I wake with a luxurious stretch the next morning, starfished out on a king-sized mattress. Deliciously well-rested, and blissfully alone.

Now this is more like it.

After yesterday’s luggage debacle—and the macrobiotic mocktail hour on the veranda, and the revelation that one of Vanessa’s bridesmaids is a sleepwalker with a tendency toward physical violence—I put my foot down and checked us into a hotel near my dad’s. It has clean sheets, an ocean breeze, and a sizeable mini-bar, too. Ryan’s in the adjoining room in case anyone drops by, but that connecting door is staying locked shut.

Bliss.

I get dressed and call Alice, who’s holding the fort back in New York. “How’s it going up there?” I ask, switching to speakerphone while I do my makeup.

“All quiet,” she promises, and I can’t tell whether I’m imagining the hint of wistfulness in her voice. “I’m just running client research, taking messages. Everything’s totally under control. What about you?”

“Well, I made it through a whole day without melting down, so that’s something,” I sigh. “But faking happiness for my dad takes a lot of energy. At least I’ll get a break today,” I add. “We’re heading into Miami for Ryan’s big investor meetings. That, I can handle.”

“Of course you can,” Alice says loyally. “If you want, I can call ahead and book you some spa treatments at the hotel?”

“You’re the best,” I tell her, blotting my lipstick with a tissue. “I’ll bring you back a drink in a coconut.”

“I’d also accept a handsome fisherman,” she says with a laugh. “Have a good time.”

I’m just hanging up when there’s a knock on the connecting door between my room and Ryan’s. He eases it open with one theatrical hand clapped over his eyes. “You decent?” he calls.

“Come on in.”

Ryan lowers his hand, his face breaking into a grin. “That is . . . quite the ensemble.”

“Thank you.” I look down at my hot-pink tennis skirt and screaming-green Key West is for Lovers T-shirt, which I’ve paired oh-so-tastefully with yesterday’s nude pumps. “It was all they had at the gift shop. I’ll go shopping for real when we get to Miami.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, making a big show of checking me out. “I think you look kind of cute.”

“Uh-huh.” I laugh, and strike a pose. “Vanessa’s going to have a field day with this.”

“You’re sure she trashed your bags on purpose?” Ryan asks. “I don’t know, that sounds kind of . . .”

“Petty? Mean? Psychotic?” I finish for him. “Sounds about right to me! I know her, remember? She would pull this shit in college all the time. Once, she borrowed my favorite shirt, spilled wine and vomited all over it, then put it back in my closet and swore blind she’d never touched it. It literally had puke stains all down the front. She said maybe I’d blacked out I was so drunk and forgot!”

He laughs. “Well, remember I’m here as a buffer. If you feel like you’re going to say something you regret, just let me know. I’ll run interference.”

I pause, touched. “Thanks. I’m going to run down and get coffee before we go. Do you want anything?” I add.

“I already had my shake and went for a run,” he says.

“Of course you did.”

“Hey, just because I’m out of the game, doesn’t mean I don’t need to stay in shape.” He flexes and winks at me, and dammit if his body doesn’t look great in that cotton button-down and jeans. “Just let me just grab the rest of my stuff and I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“See you down there.”

I exit the quaint, beach-front hotel and head down the block to the nearest coffee shop. It’s another hot, humid day, and when I catch sight of myself in the glass, I can see my hair is already puffing up to twice its normal size.

This is what happens when you take my super-smoothing de-frizz serum away.

I make another note on my phone to stock up when we hit Miami. Thanks to my control freak—I mean, super-organized habits, I made lists of everything to pack, which should make it easy to replace everything, at least. I’m just scrolling the list when I step into the coffee shop.

“Just an iced coffee, thanks.”

The voice makes me stop in my tracks. Is that . . . ?

I whip my head around, and there he is. Standing at the counter waiting for his order, dressed in a pale-blue polo shirt and pair of madras plaid shorts, is none other than—

“Tristan?”

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, then does a double take. “Olivia!” he says, his handsome face breaking into a wide, toothy smile. “Oh my God, hey!”

He enfolds me in a hug. “Can you believe all this?” he asks, shaking his head as he releases me. “Vanessa and your dad?”

“Tell me about it.” I manage a smile, eagerly looking him over. Sure, he looks slightly older—and, OK, paunchier—than he did on Instagram, but who hasn’t used a filter from time to time?

It’s Tristan. My teenage self’s number-one crush. And he’s here.

And I’m looking like a color-blind tourist who just stepped off the cruise ship.

I reach up and fluff my hair, hoping to distract from the fact that I’m dressed for a Golf Pros and Tennis Hoes theme party.

“So how are things, huh?” I ask brightly. “What have you been up to?” As if I couldn’t recreate his entire calendar based on my social media deep dive.

Tristan smiles. “Same old,” he says, like it hasn’t been nearly ten years since we saw each other last. “Busy with work. Getting in some time on the golf course, you know how it is.”

“Oh yeah? What are you up to these days?” I’ve always imagined him doing something exciting in D.C.—speechwriting for a high-profile senator, maybe, or lobbying for human rights reform on Capitol Hill. The kind of job someone would make a smartly-written-but-still-inspirational TV show about.

“I’m in insurance,” Tristan replies. “Number one salesman in my region, three years running!”

“Oh?” I blink. “OK! That’s cool. Do you like it?” Maybe there’s something fascinating about coverage and premiums I don’t know about.

“I love it,” he says, taking his coffee from the barista. “I do boats, mostly.”

“Boats?” I repeat.

“Sure,” he says. “Yachts, for instance. Fishing boats. Schooners.” He ticks them off on his fingers, like that guy in Forrest Gump naming all the things you can do with shrimp.

“Wow,” I say, nodding enthusiastically. “Boats!”

He smiles again, and just like that, I feel nineteen again. “What about you, New York City girl?” he asks. “I’ll be honest, the one bright spot of coming all the way down here for this circus was knowing I’d get to catch up with you. And you look amazing.”

My heart does an ecstatic cartwheel inside my chest. “I feel exactly the same way,” I confess. “It’s been way, way too long since we saw each other.”

I’m about to ask more about his life when Ryan strolls into the coffee shop. “Hey babe,” he says, slinging one arm casually over my shoulder. He plants a kiss against my cheek and holds one hand out in Tristan’s direction. “Ryan Callahan.”

Tristan’s eyes widen. “Oh, wow, hey, dude. I’m a huge fan.”

“This is Tristan,” I explain as they shake. “Vanessa’s brother.”

“Great to meet you,” Ryan says, keeping his arm around me.

Tristan looks back and forth between us, a little uncertain. “Are you two . . . ?”

“Sure are,” Ryan says, grinning wider. He’s taller than Tristan—broader, too, in his chest and shoulders—and next to him, Tristan looks kind of . . . small. “We’re headed to Miami for the night—little couples getaway—but we’ll see you around for wedding stuff, yeah?”

“Sure,” Tristan says, and I’m not sure if I’m imagining a flicker of disappointment across his delectably symmetrical face. “I’ll see you guys around.”

“Bye, Tristan!” I call after him.

“So,” Ryan says teasingly, once we’ve gotten our coffee and are headed down the street. He’s still got an arm around my shoulders, his body warm beside me. “Tristan.”

“Uh-huh,” I murmur vaguely, taking a sip of coffee. I made the executive decision not to mention him to Ryan when we were planning this trip. It just didn’t seem like information he needed, but now a part of me wonders if possibly he just figured it out anyway. “We knew each other back in college,” I say, with a shrug. “Not that it should matter, PS. Fake jealousy is not part of this fake relationship.”

“Oh, I’m not jealous,” Ryan says cheerfully, winking at me as he unlocks the car door. “I just wanna send him a signed jersey. You know, make his day.”

I slip into the passenger seat. “So tell me more about these investors,” I say, pulling a notebook out of my purse and uncapping my favorite fountain pen. “Anything in particular I should know before this party tonight?”

Ryan glances at me out of the corner of his eye as we get on the road. “Are you taking notes right now?”

I grin. “Possibly.”

“You are a trip, you know that?”

“I have been told that in the past, yes.”

“I bet you have,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then he clears his throat. “It’s a team of investors headed up by a guy named Mason Dubeck,” he tells me. “He’s the one who invited me down for the weekend so I can see what they’re about.”

“And vice versa,” I point out. “Speaking of which, why do you think PowerBar is a good fit for him, exactly?”

“It’s the next wave of fast food: healthy, delicious, and convenient . . .” Ryan launches into his pitch, and although I’ve heard it before, and I’ve done a little research of my own, I’m still surprised by the knowledge and enthusiasm he’s got for this project—facts and figures, plus a unique, personal spin. “I think even your new step-mom would love it,” he finishes, “and lord knows she’s a fucking weirdo about food.”

I laugh. “Well, I’m sold, if that counts for anything.”

“It does. It’s corny, but I do actually believe in this thing,” he tells me. “I think there’s a hole in the marketplace. I just have to convince these suits.” He pauses for a moment, frowning at the highway. “Anyway, it’ll be fine. Mason’s a bigshot, sure, but at the end of the day he’s just a person, right? Like any other person.”

“Right,” I agree, glancing over at him. He’s nervous, I realize suddenly. For the first time since I’ve met him, Ryan Callahan is showing that he’s a mere mortal, and not just a supremely charming, outrageously attractive sports god.

Is it weird I like him better this way?

Once we get to the hotel in Miami, we check into our (separate) rooms. Ryan hits the beach for a workout—“It relaxes me”—and I hit the shops. I spend the afternoon in the Design District replacing my dearly departed wardrobe, chatting with friendly salesgirls as I load up on the essentials. By the time I get back to the hotel for a shower and quick blowout in the salon downstairs I’ve got just enough time to shimmy into my new white cocktail dress, adding a pair of tall wedge sandals and some tasteful gold jewelry before heading downstairs to catch a cab to meet Ryan. In the car, I get a text from Hallie.

So? How’s life on the other side of the desk?

I smile. When she heard I was the one going out on assignment this time, Hallie thought it was hilarious. She’s convinced that Ryan and I are going to wind up like her and Max, and she won’t be convinced otherwise.

All good here, I write back. Very professional.

Oh yeah? ;)

Yes!

It’s not even a lie. After all, I’ve followed the script to the letter. We’ve faked affection, but only in public, and I haven’t said or done anything that would cross the line.

My thoughts, on the other hand . . .

I tuck my phone away and touch up my lipstick as I arrive for the party. Ryan’s first event is a cocktail party on the roof a swanky hotel downtown. There’s a bar set up on one side of the lushly landscaped patio and a jazz band swinging away on the other. Twinkly white lights make a canopy against the dusky sky. Ryan’s already here, standing near the bar talking to an older guy in a seersucker blazer and clutching a Manhattan on the rocks.

Damn, Ryan looks good tonight. He’s wearing a crisp button-down that still clings to his torso, and he’s definitely standing out with his athletic physique compared to all the finance guys.

He looks over and catches me ogling. He excuses himself, and he comes over, dropping a kiss on my cheek. “Is it hot up here?” he asks, yanking at his collar. “I feel like I’m sweating my balls off.”

I laugh. Not so smooth, after all. “I mean, it’s Miami,” I point out, taking in his lightweight navy suit pants and the cool, classic watch on his wrist. “You look great.”

“Thanks,” he says, looking distracted.

“You OK?” I ask, taking in his furrowed brow and the faint twitch of a muscle in his sharp, chiseled jaw. “Ready to do this?’

“Yep,” Ryan says, his voiced oddly clipped. “Great.”

OK, then.

Ryan goes to get me a drink while I take a moment to scan the party, trying to get a read on the crowd. I’m not here to troll for new clients, necessarily, but there’s no harm in mixing a little business with . . . well. Other business, I guess.

Plus, it helps to get the lay of the land. After all, I’m here to back up Ryan, so I find him at the bar and steer him into the crowd. I’m expecting him to hold court the same way he did at brunch yesterday—the same way he’s done in every social situation I’ve ever seen him in, gregarious and charming and just the slightest bit goofy—but instead, with every new introduction, his expression is anxious, even pained.

“Herbert Carver, AMC Capital.”

“Uh. Hi, I’m Callahan. I mean, Ryan Callahan. I’m not with anyone. Except Olivia here. Did you meet? She’s my, uh, Olivia.”

It almost hurts to watch, and it doesn’t get any better as the evening continues. Ryan alternates between fumbled, slow responses and wild chattering. I can practically see the beads of nervous sweat forming on his forehead.

He’s tanking, I realize.

Majorly.

I can’t watch anymore, especially knowing how much this means to him. “I’m sorry,” I interrupt, curling my hand around Ryan’s bicep. “Can I just borrow him for one moment?”

Ryan doesn’t argue. He lets me lead him over to a quiet corner near the edge of the rooftop. Miami is glowing in the twilight, but right now I don’t care about the scenery, I need to deal with the car wreck right in front of me. “OK.” I grab a glass of water from a passing waiter and shove it into his hand. “Take a deep breath, drink this, and talk to me. What the hell is going on with you tonight?”

He looks tense. “Everything’s fine.”

“Sure. I just watched you bomb with like, five different investors. You were talking about your favorite jockstrap. Ryan, come on, you’re better than this!”

“How would you even know that?” he says sharply, then blows out a frustrated breath. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m dying out there!”

I soften. “What’s going on? I’ve seen you work a crowd. You normally have people eating out of your hand.”

“I don’t know!” He rakes a hand through his thick, wavy hair. “I guess I get spooked around guys like this,” he admits, glancing at the scrum of finance bros milling around the bar—Tristan types, I realize suddenly, polished and moneyed and the tiniest bit bland. “I didn’t grow up around that kind of cash. I don’t know how to schmooze. That’s why I brought you along, remember?”

“I know,” I sigh, reaching out before I can think better of it. I rub soothingly up and down his arm—absolutely ignoring his muscles. “But you can do this. The whole point is, you’re different. You’re not from this world, and that’s your angle. They know facts and figures, but you have the experience to back it up. PowerBar is a great idea, and you’re exactly the right guy to sell it.”

“I thought so, but tonight?” He shakes his head again, defeated. “I’m not so sure.”

“I am,” I insist. “I mean it, Ryan. You’ve got this. You’re smart, and capable, and funny as all hell.”

That gets his attention. “You think I’m funny?” he asks, looking surprised.

I grin. “From time to time. The point is, who are these people anyway? A bunch of boring, uptight finance guys? You’re Ryan freaking Callahan. You could walk into any other bar in the city and have guys lining up to shake your hand—and girls throwing their panties at you.”

Ryan grins. “This is quite the pep talk you’re giving me here.”

I smile. “Is it working yet?”

“Almost. You forgot to tell me how handsome I am, though.”

I laugh out loud. “Oh my God, seriously?”

“Aw, come on,” he teases, curling a hand around my waist and squeezing gently. “I need you. My poor ego took a bruising. Isn’t this part of your job?”

“Fine. You’re very handsome,” I say, rolling my eyes—although it’s not like it isn’t true. “Is that what you need to hear?”

“Yes, actually,” he says with a smile before glancing me up and down. His expression is appreciative, like he’s seeing me for the first time. “You’re not so bad-looking yourself, princess. That’s a pretty dress.”

A warm, pleased flush creeps over my skin. I like the feeling of his eyes on me way too much for a gig like this.

Boundaries. Professionalism. Remember?

“Come on,” I say, dragging my attention back to the point. “Let’s go knock ‘em dead.”