“Fair point. But also, bacon wine?”
“Someone should make it.”
“No. No one should make it.”
“If someone made bacon wine, I might like wine.”
“Stop. Just stop. Bacon wine sounds horrid.”
“Bacon wine, bacon wine, bacon wine,” she whispers, taunting me, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Woman, you need to get a grip.”
She bonks my shoulder. “And you need to brief me properly.”
“Fine. On the way home, we’ll work on our cover story for next time. But for now, I have a solution.”
“What’s that?”
I waggle my hands. “Did you know I’m incredibly affectionate?”
“Is that so?”
She raises her eyebrows flirtatiously, and I tempt fate. I run my fingers over her leg.
Her breath catches the tiniest bit, and if she wasn’t my fake girlfriend, my fake fiancée, I’d think it was sexy.
But this is all pretend.
It’s a lucky thing I’ve always been so good at make-believe. For instance, I know that if your pretend love affair comes into doubt, you should touch your fake fiancée as much as possible.
At least, that’s my rule and I’m sticking to it.
19
Oliver
This is weird.
It shouldn’t be, and yet it is.
I take a drink of my IPA, set the glass down, and try to focus on whatever Logan is going on about—something vitally important, judging by the sound of his voice.
“So it lets you take down the enemy faster,” he says, staring intently at us. “Make sense?”
“Right,” I say, but I’ve missed how we’re taking down the enemy or even why we want to. I don’t even remember who that is exactly.
At this moment, my libido is my most obvious foe, taking over a larger portion of my brain than it normally controls, say, 99 percent instead of the usual 95 percent.
Thank fuck our mates are here with us at Gin Joint on Wednesday night, because I need the buffer with Logan.
Which is another thing that’s unusual—I’ve never needed a buffer with Logan when it comes to his sister because we’re all friends.
But this is the first time I’ve seen him since I kissed Summer. Since I had my hands all over her. Buffers are absolutely necessary because I’m thinking about his sister naked.
“So, that’s the plan, guys. Can you do it?” Logan asks, looking at me, then at Jason, then at Fitz, who rolls his eyes as he downs the rest of his drink.
“Dude. I knocked out Blake MacAvoy from Ottawa the other night. Yes, I think I can take out this fucker from Lehman.”
Yes! Paintball. Sneak attack strategies. That’s what we’re talking about. I can focus on that, not on how insanely strange it is to be sitting across from Logan after thinking about the huge boner his sister gave me last night.
But there is no brain space for boners now.
None.
Zero.
Not even if I think about her lips.
Her smell.
The way she curved her body against mine.
Nope.
I’m not getting aroused again.
Especially while I’m sitting here with my mates. Three great big, hairy male mates. There are no better boner killers than that.
Maybe I should just stare at them to erase the image of Logan’s sister melting in my arms by the carousel, sighing against my lips as that guy snapped our pic, and emitting that sexy little gasp when I kissed her for the hashtag.
When I touched her face, her cheek, her jaw.
And when I kissed her a second time last night.
I definitely need to focus on something the opposite of enticing, and these fellas will do.
Logan with his dark hair, who looks nothing like his twin sister.
Jason and his familial relationship to me.
Fitz and his beard and his ink, the familiar face of one of the NHL’s top D-men. Who’s our paintball ace.
Done. Summer is no longer in my head. Ejected.
“Perfect. You’re our secret weapon,” Logan says.
“It’s good to have a ringer on our team, isn’t it?” Jason gestures to Fitz, who winks.
“I got your backs, boys.”
“If we didn’t have Fitz,” Logan says, always planning for contingencies, “I’d invite my sister because she is the most competitive bastard I know—”
Dammit to fucking hell. Why did he mention Summer? Why not show me a picture of her in that dress again and just kneecap me now? Though, admittedly, I wouldn’t look away.
“Wait. More than me?” Fitz asks, mortally offended. His million-dollar-a-year job depends on him being ruthlessly competitive.
Logan arches a brow, considering Fitz’s question. “Maybe not more than you. But close. Only, she won’t play paintball with us. She says it’s”—he stops to sketch air quotes—“‘Neanderthal.’”
“Smart woman,” Jason remarks, then gestures to the bar where his wife is mixing drinks. “And speaking of smart women, I’m going to see my bride and nab a refill.”
I raise my empty glass. “Same here. On the refill, that is.”
We head to the bar, where a couple of hipster guys are checking out Fitz. The taller of the pair says, “This is my chance. I should go talk to him. I’ve had a crush on him forever. But do you think he’s involved with one of those guys?”
