless cousin how to fix a flat tire, because I’ll wager he can’t do that without my help.” I looked over to tell Jason, “You do know law school teaches students how to fix flat tires?”
“Exactly what law school did you go to?” he asked, rolling his eyes.
Summer laughed—a warm, happy sound that made me certain playing her beau for the night was the right choice. “So it’s between helping me and fixing a flat tire with Jason?”
“Yes, but you’re far more interesting than working on a car, I assure you.” I returned to the music, absently strumming The Beatles again.
“What is that sound? Is there a cockatoo strangling a trumpet near you?” she asked.
My shoulders sagged. “I’m playing the guitar. And I swear, you and my cousin are in cahoots. Did you go to the same school of insult metaphors? Now, would you like me to go with you, and we can show this asshat at the office that, one, it’s rude to invite an ex to a wedding, and, two, if you are such a twit that you do invite an ex, you are going to be shown up by a much sexier, much more handsome new beau?” I paused for dramatic effect. “Me.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you have a ginormous—”
“Yes, of course. All the time.”
“Ego, Oliver. Ego.”
“If you mean ‘ego’ as a euphemism for the crown jewels, then also yes.”
“You’re incorrigible,” she said, but she was laughing again, happy again. And that was what I wanted from Summer. After all, she’d been one half of the reason I didn’t spiral into depression during high school. She’d done everything she could to keep my spirits up during the darkest days of my life. This was the least I could do for her.
“That’s better than being corrigible, isn’t it? Tell me when to pick you up.”
She gave me the details, and when I hung up, Jason stared at me, lips twitching, eyebrows arching. “So, it’s the old pretend-boyfriend ruse, is it?”
“Why, yes, it is.”
“You know what they say about that.”
I strummed another chord. “No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”
But he simply laughed rather than answering, and I didn’t give his comments a second thought.
After all, being Summer’s pretend boyfriend had always been easy.
On a Sunday evening two weeks later, I knocked on the door to Summer’s apartment. As it opened, I said, “All right, sexy fake girlfriend, get on my arm and let’s show you off like the—”
My jaw dropped.
Possibly literally.
Definitely figuratively.
Because holy fuck.
Summer was a fox.
She wore some kind of dress. Some kind of fabric. Who the hell knew what any of it was except light blue and delectable.
She looked nothing like the girl I’d known most of my life, yet everything like her too.
She was sex appeal and sweetness all wrapped up in one delicious package.
“Like the what?” she asked, curious. “Show me off like the what?”
My throat was dry, but I managed to speak through the desert. “Let’s show you off like you’re the thing he most regrets.”
