“Because you’ve been wanting River for years,” TJ says.
His bluntness officially pops my bubble of avoidance.
“Don’t remind me,” I sigh as I toss a blue Henley into my backpack.
“Someone has to.”
“No. No one has to. Literally, no one. I’m well aware of how I feel. But that’s okay,” I say, keeping calm. “It’s fine. It’s all for the best that we’re not a thing.”
With an I-don’t-buy-it expression on his face, TJ stops and parks himself on a bench along the cobbled sidewalk. A faint dusting of snow covers the ground from a storm a few days ago that dumped a few inches on the slopes. He adopts a serious expression. “O, I’m going to level with you for a minute.”
“Okay,” I say tentatively.
“Have you ever considered just telling River how you feel?”
My gut twists. “That I’ve thought about having sex with him a bajillion times?”
TJ scoffs, shaking his head. “No. I’m not actually talking about sex this time.”
TJ and I have been friends since I started working in sports marketing. His twin brother, Chance, is the star closer for the San Francisco Cougars, and even though I work for the other team in the city, I met TJ at a sports award event and we grew close over the years. TJ and Chance are an interesting study in contrasts—one is straight, one is gay, one plays professional baseball, the other is a best-selling romance writer. They both totally support each other, and they also rib and trash-talk each other till the cows, horses, and sheep come home.
Sort of like my sister, Grace, and me.
Family—gotta love ’em.
“Then what are you talking about?” I ask.
“I’m talking about why you want to have sex with him. You’re into the guy, and you have been for years,” he says, plain and simple.
And too on the mark.
I groan, sagging my shoulders, slumping down on the edge of my bed. “Why do I pour out my pathetic heart to a romance novelist?”
TJ laughs. “Pretty sure we’ve both served up our war stories.”
The last time I was in New York, TJ and I grabbed drinks at a hip spot in Chelsea, where he unspooled the tale of the painful crash and burn of his one-time epic romance, then I attempted to one-up him with the story of Ezra’s let-me-take-you-on-a-trip-and-dump-you strategy. After another Tom Collins or three, I moved on from Ezra, and walked straight into a confessional booth. I’m not Catholic, but it was like talking to a priest as I served up the contents of my unrequited heart.
“If memory serves, not only did you tell me all about your pact, you called him a chocolate bar you can’t get enough of, and said he makes you giddy like a glass of champagne,” TJ adds.
Dropping my head in my hands, I groan, wishing I had a better handle on my runaway emotions. “Fine. I’m into him. But it’s a moot point.”
TJ arches a brow. “Or is it?”
I raise my face. I bet I look miserable. I feel that way. “River doesn’t think the sex gamble is worth it.”
TJ huffs. “It’s not about sex. Stop thinking about sex. I keep telling you that.”
But it’s easier to laser in on the bedroom stuff. The other stuff involves emotions. Those scary creatures are harder to manage than Goldilocks’s eating habits. “Did you, King of the Scorching Hot Sex Scenes, actually tell me not to think about sex?”
He nods exaggeratedly. “Yes. Because I’m going to let you in on a little secret.” He beckons me to inch closer to the screen, and I oblige. Then TJ whispers, “Even the sex scenes in romance novels aren’t really about sex.”
“What are they about?”
“They’re always about something else. Power, connection, intimacy, desire, trust,” he says. “Or they’re about taking a chance. Opening your heart. Showing another person what’s in it.”
Yup. Way more terrifying than fueling a picky feline.
“What I’m saying is,” TJ continues, “this thing you have for River is about so much more than fucking, so stop thinking this is a sex gamble. It’s a heart gamble.”
I can see his point, yet it comes with the possibility of risking a friendship. Of hurting a heart. Of getting one broken.
Mainly, mine.
“But . . .”
“Just think about it,” he presses. “Maybe tell him you’re into him. Tell him you have a thing for him. Maybe he has a thing for you too.”
I swallow, ignoring the knot tightening in my throat. “But what if he doesn’t?” That sounds like an awful outcome. One I’m not sure I want to face.
“Then be an adult and move on. It might be awkward but you can handle it.”
“Adulting sucks,” I say.
“Yes, it does.”
I sigh heavily, wishing there were an easy solution. But I don’t see a path to one. “One-third of straight women, huh?”
“Believe it,” TJ says.
“Oh, you don’t have to convince me what’s worth watching.”
“But I do have to convince you what might be worth doing. So, consider telling River. Maybe something good will come of it,” he says with an easy shrug.
“Now that really sounds like something from one of your romance novels,” I tease.
“Sounds exactly like Top-Notch Boyfriend. And listen, I wish my life were like my books. Alas,” he says, rises, then continues on his walk through the quaint ski town, “I need to jet. I have a call with my agent. Pretty sure he’s going to hound me about the status of my next book. Spoiler alert—the status is overdue. But think about saying something. Maybe this road trip is a chance to let the man know what’s been on your mind for the last few years.”
More like eight years, give or take.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, but the problem is I already think about it too much.
I’d like to not think about River like that.
I’d like all these feelings to go away.
Sort of like how Goldilocks feels about food that’s not duck and tuna pate.
4
Owen
I exit my building a few minutes later, right as River wedges his Honda into a tiny spot. He maneuvers the sleek cherry-red car to the curb with the same kind of aplomb he demonstrates when making drinks.
Mmm. There is something sexy as fuck about a man who can parallel park on either side of the street with the same ease.
Just like there’s something sexy about a man who’ll give or take in bed.
Lingering on both images for a few seconds too long, I let out a happy sigh.
My eyes pop when I see the front seat of his car is empty. The black and white dog sits in the back.
River pushes open the passenger door from the inside. “I bargained with Delilah. I promised her steak if she’d let you ride shotgun,” he says, scratching her chin. She lifts it higher, leaning into the stroke, her eyes locked on River’s, never looking away.
I get you, girl. Oh yes, I do.
“Awww. I’m touched you negotiated on my behalf,” I say, getting into the car, and tossing my jacket to the back seat.
River lets go of the dog, cups the side of his mouth to whisper, “Don’t tell her, but you’re more interesting than she is.”