“I didn’t see it at first, so I was a tad surprised when Jane alerted me to the things people were saying.”
“Ah, Jane. Looks innocent on the outside, loves gossip on the inside,” I say.
“That describes her to a T. Though it’s a useful trait in an aunt who runs the reception desk. In any case, she tipped me off, showed me the comments, then Geneva rang.” As we wander through the park, he goes into how his key new client reacted.
“And that’s when I realized, I had to cash in on the prom promise,” he continues. “But we should probably get our story straight. Like, how this happened, and so on.”
I tap my chest. “I’ve got this. You’ve come to the Queen of Brilliant Schemes. I’m thinking we keep it easy—we say we’ve known each other for ages, and—”
He snaps his fingers. “You fell for me when you saw me get out of the pool. Couldn’t keep your hands off me, and we’ve been shagging like bunnies every night since.”
I blink. “Whoa.”
My mind is a carousel now. The merry-go-round of my brain whirls past an arousing array of images of Oliver unable to keep his hands off me.
Because, hey, this is my inconvenient fantasy, and in it, he can’t get enough of me.
But there is one little issue nagging at me, back where I can hear Stella’s voice in my head. “So, that’s how it happened? Your fake fiancée backstory starts with shagging?”
He scratches his head. “Yeah. I mean, how else would it start?” The corner of his lips curves up into the cheekiest of grins as we near the carousel.
Carnival music floats out from the ride, a nostalgic sound that reminds me of our times traipsing through the park on weekend escapes into the city. I told Oliver once that I planned to have my first real kiss in front of the carousel. And now we’re talking about banging.
“Right. Naturally, it started with sex,” I say, deadpan, and I’m thinking Stella is right. Good-looking men have no clue.
Women fall at their feet.
“Precisely. A very stellar shag,” he adds.
Naturally, Oliver would assume I caught one look at his banana hammock at the pool and had to get his man meat between my thighs.
God damn it.
Why does Stella have to be a soothsayer?
Oliver is surely awful in bed.
I raise a palm as we near the pretty ponies. “Or, hear me out, we could keep the bedroom part private and maybe just say something generic, like After years of friendship, we realized the one we wanted was right in front of us.”
He snorts. “Boring.”
“Seriously? That’s boring? It’s kind of sweet.”
“Nope. It’s dull. After years of friendship, we can’t just have a light bulb moment. We need fireworks.” He mimes an explosion with both arms. “A parade. A twenty-one-gun salute in honor of our hormones finally getting on the same page,” he says.
“Fine, yes. That could work. Or maybe,” I say, as if offering an outlandish idea, “how would you feel if it wasn’t about hormones? If maybe it was about—gasp— feelings?”
He sighs dramatically. “Only if we can still have fireworks. Don’t you get me, Summer?” He grabs my shoulders, gripping me. “We need the story of our fireworks.”
Fireworks. The thing we will never have because the Law of Good-Looking equals bad in bed is as inescapable as E equals MC squared.
This entire conversation is pretty much confirmation.
“Fine.” I wave a hand airily, searching for a tale that’ll satisfy him. “Let’s say one night while you were helping me plan the gym, I went over to review paperwork, we got stuck in the elevator, and all our pent-up truths came out.”
“Elevator, you say? Can we have shagged in it?”
I slug him. “Yes, you sex-obsessed pervert. You are America’s Worst Boyfriend.” I laugh, and he grabs me, putting me in a chokehold.
“Say you don’t mean it. Say I’m the best. Say no one is better than me.”
It’s like being tickled, and I’m laughing and snorting at the same damn time when a throat clears.
And a voice I don’t recognize cuts in—fast, excited. “Excuse me. This may be crazy, but it’s probably not, because I’m pretty sure I’m right. Aren’t you America’s Worst Boyfriend?”
Oliver groans.
We both turn to face some random person, a guy a few years younger than us with dark hair and a trim frame. He’s waggling his phone at us, showing his Twitter feed. A satisfied grin lights his face. “Yes! I thought it was you. I was so sure, and now I know it is. I’m Noah. I’m doing this crazy scavenger hunt for my company, and we have to get ten items. One is a pic of a real-life internet celebrity. We hashtag the pic, and everyone shares it. Can I take your pic? It would probably get my team into first, and if we win, our company will donate to the charity we chose, and I picked pediatric cancer research.”
While the guy catches his breath, a flash of sadness crosses Oliver’s eyes, and that’s when an idea sticks in my mind.
The next brilliant scheme.
This will solve the hairiest, thorniest issue of all. And it’ll even do some good, it seems.
I drape an arm around my best friend, then meet Noah’s gaze. “You can take his picture, but his nickname isn’t America’s Worst Boyfriend. It’s America’s Best Boyfriend.” I squeeze Oliver’s shoulder like a girlfriend would do, then shoot him a hearts are aflutter in my eyes look. “And I know that because I wrote the essay and this man is my fiancé.”
“Sweet! Even better. It’s like I can break the story. I always wanted to be a journalist. Well, after being an Olympic superstar. That was my first goal. But this—this’ll work.”
