@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.”
Summer shakes her head. “I’m honestly not a wine person.”
Geneva frowns. “Oh? I thought Oliver said you liked wine?”
Summer jerks her gaze to me. “You did?”
And shit, fuck, bugger. I forgot to debrief Summer properly on the way over, forgot to tell her I told Geneva that she enjoyed wine. Because of that damn dress. It’s like Lex Luthor designed a dress with my personal kryptonite. Or maybe that kiss fried too many brain cells going into tonight.
Jane widens her Mayday eyes, trying to signal that I need to get my act together.
“My apologies, Geneva. Summer’s never been a wine fan,” I say, dropping an arm across my date’s shoulder. “But I wanted to come, and I knew she’d be a good sport about it, because she is a great sport.”
Summer gives an aren’t we cute grin. “That’s me. Sometimes he even calls me sport.”
What?
I would really like to roll my eyes now. I’d never call her “sport.” Maybe “strawberry.” Or “petal.” Or “cupcake.” She does look a bit like one right now . . . as in, good enough to eat.
I push out a laugh as I shift my gaze to the woman by my side. “But most of the time, I call you cupcake.”
“Yes, it is so dear when he calls her ‘cupcake,’” Jane chimes in.
I press a kiss to Summer’s cheek. And the kiss seems to do the trick.
“For a moment there, you had me thinking you don’t really know your fiancée. With the wine and whatnot.” Geneva wags a finger at me. She’s grinning, but her grin says, You damn well better know your fiancée.
I toss my head back and laugh at that ridiculous suggestion. “I know her incredibly well. Have for years.”
“They were practically inseparable in high school, from what I heard,” Jane adds.
“We were. And we never drank wine together then either,” Summer says.
“Such well-behaved teens,” Jane says.
“And I can at least sniff it now,” Summer chimes in, grabbing the glass and lifting it to her nose. “Yes, it does indeed smell like bacon.”
Geneva frowns.
“I meant leather.” Summer quickly corrects herself. “I meant it smells like fine leather. The finest.”
