CHAPTER TEN

The next afternoon, I’m watching as a little white ball soars high in the air, then lands with a plunk on fake grass about fifteen feet away.

“Dude, you suck,” I tell Nick.

“Well aware of that.”

He grabs another ball, sets it down on the tee, and swings his club. When he makes contact, the ball sails so damn high, it nearly hits the top of the black net, then smacks the long path of green that extends below like a dock over the Hudson River. Two white dinner cruise ships are moored next to the driving range, and nothing but blue skies stretch above us. We’re at Chelsea Piers, where he’s working on his golf game.

“Hate to break it to you, but I doubt your new boss is going to be terribly impressed with your swing. Maybe you can convince him to play softball with us instead.”

He scoffs. “Not likely. The man is obsessed with golf, and word is he plays favorites and gives better time slots to the showrunners who keep up with him on the course.”

“That’s insane. But if that’s true, you need less shoulder. More hips,” I tell him, since I dabbled in golf in high school. I don’t talk about it much. Makes me sound too snooty. Or too old. But if it helps my buddy, I’ll call up the old golf skill book for him.

Nick raises his face and stares at me through his black hipster glasses, his brown hair flopping down on his forehead. “Don’t you dare put your hands on my hips to show me.”

I crack up, holding up my hands in surrender. “You can count on that never happening,” I say, as I move out of the way of his next attempt.

He does better this time, and the ball arcs neatly over the grass.

“There you go,” I say. “Write that into your next episode. Mr. Orgasm’s buddy saves his ass from embarrassing himself with his golf swing in front of the new boss.”

Nick Hammer is a rock star in the TV world. Back in high school, he was the quiet geek bent over his notebook sketching dirty comic strips that he posted online. Ten years later, he turned his talent and his concept into an animated TV show—The Adventures of Mr. Orgasm, a hilarious and filthy show that airs late at night on the cable network Comedy Nation. The hero is an animated caped crusader who bestows orgasmic pleasure on womankind. Pretty sure it was wish fulfillment for Nick back in high school. Now, art imitates life and vice versa. He’s still got a quiet side, but women notice him. He’s hit the weights since our teenage days, inked up his arms with tattoos he designed himself, and found the guts to finally start talking to the opposite sex. The result? Pure magic. The man’s a total tomcat, and I suspect the glasses and unassuming I-once-was-a-geek-now-I’m-a-star persona helps his cause with the ladies.

“And how exactly does the coming come into play in this storyline you propose?” he asks dryly.

I shrug and clap him on the shoulder. “Don’t know. That’s why you, my man, are the writer. It’s your job to figure out how the Os fit into the show. Speaking of storylines, I need a little help with something,” I say, getting to the heart of this quick detour I’ve made to see him this afternoon.

He sets down his club, and crooks his finger. “It’s called the G-spot. You find it inside a woman. When you hit it at just the right angle, she comes harder than she ever has before. Need anything else?”

I pretend to bang a drumstick as soundtrack to his punchline, then I tell him about my new temporary relationship status.

After he laughs, guffaws, and chuckles over my predicament, he asks, “Is this your way of asking me to be your best man? Will the wedding be fake, too?”

I laugh and shake my head. “There won’t be a wedding. Ever. But this is what I need. When we have our softball game next weekend, my dad will be there, and his buyer will be there. All I need is for you to act like you knew I was into her. If it comes up, don’t act surprised or suspicious.” My dad runs a mixed-age softball team sponsored by Katharine’s, and he recruited both Nick and me for his team this year. Nick’s softball swing is worlds better than his golf swing.

He nods several times, like he’s taking in my directive, then he strokes his chin. “Let me get this straight. What you’re saying is, I should behave like I’m perfectly capable of backing up the latest bullshit of yours. Okay. I think I can do that.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s why I depend on you. The bottomless well of sarcasm.”

“It matches yours,” he says with a smirk.

“I need to take off, since I have this dinner thing tonight. I’ll catch you later.”

I start to head out, when he calls out to me. “Does this mean I can’t put the moves on Charlotte now?”

My shoulders tense for a moment and that fiery burst of possessiveness returns with a vengeance, like a red-tailed hawk swooping down from the sky, big-ass claws brandished. I remind myself he’s joking. That’s what he does. And I’m not the least bit jealous or possessive. The hawk turns into a dove. “Just for the next week or so,” I say. “Then she’s all yours.”

But those words feel all wrong coming out of my mouth. Even if she’s not mine, she can’t be his. And I’m not a motherfucking bird of peace.

“I always thought you two would make a cute couple,” he says in a sugar-sweet voice.

As I walk off, he makes mock kissing sounds. I’m pretty sure he’s singing the kissing tree song, and it’s definitely my cue to put him in the rearview mirror.

Besides, I need to get in character for tonight.

Because this is all an act.

Nothing more.