Van sneers at my yoga pants and T-shirt. “This is an art gallery not a gym. Wear something appropriate next time.”

“I thought I was here to copy.” I give myself a once over. I showered this morning and felt good about even doing that.

“It's still a place of business and thus, you should wear business-appropriate attire.” He sniffs and readjusts the sleeve of his perfectly pressed black button down.

I swear I took a shower. “Okay. Next time I come in on a Sunday morning, I'll dress up. For now, I'm here.” I spread my arms out. “What do you want me to do?”

“Copy this.” He shoves a handout at me.

“How many?” I ask. They look to be prints of Thompson Moore's gagtastic work.

The brochure is a five-color glossy touting the upcoming showing of a local multimedia artist specializing in grass art, which is exactly what it sounds like—the application of grass on canvas.

Thompson Moore, whose name makes me think of the paint line, is selling moderately well to a certain set that finds his rural paintings appealing. I find them boring and try-hard, and despite his niche audience, I don't find him worthy of a showing. I suggested to Marissa that Moore's work might not be the best use of her space. Van bit my head off for being non-supportive and Marissa cried.

Dad, on the other hand, nearly laughed his ass off when I told him of Marissa’s new signing.

“Five hundred. And then bind them. Or is that beneath you?”

Despite the fact I was hired a year before Van Asshole and despite the fact that we are both in the same grade, he became my de facto supervisor when Marissa extended him the full-time assistant’s job after graduation. That invitation came after Marissa learned that Dad was marrying Holly.

“Five hundred folded brochures coming right up.” I'm in no mood to argue. My heart's a little sore over the idea of Ty dating someone new already.

I almost fell apart when I heard he was getting back together with Rhyann after the Bowl game. They had been broken up since Christmas and I thought it was over for them or I'd like to think I'd have never kissed him Bowl night.

It doesn't matter. He doesn't remember what happened. If he did, he would've said something to me.

Right?

Ty’s been a stand-up guy to the girls he's dated. He was never into one-night stands despite the many, many, many offers. He tried to be upfront with the girls, telling them that football was his focus. I have to believe if he remembered our hookup, he wouldn't have jumped at Rhyann's invitation to return to her side.

Or he hated the experience with me so much that he had to erase that from his mind by immediately having sex with someone else.

That thought causes actual physical pain. I hold a hand to my stomach.

“Are you actually going to make copies, or is that kind of manual labor too menial for von de Menthe's daughter?” Van Asshole snipes.

I look up from the copier to see him standing at the door, hands on his hips, disgust on his face. He really hates me, from the moment that we first met. I got the job because of who my father is and he doesn't let me forget it for a minute. On the plus side, Van Asshole is consistent, if nothing else. Since he got the job in August, he's done nothing but look at me with jealous loathing.

“I'm copying.” I set the papers into the machine and punch the start key. To irritate Van and make myself feel better, I smile as bright and wide as I can.

Predictably, Van Asshole is instantly suspicious. “Why are you so cheerful?”

“Got laid last night,” I lie for the sheer pleasure of watching him grow even more perturbed.

“You're disgusting,” he mutters.

“If you stick around, I'm going to assume you want details.”

He whirls, slamming the door to the copy room behind him. I allow myself a small grin.

The copying takes longer than I anticipate. Van Asshole checks on me twice, but only stays long enough to grab the few bound copies I've managed to make. While he's tapping his toe impatiently at the door, I hum as if I'm reliving the graphic details of my wild night.

“Don't say it,” Van warns.

“Say what?” I ask innocently.

“Whatever is going on in your filthy mind. It's sexual harassment to talk about your lurid sex activities.”

“I wasn't offering any details. It sounds like your imagination is working overtime, though.”

“Ugh.” He grimaces. “Can you do this faster? We need them before the turn of the century.”

“I am only one person, Van,” I say stiffly. I wonder how much bail money I would need if I assaulted Van with the stapler. Might be worth it.

“Marissa wants me to go to the store and get some tablecloths, so I'm going to have to trust you to do this job.”

“It's copying and binding,” I say with exaggerated patience. “I'm not five.”

He plucks a speck of dust off his sleeve. “Make sure everything is in order. The last time you did it, some of the handouts were messed up. I had to cover for you and Marissa was so upset.”

“I don't remember doing the last handouts,” I say. We both know full well that he did them and not me. Besides, technically we're both assistants. I want to shout that he's not my boss, but both of us know that Marissa would back him over me any day.

I'd leave, but I need this job on my résumé and I need a good recommendation from Marissa so I don't have to work under Van Asshole for the rest of my life.

My tongue is sore from biting on it though.

“I'm sure you did,” he lies through his perfect teeth.

Inwardly, I seethe. Outwardly, I give him a terse nod. “Like I said, I'll get it done.”

“Fine. Marissa will be in at three.”

I allow myself the childish pleasure of sticking my tongue out behind his back before turning back to the copier.

About ten minutes and a few hundred copies later, I hear, “Knock. Knock.”

“Come in,” I yell.

Ty saunters in sporting a Southern U football T-shirt stretched across his broad chest. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his loose-fitting joggers and on his feet are a pair of athletic slides. Despite the casual attire, he's so attractive I forget to breathe.

Van and I share this office, but even so, it's a tiny space—barely big enough to accommodate a copy machine slash printer, a rickety table, and stock shelves full of catering supplies. Marissa hosts a lot of parties here.

With Ty, the small room seems to shrink until there's barely any place I can move without bumping into him. Carefully, I edge around the table toward the copier and gesture for my friend to take a seat.

“What're you here for?”

Instead of sitting down, he leans over my shoulder. “Figured I'd come and see if you needed any help. Do you?”

“Sure. How good are you at binding shit?”

“I've got my master's certificate in binding things.” He playfully flexes for me.

“That'll come in handy,” I say sarcastically, mostly to cover up the way that my mouth grows dry at how every part of his body is so perfect.

His T-shirt is so worn that it clings to his abs in a way that should be outlawed. With his arm lifted and his biceps flexed, I can see the chiseled perfection of his stomach and chest.

I push the rock-hard biceps out of my way because friends are not supposed to be ogling friends like this. I point to the chair and the binding machine. “We're doing five hundred of these babies, so don't wear yourself out on the first batch.”

Ty gives me a jaunty salute and then drops into the chair. When he starts to fiddle with the knobs, I rush over.

“Don't do that.” I bat his hands away. “Van will have a fit. I once moved his armrest to the side and didn't reposition it the right way and he had a litter of kittens, yelling about how I shouldn't be touching his stuff.”

Ty's face grows dark. “Van Riley is a punk drunk on his own tiny amount of power.”

“I know.” I sigh and rub a weary hand across my forehead. “But when I graduate, I'll be done with him forever. At my next job, I promise you can play with the chair to your heart's content.”

He mumbles about wanting to play with something else.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He blows his hair out of his face. “I FaceTimed with Knox last night.”

“Yeah? What's he have to say?” I stack the first article onto the feeder, dial fifty copies and let the machine do its work.

“He got a haircut the other day.”

Ty sounds disgruntled and the sour expression on his face makes me laugh. “Let me guess. He has the same exact cut.”

“Yes.” He slams his palm on the desk. “How is that possible?”

“I think the better question is, why are you surprised?” Ty and Knox have a unique, almost eerie, connection. When Knox was going through a bad time with his girlfriend, Ty knew immediately. When Ty tore a ligament in his leg in the second to last game of the season but didn't tell anyone other than me, Knox was on the phone with him that night. They seem to know when the other is hurting or happy. Whether this is normal or extraordinary, I wouldn't know. Ty's the only twin I've ever encountered.

“I guess I shouldn't be by now.” He tips his head over the back of the chair at an angle that makes my neck ache just to watch. “Knox wanted me to go to the same school as him. Did I tell you this?”

He had, a while back, but it’s obvious he wants to talk so I make a noncommittal noise in the back of my throat. Wordlessly, I hand him a stack of papers. He sticks the first set into the binding machine.

“He wanted me to go to Western with him. Talked about all the Championships we could win together. He'd play the right side and I'd play the left. It's rare for a team to have one good pass rusher, let alone two, so our defense would dominate.”

“But you came here instead,” I say for him.

“Yep. Mom and Dad weren't thrilled because they worried we'd play against each other. Knox was pissed off because he felt that we shouldn't separate, but I…” He trails off.

“You wanted to have your own identity,” I supply.

“That sounds stupid when you say it out loud,” he grumbles.

I pluck the second stack of collated papers off the copy machine and dump them on the desk. “Which is why I said it.” I run a hand up the back of his undercut. “Knox probably got his hair cut this way because Ellie saw the same Snapchat post of Oliver Graham as I did. That's why I thought you should do it.”

“Yeah?” He leans into my palm.

The soft hair tickles my nerve endings and sends a tingling sensation from my hand to the middle of my legs. I drop my hand abruptly. His head falls back.

“Hey,” he protests.

I point to the papers. “Get to work.”

My tone is sharper than I intended, but Ty is unbothered. He merely pulls out his phone, plays some old-school hip-hop, and gets to work. For the next thirty minutes, I copy and collate while he runs the binding machine. Or rather, I copy and brood while he binds.

I don't know why I'm acting like this. Ty and I have been friends for four years. After our first encounter when he asked me out as a joke, we agreed that we'd be the best of friends and that's what we've been. For four years, I've leaned on him and he's leaned on me and all those awkward physical reactions that pop up with people you're attracted to have been easily pushed aside. Most of the time.

I guess my melancholy and recently discovered clinginess are due to the fact that we're parting in a little over two months. He'll be in whatever city, playing ball, being bombarded with more salacious invitations than he can handle, and I'll be in some gallery, putting together buy brochures for the artist du jour.

“That's a heavy sigh,” he remarks.

I twirl around to find him standing right behind me. At some point while I was brooding, he'd crept closer. Now there's barely enough space between us to fit one of the assignments. If I breathe, my tits will brush against his chest. So I don't breathe. But I can't help but notice the citrus scent of his shampoo, the mango orange one I bought him two weeks ago. Even though it's only nearing lunchtime, stubble has started to form on his chin. The urge to touch it is nearly irresistible.

I swallow, and the lump in my throat scratches every inch as it goes down to sit like a ball of lead in my gut.

“Something wrong?” Ty asks, dipping his head close to mine. His bright, gorgeous green eyes peer into mine. I can see myself in his pupil as he examines me.

I run my tongue across my lip to wet its dry surface. His eyes follow the trail. A gleam is there, one that my dirty mind reads as desire. Stop fantasizing, I scold myself. I lean back against the copier, trying to create some distance, but there isn't any to be found.

There's only his hard body a puff away from mine. I take a shallow breath.

“Ara?”

Is his voice husky or am I imagining it?

“Yeah?” I croak.

“You okay?”

I gather the two wits I have left and twist around to face the copy machine. Only now my ass is nestled up against his groin. Is that a—I close my eyes. Get a grip on yourself, girl!

“Of course I am,” I say out loud.

“Your face was red.” He leans forward, his arm reaching out.

“What are—”

His hand bypasses me and grabs a stack of papers off the copier. I slump against the machine, partly in relief and partly in regret. He wasn't there to feel me up, to tell me that our friendship wasn't enough or that he was tired of being my barely older brother on campus. He was reaching for more papers to bind.

I feel him shuffle back to the desk and I wait until the heat in my cheeks dwindles and my heart is pumping at a normal rate before turning around.

I drag the collar of my sweatshirt up over my mouth and stare at my muddled reflection in the window that overlooks the back alley. My ponytail is askew. My baby hairs have gotten loose and are curling around my face. I have a zit on the side of my cheek that won't seem to go away. I blame that on stress.

Fleur's warning rings in my ears. If I don't make a move on Ty now, it'll be too late…

I give myself a mental slap.

No. I'm not making a move on my friend. That's stupid. He'd run away screaming or fall over and laugh himself into a hernia. Neither response would be amusing to me. We're friends. Really good friends and that will last longer than any relationship, as evidenced by my long-running single status and his long-running inability to keep a relationship status.

“How's the paper going?” His question pulls me out of my stupid reverie.

“Decent. I wrote two pages last night.”

“Sounds good. How about our bunny?”

My heart lurches again. It sounds like he’s saying baby. What about our baby?

“I told you to pretend that you’ve never seen it.”

“You have any new pages?” he asks, ignoring my previous statement.

“If I did, you can't read them.”

“Why? I liked it.”

“You like it because we're friends.”

“Ah, no. You don't hesitate to tell me when I've had a bad game.”

“That's because you have a huge ego. Mine, as it relates to this project, is weak and fragile.”

“Hmmm. Okay.”

I cast a look over my shoulder. His head is down. I can only see his profile—the sharp jawline, the proud nose, the long eyelashes. I sigh silently and turn back to the copier. It beeps to let me know that it's out of paper. I bend down to change it. Behind me, Ty coughs.

“There's a bottle of water in my backpack,” I tell him.

“Got it.” He sounds funny, but it's probably because he's choking.

“This room is so dry,” I say.

“Uh huh.”

I shove the paper drawer closed and restart the machine. It whirs happily as it swallows a page and spits it out again.

“Who's Kathleen Leighton?” he says suddenly.

I spin around and see Kathleen’s business card between his long fingers.

“Ahhhhh,” I stall. What do I tell him? I can say it's no one or I can tell him the truth. I guess I need to know whether he needs it. “Your agent still on your case about finding a girlfriend before the combine?”

The corner of his lip twitches. I'll take that as a yes. Then a speculative expression creeps into his eyes.

“Oh no.” I'd back away but I'm already snugged up against the copy machine.

“Why not?” He stands up.

“Because.”

He takes a step forward. “You know me better than anyone except my family. We wouldn’t have to make up a complicated backstory. We say that we've been friends since your freshman year and recently discovered our feelings. Scouts, coaches, GMs will eat that shit up. Plus, I trust you.”

“No.”

“Why not?” he cajoles. “Come on. You'd be perfect.”

His feet are almost touching mine.

“All these fake dating situations end up the same way. Someone catches feelings and then gets hurt. Worse, our friendship would suffer.”

“You're too smart to fall in love with me.” He smiles confidently, reaching a hand out to touch my cheek.

I duck out of the way and scowl. Of course, he thinks he's immune.

“I'm talking about you,” I say sourly. “I don't want you to fall for me because then I'll have to break your heart and all our friends will get upset. They'll have to choose sides and since everyone loves me, you’ll be all alone.” Out of desperation, I grab the card from his fingers and hold it in front of his nose. “This girl wants you. Call her.”

I let it go. Predictably, he catches it. I turn and press the start button on the copier.

“What's this?” he asks. His voice isn't right at my ear, so I presume he's backed off. Thank God.

“If you're serious about getting a new girl, this one wants to audition.”

“Explain.”

“She approached me and Fleur when we were studying at the student union. Said that she saw Rhyann break up with you and figured she could handle you.”

“She sounds one apple short of a full barrel.”

I choke on a muffled laugh. “Fleur and I figure her for pre-law major. She knows what she wants and is going to acquire you.”

Ty's still silent. I peek over my shoulder to see him staring at the card like he's entranced.

“If you need a girl, then here's one who's ready, willing, and able. She already knows you're a terrible boyfriend and says that she can handle you because she's got a busy schedule.” The pitch for Ty to date someone else makes me slightly sick to my stomach. But we both know he can’t date me. And if he's so intrigued by her dumb business card, he might as well pursue her.

“She said all that?” He raises disbelieving eyes to meet mine.

“All of it. Ask Fleur if you don't believe me. She was there the whole time.”

“No, I believe you. It's just…weird. Right? That's weird.”

“It is, but….”

“But what?” he prompts.

“But this is the kind of thing I think you can expect. Didn't you tell me that Knox ran into a girl who snuck into the locker room by riding in a dirty laundry bin?”

He makes a face and nods.

“Sounds like having a girlfriend is good protection, and if it helps you in the draft, then maybe it's for the best.”

“I still think this is bananas.” But he tucks the card in his pocket.

My heart sinks. Suddenly, I don’t want Ty around. “I can finish the rest by myself.”

He eyes the pile of unbound brochures skeptically. “Really.”

“Yes.” I give him a push. “Besides, Marissa and Van will be back and if they see you helping me, I’ll get in trouble.”

“Those two need a boot up their ass,” he grumbles. “I don’t know why you haven’t quit yet.”

“Because this looks good on my résumé.”

“You only need to put down that Artie’s your dad.”

This time I push Ty as hard as I can. “Okay, and you can drop Dana and sign with your brother’s agent.”

“Low blow, Martin.” But he's not seriously offended and, more importantly, he leaves.

I sag in relief the moment he’s gone. Really. Relief is totally what I’m feeling. Not regret.