I fire off a quick reply, thanking her, then segue to business, updating her on the deal and confirming we’ll be at the tasting.
Jane is next, sending me a text.
Jane: How dare you not tell me you’re betrothed? You naughty boy. Also, I expect all the salacious details tomorrow. :)
Jane: Wait. Not the salacious ones. Just the juicy little nuggets of how you found yourself in this pickle.
Jane: P.S. How long must we keep this ruse up? It is a ruse, no?
Oliver: Yes. Ruse. But you didn’t hear that from me.
Jane: I’ll be in early tomorrow for a full and proper download.
I sink down on my couch with my Chinese takeaway for dinner, put on my online hazmat suit—aka my I don’t give a fuck armor—and dive into the deep end.
I click on the hashtag “America’s Best Boyfriend” as I eat.
Well, well, well, look at that. That turnaround didn’t take long.
Apparently, I’m not such a knob after all. The internet loves me again.
@LovesListsofMen: SAD!!! All the good ones are taken! Do you think she runs her hands through his Harry Styles hair?
@ManCandyFan: If she doesn’t, I volunteer as tribute. But she totally does.
@GossipLover1andOnly: Among other places where she runs her hands.
@ManCandyFan: Arms. I bet he has good arms. Sigh. I love good arm candy.
I check out the guns. Not too shabby. Why, yes, ManCandyFan, feel free to enjoy the arms.
@RoyalWatcher: Did we ever figure out if he’s royal? He looks like a duke. Or an earl. That lady is lucky to snag an earl.
@Anglophile2200: I’d take a viscount.
@BritsDoItBest: I’d take the valet of a viscount if he could speak British to me.
@Anglophile2200: British is not a language, you twit.
@BritsDoItBest: Gee, thanks for horning in on my fantasy life.
@Anglophile2200: Maybe keep it off Twitter?
@BritsDoItBest: Maybe you should keep off Twitter. Maybe you’re America’s Worst Boyfriend.
@RomanceFanForLife: Can we please focus on the most important thing? How cute they are? That letter was like a love letter to him. It was her way of telling him how much she loves him.
I scoff at that last one. Oh, you are so very wrong, RomanceFanForLife. But who cares, because I righted this ship, and that’s all that matters.
That kiss barely matters.
That was simply a smooch for the camera.
I’m not thinking about how it turned me on wildly. Definitely not contemplating how I touched her face, dragged her close, and brought her in for a hot, searing moment of passion.
If not for the guy on the scavenger hunt, I would have pushed her up against a carousel horse and continued for hours rather than seconds, kissing the breath out of her to the calliope music soundtrack until we were panting, groaning, putting on a show.
And see? That didn’t happen.
So it’s all good.
The plan is working, and Geneva doesn’t think I’m a callous arse.
I take another bite of the pepper steak, then fire off a text to Summer, sending her a link to the new hashtag.
Oliver: It worked. We are tops at faking it.
Summer: Well, I’ve been pretending to tolerate you for seventeen years, so this is easy enough.
Oliver: Absolutely. It’s been the same for me. It’s not easy, since you’re a terrible bore.
Summer: And you’re a humorless nitwit. :)
Oliver: And we have zero to say to each other.
Summer: Nothing but dead air when we’re together.
Oliver: Amazing that we’ve pulled off this friendship for so long when we can’t stand each other.
Summer: And no one can tell. They actually think we like each other. As if.
I laugh as I take another bite of my dinner. This is an excellent way to handle a kiss that didn’t feel like we hated each other whatsoever. That felt a little pent-up. Fine, a lot pent-up.
But whatever.
It was just a kiss for the hashtag.
The sighs, the gasps, the little murmurs were just by-products. If there was more to the kiss than damage control, we wouldn’t be joking so well, getting on like we’ve always done.
Summer: Little do they know we are experts at this ruse. Heck, we could enter a contest for most believable fake fiancée kissing. Oh, speaking of contests, I have news!
Oliver: I’m all ears. Digital ears. But ears nonetheless.
I reread my last note. I might sound like I’m trying too hard at friendship. But hell, we are friends. It’s not trying. It just . . . is.
I truly want to know her news.
Summer: The magazine just informed me I won the prize for the essay!
I pump a fist, thrilled for her.
Oliver: That’s brilliant!!! You deserve it! Everything is coming up aces.
Summer: Crazy, right? It’s $5000!
Oliver: Is it enough for the final funding for your gym, with the classes and whatnot?
Summer: Not quite, but it sure does make the shortfall a little easier to manage.
As I’m typing out a reply, a new post from Twitter pops up under the hashtag thread, with a series of replies too.
