“I’m sure she’d love that—the wine and the dinner.” I breathe a lifetime’s worth of sighs of relief, even though Summer hates wine.
But I bet she can fake it for me.
Geneva seems relieved too. “I can’t wait to meet her, and of course, I won’t back out of our deal. I’m so glad that it was a misunderstanding. Thank you for setting things straight.”
I wave a hand airily. “Everything gets out of hand on the internet, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed it does. I should have known better,” she says with so much contrition that I almost feel bad for my fib.
Almost.
When I hang up, I call Summer and tell her to meet me straightaway. Then I leave, telling Jane I’ll be back soon.
“Don’t forget you have a one o’clock with Hanover Media,” she tells me. “Prospective new client. Helen Williams Designs referred them, since she loved your work so much on the last deal.”
“And I love word of mouth.” Word of mouth is exactly why I need to stop this shitshow from snowballing.
Loosening my tie as I go, I head to Fifth Avenue, walk up a few blocks, texting my cousin in Paris as I go.
Oliver: Remember that time you engineered a marriage of convenience to save your company?
Christian: Hmm. Sounds a bit familiar. Care to elaborate?
Oliver: It worked brilliantly, right?
Christian: What sort of hot water have you gotten yourself into, cuz?
I stare at the text thread. Yeah, this might not be helpful right now.
Oliver: I’ll update you later.
Christian: Spare no details. I need a good laugh.
Yes, a laugh. This is funny. This is something we’ll all look back on and laugh. Putting my phone away, I find Summer outside the entrance to the park, waiting at a bench and wringing her hands.
She looks devastated, her big brown eyes brimming with worry. “I am so sorry. I am the worst friend ever. I never thought that would happen. Those people are dickheads.”
“Yes, and Twitter is the biggest dickhead of all.” I’m not in the business of holding grudges or staying pissed. There’s no point. Besides, I’m about to call in a big favor now. “But I knew what you meant. I know what you were trying to say.”
“You do?” she asks, and her voice is small, fearful. “You’re not pissed at me?”
I hold up my thumb and forefinger, showing a sliver of space. “Maybe a little at first. But not for long.”
“Oh, Oliver. I feel terrible,” she says, her brow knit with worry. “I thought it was a nice little way of saying thank you, but in a way where only you would know it was you.” She presses her palms together as if in prayer. “Tell me how I can help. I meant it when I said I’d do anything.”
I shoot her a wry grin, take a beat, then call in a your-turn-to-scratch-my-back. “Here’s what I need for the next three weeks.”
“Anything. Please. I’m dying to make this right.” The look in those puppy-dog eyes is a desperate plea. I sort of hate that she feels that way, but sort of not.
Because it’s going to make my outlandish request much easier.
“Good,” I say, with what I’m sure is a slightly evil grin. “Because I’m cashing in on the prom promise. Your sexy ex-boyfriend is about to become your fake fiancé.”
14
Summer
Thirteen years ago
We huddled in the teen cave, the sprawling basement of Oliver’s home, music blasting, hands dipping into the popcorn bowl as the four of us plotted—Logan, Oliver, Phoebe, and me.
The mission? Prom-posals for my twin brother and the guy next door.
We’d already mapped out a plan for Logan to ask the foreign exchange student in his history class.
Now it was time to assist Oliver in asking Emily.
As for me? I planned to go with my friends, a big group of girls in pretty dresses and sparkly shoes, dancing with each other.
“How about I ask Emily when she goes for her run in the morning?” Oliver suggested, grabbing a handful of popcorn and munching.
Logan pointed his finger approvingly as he grabbed some kernels then headed to the Ping-Pong table. “Dude. Yes. You just get some Sharpies, write it on a sign, and boom. In like Flynn.”
I scoff-laughed. “I don’t think it’s that easy.”
From her spot in the corner of the couch, Phoebe shot her younger brother a look that said he was a dolt. It was a look she’d perfected with him. “Promise me you’re not going to do that, Ollie. Just promise me.”
Oliver turned to his sister, now nineteen. It was one of her good days. They were fewer and farther between, but she tried to embrace them when they came.
We all did. She’d been fighting cancer since the family moved from England a few years ago so she could undergo an experimental treatment at a nearby hospital. It had worked . . .
