I send her a quick text to see if she wants to go to the game, and she replies immediately with a yes. Perfect. The hockey game will be the ideal opportunity to refocus on our friendship.
“Sure, Summer and I will take the tickets,” I say.
Fitz gives me the details, and as I’m saving them in my phone, Logan shouts victoriously. “Michael Fassbender’s penis! How did I miss that reference?”
“Now you see why it’s obvious he’s on the list,” Fitz says, like a supremely satisfied cat.
I blink, bewildered, as Logan high-fives Fitz with one hand and holds his phone in the other. Logan waves the mobile around, showing the results of his image search.
Michael Fassbender’s penis.
Yes!
That’s perfect. And, frankly, obvious.
* * *
I leave later with the perfect trick to rid my mind of dirty thoughts of my good friend.
That night, every time my brain drifts off and imagines the sounds Summer might make if I touched her, I think about Michael Fassbender’s penis.
It works.
It works all the next day at the office, and at the gym, and in the shower.
I may never be aroused again.
This is like a three-week celibacy pill.
Who knew that Michael Fassbender’s penis would cure me of all my desire for Summer Clarke?
That is, until Friday morning when I see her march into the pool area at the gym as I’m finishing my swim.
Out of the corner of my goggles, I notice her sundress, how it’s swishing around her legs, showing them off, accentuating her curves and muscles.
And now I won’t be able to get out of the pool.
Thanks a fucking lot, Fassbender.
Your dick failed me when it mattered.
Time to turn up the friendship charm.
20
Summer
I crouch at the edge of the pool, waiting for Oliver to finish his lap.
When his head pops up, he gives me a grin. “Good morning, fake fiancée,” he whispers, wiggling his brows.
“Shh. We don’t want anyone to know,” I say, pressing a finger to my lips.
But the pool is quiet. It’s only us.
He parks his elbows on the edge of the deck, water droplets sliding down his face, one hitting his lip.
My finger itches to touch it, to swipe it off.
I ignore that desire, zeroing in on everyday us. “Just wondering if you wanted to grab a quick breakfast when you get finished. I would love to go over my plans for how to use the money from the essay. That is, if you have time.”
“I have a meeting at nine, but I always have time for the future Mrs. Harris.” He’s laying on the charm, flashing a slightly strange smile, but he doesn’t move to get out of the pool.
“Breakfast is on me,” I add.
“Sounds great,” he says, still not budging.
“Do you have more laps to do?” I glance at the wall clock. He’s usually done at seven on the dot, and it’s ticking past the hour.
His eyes light up. “Yes, I nearly forgot. I have ten more to do. Can’t fall behind.”
“Cool. I’ll wait for you on the bench.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t mind. I can answer some emails.”
His eyes stray longingly to the clock. “Maybe twenty more laps. You’d better wait in the lobby. You know, for your health. Nasal health.” He taps me on the nose, an overly cute gesture. Made all the overly cuter when he crinkles his own nose.
“For my nasal health?”
“Well, all the chlorine in the air,” he says apologetically, like it’s somehow his fault. “It isn’t great to breathe.”
“I already taught a water aerobics class, so I’ve been inhaling it all morning.” The whole exchange makes me wonder what he’s been inhaling, but I just point out, “I’m not affected.”
He simply shrugs. “If you say so.”
I rock forward and rap my knuckles on his forehead. “You’re being odd.”
He’s silent, and I see the cogs in his head turning, picking up speed. Then things seem to click, and he heaves a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Fine. I’ll skip the rest of the laps. I was trying to do you a favor. I just thought, with you being my fake fiancée and all, it’d be even harder for you to look away when I got out of the pool. I didn’t want to tempt you.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll do my best to resist you.”
Though, admittedly, resisting him is much harder now that I’ve kissed him. Twice.
Even though they weren’t real kisses.
He glances at the pile of towels on the bench. “Any chance you can grab one for me?”
My brow knits. He’s suddenly strangely shy. More proof the kiss was a one-way street.
With tongue.
And moans.
He definitely moaned the other morning.
I can still hear the sound of it rumbling in my ears.
Whatever. I’m not letting myself go there, and I’m not thinking of his hands all over me at the wine tasting. How they felt when he slid his palms down my bare arms.
