“Probably, because who wouldn’t want him? It could be your shot though. You have to take it, Gavin. Do it,” the other one urges.
Jason shoots me a smirk and quietly says, “Should I tell them the good news that he’s not with one of us? Or do you want to pretend you’re engaged to Fitz as well as Summer?”
I lean back, catching the eye of the taller of the guys at the bar. “Sorry, mate. Fitz is with this guy,” I say, clapping my cousin on the back.
Jason mutters under his breath, “Fucking hell. You beat me to it. Also, what if Fitz was into him?”
“Fitz is a big boy. He can make his own moves.”
“You’re a terrible wingman.”
“That may be true.”
After we refill our drinks, Jason says he’s going to spend time with his bride, so I return to the boner-killers, settling into my chair and turning to Fitz. “By the way, those guys at the bar are devising a strategy to come talk to you.”
This gets his attention. He raises a curious brow. “Are they hot?”
I give him a Seriously? look. “How am I supposed to answer that?”
“Do you have eyes?”
“I do.”
“Can you not tell if a dude is good-looking?”
“Are we talking about George Clooney?” Logan asks. “Because I can tell, empirically, that George Clooney is good-looking. Beyond that, no one.”
Fitz huffs. “So you’re saying you can tell if someone is good-looking only if they’re the gender you want to sleep with? Unless it’s George Clooney? That’s the line you draw?”
“It’s called the Clooney Line,” I supply. “He’s the only guy a straight guy can tell is empirically good-looking.”
Fitz smiles, wagging an I’ve caught you finger at Logan. “You want to sleep with Clooney—admit it.”
Logan laughs, nearly spitting out his beer. “No. I don’t.”
Then to me, Fitz says, “But if you had to sleep with a dude, it’d be Clooney.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to sleep with Clooney.”
“If not Clooney, who would it be?”
I shoot him a look like he’s nuts. “Are you barking mad? I’m not going to answer that. Can you say which movie starlet you’d shag?”
He shudders. “Fair point. But I’d do Clooney for sure. I don’t mind the gray hair.”
“How open-minded of you,” I say.
Fitz’s grin spreads, and he leans his elbows on the table, counting off on his fingers. “But if you really want the movie star list, it goes something like this—Idris Elba, Adam Driver, Kit Harington, Henry Cavill, Michael B. Jordan.” He stops, furrowing his brow. “And Michael Fassbender. For obvious reasons.”
Logan blinks. “Why is that obvious? What’s the reason?”
Fitz’s jaw drops. “You don’t know?”
Logan stares at him blankly. “No. That’s why I asked.”
Fitz gestures wildly to Logan’s phone on the table. “Just google his name. You’ll see what comes up as one of the search terms.”
Logan picks up his phone as Fitz says, “Also, I forgot to add Liam and Chris to the list.”
“The Hemsworths?” Logan asks, momentarily distracted from the search mission.
Fitz shrugs, giving a wolfish grin. “Yep. Both. Same time.”
“And you know they are brothers?” Logan asks, ignoring his phone now.
“Well, they don’t have to bang each other,” Fitz deadpans.
I clear my throat, continuing down this path of absurdity because it is indeed a fantastic murderer of the libido. “How are you shagging them both at the same time?”
Logan cuts in, narrowing his eyes at me. “Did you really just ask him that, Oliver? It’s patently obvious. Same way you’d do the Olsen twins.”
And that does it for me.
Not the prospect of Fitz taking on the Hemsworth brothers, because, whatever, who cares who he bangs.
But it’s the image of me doing the Olsen twins.
I used to watch Full House reruns, for fuck’s sake, and that’s the most massive boner killer of all time.
“But for the record, I can tell if a woman is pretty, unlike you dickheads.” Fitz gestures to Logan. “His twin sister. Very pretty.”
And here we go again. Back to Summer. Back to picturing her blonde hair, her brown eyes, her glossy pink lips.
I. Can’t. Win.
“Thanks. She takes after me,” Logan says, then swings his gaze to me. “Speaking of my sister, dude, what the hell? Why are you two engaged?”
I shake my head. “We’re not a real thing. Also, use your library voices, arseholes. It’s a bloody fake engagement. I don’t need the whole bar knowing.”
“Whatever. It’s funny,” Logan says, swiping his screen, then swiveling it around to show us Twitter, of all things. “So, now you’re America’s Best Boyfriend. You turned that shit around in two days. Well done, my man. Well done.”
I take a small bow. “Thank you.”
Fitz taps on the picture of Summer and me. “So, tell us more about this kiss, Ollie.”
My skin goes hot. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and every detail of kissing Summer flashes before me, image after delicious image. The moment should be no different than any other moment in my life, but it keeps flipping before my eyes.
