A terrible fist of guilt claws at me out of nowhere, grappling my chest and telling me she’s not just my best friend’s girl, she’s my dead best friend’s girl.

It’s one of my rules to live by.

Yet, here we are, walking together across this enclave in the middle of Manhattan. “Besides, I can’t have you distracted by pretty girls. I need you focused.”

That’s an opening if I ever saw one. Before my mind clouds with lines crossed and codes broken, before regret lassoes me, I go for it. “If I’m distracted by pretty girls, you only have yourself to blame.”

She stops, surprise etched in her eyes, both the green and the blue. “I do?” Her voice rises in question, as if she’s opening the door a notch.

I kick it open, because screw regret. I don’t have any this second. In fact, I’ll regret it more if I don’t speak my mind. “Just saying, I’m not blind.” I step closer, studying her eyes, though I know them by heart. They’re imprinted in my mind, in my soul. “By the way, I don’t buy the green and not-so-green.”

“You don’t?”

Shaking my head, I run my finger across her cheekbone, beneath her right eye. Her breath catches. The sound emboldens me. “To me, one is the blue of the early morning sky, with flecks of green that almost, in certain light, give the illusion of this eye being pale green.” I move my finger, tracing the line under her other eye, the movement rewarded by a tremble in her shoulders. “And the other is a cat’s-eye green.”

She’s quiet as she raises her hand, her fingers fluttering across her cheek. “Really?”

“Yes, really. And they’re beautiful.”

She whispers a shuddery “Thank you,” and the look on her face makes me feel like a king.

Sometimes you go against the rules.

The rules of the hunt?

Those, I intend to follow to the letter.

When it comes to games, sports, and work, cheating sucks.

Wait. Cheating sucks all the time.

But I’m not cheating on anyone or violating any bro codes, I tell myself.

A dark voice in my head whispers back, You are, and you know it.

As Kingsley and Scarlett rise majestically—the sisters might as well wield scepters and don fur-lined robes—a voice in my head needles me.

What would Tripp say if he knew you were angling for his wife?

She’s not his wife, I mutter privately to the insidious voice.

You’re still his friend. That bond is stronger than death, the voice hisses.

I do my damnedest to quiet the voice as Kingsley reviews the rules of the hunt.

Ten teams are competing. Each will face three challenges, one on each of three successive days. Each challenge yields points. Teams will be given different clues, though most teams will wind up at the same general destination for each item, albeit searching for something different. You can’t piggyback off another team to try to win. You need to figure out the clue, track down the item, and do the photo challenge to prove it, then return to the park, in most cases, to check in.

“Now, if you’re thinking you can google the riddle, think again.” Kingsley’s voice booms. “One, that’s seriously lame. Two, this is supposed to be fun. Three, see point number one. Four, and most important, take it to the bank, this is the God’s honest truth: Google doesn’t know everything.”

“Take that back. Google is all-knowing,” I tease, hoping to inject some levity into myself right now. Lord knows, I need it.

She shoots over a smile as a stocky guy in a golf shirt rubs his palms together, chiming in, “Who needs Google? I have a better incentive. The biggest one ever. My wife made it clear I need to deliver a week of paid vacation. Or else. Mua ha ha ha.”

“And what’s the ‘or else,’ George?” Kingsley asks.

He shudders. “Have you met my wife? You don’t want to mess with her . . . or else. No greater incentive for a man than a honey, do, or else order. Am I right or am I right?” He turns to me, eyebrows lifted, arms out.

Something about him is wildly familiar, and it dawns on me. He’s the Finger-Licking-Good Guy, the one who said his wife would have him by the balls if he arrived home late. “Never disobey your commander in chief.”

“Exactly.”

Maybe I need to add that to my rules to live by.

Sure, you can replace the one you’re bending, the voice whispers.

I square my shoulders and tell the voice to fuck the hell off.

This man is my levity. He’s a character. I try to wind him up more, so I can coattail off his amusing attitude. “What would she do, though, do you think, if you didn’t deliver on the or else?”

His face turns ashen. “Don’t say such a thing. I don’t want to know. You don’t want to know. No one wants to know.”

“Try me. I kind of do.”

Under his breath, he whispers, “The look. She’ll give me the look. And I value my existence, so I won’t say any more.”

I shudder on his behalf and pat myself on the back for successfully quieting the voice by drafting off George like I’m riding the edge of a wave.

I turn to my team, so I can focus on the task at hand. I motion for Ginny, Noah, and Lulu to huddle, taking the quarterback role. “Guys, let’s concentrate. We want to win this because we love Kingsley, we like our jobs, and because we aren’t dickweed, cutthroat bloodhounds who possess zero original ideas. Plus, our team would love a week off, and we’d love to win the money for charity. Wouldn’t we?”

A chorus of “Yes, we would” comes from them, and we smack palms, energized.

When we separate from the huddle, Lulu smirks.

I take the bait. “What’s so funny?”

“Your go-go-go side. It’s cute.”

My heart threatens to go Rudolph again, which is thoroughly unacceptable. I grab that reindeer’s tail and pull him down to earth, donning my sarcasm deflector shield. “That’s me. I’m a cutie-pie.”

She squeezes my arm and smiles at me, so damn warmly. “Don’t deny it. You’re a total cutie-pie.”

And the shield falls to the ground. “You too,” I murmur.

Then George chimes in once more, whispering in a man-to-man tone. “My wife says I’m a cutie-pie too. That’s why I listen to her.”

Trouble is, I don’t know who to listen to—my rules, the voice, George, or someone else.