“Oh, come on,” she said, thumping her head back against the headrest of the cab in exaggerated frustration. “Give me my report card already.”

Hunter laughed. “When you’re ready.”

“I’m beyond ready,” she said with a smile.

And she was. The faux date with Hunter had been . . . nice. So nice, in fact, that she’d forgotten that it was supposed to be a faux anything. It had simply felt like a wonderful night out with a friend.

But, no, that wasn’t quite right either.

She’d had dinner with Hunter dozens of times over the years, and this was decidedly different, and yet somehow . . . the same?

It had been all the joy of being comfortable, with a slightly heightened awareness. She didn’t know if it was the dress or the champagne, but she’d never been quite so conscious that she was female and Hunter male.

She’d always thought of Hunter as being relaxed and easy, and he sort of was, but tonight there’d been something else as well. There’d been a quiet intensity about him. When he looked at her, she felt it. When he listened to her talk, she felt like the most important person in the room—in the world. Tonight, he hadn’t been her boss, but he hadn’t been just her friend either. It had been . . . different.

It was both lovely and a little unnerving, which meant now that they were headed to her apartment, she was doubly determined to bring them back to the point of the evening.

An assessment of her dating skills.

“You really didn’t have to see me all the way home,” she said, glancing over at him.

He shrugged. “Maybe it’s old-fashioned, but I think a quality date is worthy of escorting a woman home. Even here in the city. If he doesn’t escort you home, it’s a sign he’s not interested.”

“It is an old-fashioned mindset. But sort of nice.” Then she added, “Unless the guy’s a creeper. Then I don’t want him to know where I live.”

“Obviously,” he said. “You get a lot of those? The creepy types?”

“Not so much. No one I’ve ever felt threatened by or anything like that. But neither have there been that many I’ve invited back to my place after the first date.”

“Guess I’m special.”

Brit laughed. “Guess you invited yourself and got into the cab with me.”

“You want your report card or not?”

“Right, there’s that,” she said, feeling suddenly nervous. What if he’d had an awful time? What if she was even worse at dating than she thought? What if . . .

The cab pulled up outside her building. She knew better than to try to pay. Even when they weren’t dating, he never let her pay the cab fare.

After they were out of the cab, Brit started to walk toward her apartment out of habit.

Hunter grabbed her elbow, gently brought her around, and pulled her to a secluded alcove at the front of her building.

She looked at him in question, and he gave a slight smile. “You said you don’t often have guys up after the first date.”

“No, hardly ever.”

“Well, then.” He pushed his hands into his coat pockets. “We should continue to play the part.”

“But we need to debrief—”

“You were perfect,” he interrupted.

Brit’s breath caught. “What?”

He glanced down at his feet briefly, then back up at her. “Your report card. A. Five stars. Whatever.”

“Oh, come on,” she said with a laugh, regaining her footing. “I didn’t ask you to help me with this to stroke my ego. You can give it to me straight. Did I talk too much, or not enough, or—”

Hunter laid a single finger across her mouth, stopping her words. “No. Perfect.”

Brit swallowed, looking up at him wordlessly.

He slowly withdrew his hand, seeming as surprised by the contact as she felt, as though he’d acted on instinct and hadn’t actually meant to touch her.

He cleared his throat. “I just mean . . . I had a good time tonight. A great time. You’re searching for some sort of secret weapon or tip; the best I can say is . . . just be you. Once you got out of your head and quit thinking about the fact that you were on a date, it became a really good date.”

Brit fiddled with her earring as she considered his advice. “Now that you mention it, I do tend to think during dates a lot. I just always want to make sure the guy’s comfortable, that even if he doesn’t want me, he likes me. Does that make sense?”

“It does.” His hands were back in his pockets. “You like to put other people at ease. You always have.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No,” he said slowly. “It’s not bad. Not at work, or at a cocktail party. But on a date, you don’t want the guy to be too at ease.”

“But you just said I was better when I was more relaxed!”

“Exactly. You were captivating when you weren’t so damn worried about whether or not I was having a good time. It made me want to ensure you were having a good time—”

“I did,” she interrupted, then looked away, embarrassed by her outburst.

“I’m glad,” he said quietly. “But you get what I’m saying, right? A guy wants to feel comfortable, and you’re good at that, but a bit of mystery isn’t such a bad thing either. Make him wonder a little.”

Brit made a rueful face. “But I’m sort of what you see is what you get. I don’t really do mystery.”

“You did tonight. I found myself wondering what you were thinking. What was going through your head when you made those noises when you sipped your champagne. The less you worried about whether or not I was having a good time, the better time I had.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Brit said with a frown.

Hunter lifted a shoulder. “You asked for my input. There it is. You said you trust me. Trust me on this. The key to being irresistible? Quit trying so damn hard to be everyone’s best friend. Just be you.”

“Says my actual best friend.”

She smiled. He smiled back.

“All right,” he said. “Now that we’ve covered the best practices of the actual date, show me how you end a date.”

“What do you mean, how I end it? It just . . . ends.”

“Brit, Brit, Brit,” he said, making a gentle scolding noise. “You have much to learn.”

She scratched her nose. “Okay, Coach. How does one end a date that was fantastic but is not going to end in the guy coming upstairs?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether or not the first date was first-kiss worthy.”

She swallowed, and though instinct demanded her to gaze at his mouth, she kept her eyes on his. “All right . . . walk me through both scenarios, Professor.”

“All right,” he said in a low voice. “Let’s say the date had potential, enough that you’re open to a repeat, but not so great that you’re aching for the kiss.”

“Aching? I don’t think that I’ve ever ached for a kiss in my life.”

He shook his head. “Oh, Robbins. You’re in more trouble than I thought. But before we get to that part, let’s see the first scenario through. You want to see him again, maybe, but you’re not feeling the kiss vibe. What do you do?”

Brit thought about it. Lifted her right hand for a shake. “Thanks for the date. I had a really nice time.”

He gave her hand a playful smack. “Put that away; it’s not an interview.”

She laughed and rubbed her stinging hand. “Okay, what, then?”

“Role reversal,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I’m you, and you’re some poor schmuck who was an okay first date but not nearly as good as I just was.”

She rolled her eyes. “Uh-huh.”

He ignored her sarcasm and instead took a half step closer, his expression suddenly transitioning from Hunter, BFF, to . . . something else.

Damn, the man’s a good actor, she realized with a start. Suddenly he really was someone else, someone she’d been out with, who had a seductive, enigmatic look about him.

His hands rested lightly on her shoulders, and he gave a slight smile. “Thanks,” he said in a low voice. “I had a really nice time tonight.”

He leaned forward and brushed her cheek before stepping away. “I’ll see you around?”

He turned as though to leave, then came around to face her, regular Hunter back in place as he grinned. “Now you try.”

Brit gave herself a quick mental shake. This is just Hunter. This is just Hunter.

“All right,” she said. This seemed easy enough.

She took a deep breath and looked up at him, pretending he was an attractive guy who didn’t quite give her butterflies yet but might in time.

Brit smiled and stepped toward him, resting a hand lightly on his chest as she lifted to her toes and kissed his cheek, a whisper of a touch, a maybe more someday kind of peck.

“I had a great time,” she murmured as she pulled back, letting her hand slide away from his chest. Slowly.

She omitted the coy see you around from Hunter’s script in favor of a lingering smile while taking a step backward and holding eye contact for a moment too long, then turned and pretended to walk away.

Brit whirled around, eager for feedback. “Well?”

Hunter grinned. “Not bad, Robbins. Not bad. I’d be calling you for sure. How’d it feel?”

“A little odd,” she admitted. “My normal approach is to make sure he thinks I had the best time, even if I didn’t, because I don’t want to hurt his feelings. But I get your point. This leaves the door open without locking either of us into something that may not seem so appealing tomorrow.”

“Exactly. Okay, now let’s take it a step further. Let’s say sex isn’t on the table, but a second date definitely is. What’s your move?”

“Ummm . . . I don’t have one?”

“All right,” he said patiently. “Are you a kisser or a wait-to-be-kissed?”

“Wait-to-be-kissed,” Brit said without hesitation.

He tilted his head. “Always?”

“Would we be here if I was bursting with romantic confidence?” she pointed out. “I don’t exactly fancy myself the world’s best kisser; I’m certainly not going to force it on someone.”

“Okay, we’ll deal with that complex later,” he murmured. “For now let’s work on getting him to kiss you.”

“Ah—” She felt a stab of panic. “We’re not going to . . . you know . . . when I suggested a practice date, I didn’t mean we’d actually have to—”

“Brit. Relax,” Hunter said. “I’m not actually going to do it.”

Relief surged through her. And something else as well . . .

“All right,” he said matter-of-factly, stepping closer to her once more so they were face-to-face, only a few inches separating them. “I know that a woman wants me to kiss her not by what she says but by the way she moves, the way she looks at me.”

“That sounds complicated,” Brit said. “Surely there’s some code word as a shortcut?”

“Sorry, but words aren’t a part of this dance. Or, rather, they can be, but they’re not the important part.”

He moved even closer as he said it, and Brit resisted the urge to step back. Suddenly everything felt like too much. The champagne, the easy conversation, the laughter, the touching, and now this? It was more than she’d bargained for, the waters feeling muddier than she’d ever anticipated. . . .

“Not like that,” Hunter said gently. “You’re leaning away, you see? Your neck is pulled back. You seem terrified.”

I am terrified.

“Relax,” he said again. “Lean into me, just a little. Tell me you had a really great time.”

Brit let herself lean in slightly, but she kept her eyes on the collar of his wool jacket. “I had a really great time.”

“Look at me as you say it,” Hunter commanded.

Brit’s eyes lifted, met his familiar hazel gaze, which no longer felt warm and safe so much as hot and . . . tempting.

“I had a really great time tonight,” Brit whispered, meaning it. Without realizing it, she leaned into him even more.

“Good,” he whispered back. Hunter’s hand lifted to her cheek, his fingers skimming her cheekbone lightly before cupping her face in his warm palm. “Me too.”

Brit felt the bustle of the New York weeknight fading away. She ceased to hear the relentless chorus of taxi horns blaring, the shrill wail of a distant siren. She probably knew some of the people passing them on the sidewalk, approaching her building, but she wasn’t aware of them.

There was only Hunter, the touch of his hand on her face, the way his breath whispered against her lips as he dipped his head lower.

Brit’s hands lifted, seemingly of their own accord, coming to rest lightly against the lapels of his jacket.

This, she realized as her eyes fluttered closed. This was what it meant to ache for a kiss. To want it so badly, a little piece of you would die if you didn’t feel his lips on yours, like she couldn’t survive if Hunter didn’t kiss her. . . .

Hunter.

Brit’s eyes flew open, her alarmed gaze locking with his equally shocked one.

His hand pulled away from her face, and she snatched her hands away from his chest in panic.

She quickly stepped back, and Hunter gave a nervous laugh as he ran his hand over his hair.

“Ah—okay, so . . . you got it? You got it,” he repeated with a grin that looked just a little bit forced. “A-plus, top notch.”

Top notch?

She nearly smiled, relieved that she wasn’t the only one unnerved by the moment.

“Great,” she said. “Thanks for the lesson.”

“Yup,” he said, giving her a smile that was a little more like himself.

Crisis averted, she thought with relief.

“I’d better get inside,” she said, nodding back toward her apartment building. “My boss scheduled an eight-thirty meeting tomorrow.”

“He sounds like a real a-hole.”

“I’m pretty sure he’ll make sure we have donuts.”

Hunter said nothing, and she gave him a look. “You are getting donuts delivered, right?”

He rolled his eyes. “I guess I am now.”

“Good,” she said happily, turning away. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you.”

Brit didn’t let herself check to see if he was still standing there.

She was too afraid that he would be. Was even more afraid that he wouldn’t be.

Heck, she was terrified that the entire moment had been one-sided, that he hadn’t felt what she’d felt. . . .

She glanced over her shoulder.

Hunter hadn’t moved. He was watching her with a pensive expression on his face, shoulders hunched slightly against the brisk wind. He lifted a hand in farewell.

She gave a jaunty wave back and smiled before entering her building.

Her smile slipped once she was out of his line of sight. She didn’t know if she was relieved or bothered by the fact that she wasn’t the only one who’d felt it. Whatever it was. She knew Hunter, and she knew from his facial expression that he was as perplexed as she was by whatever had just happened.

It was only a mood thing, she reassured herself, greeting her doorman and heading to the elevators. Just a onetime fluke. Like two actors pretending in a temporary role . . .

But it hadn’t felt like pretending.

And the thought that it was a onetime fluke was strangely . . . depressing.