The water conservatory has always been my favorite part of Central Park. As a child, this place was my haven. My father would bring me and Jasper here every Sunday to sail the boats, and even though he’s long since grown too busy, and Jas and I have become too old, I still honor that tradition every week. It is a place I come to think, to be alone, and to watch the boats on the water when I need a time-out from the hustle and bustle of the city. That’s why I suggested it when Pop Tart insisted that we meet one week after returning from Vegas. Why she wanted to do that is beyond me.

It’s a stunning winter day with a cloudy grey sky, and the trees are barren and beautiful with their gnarled limbs as they sway on the afternoon breeze. There are hardly any boats on the water, and even less people in the park. Pop Tart is already here though, standing in line at the café.

I cross the park. She’s ordering a hot cocoa, and I stand close behind her. Too close. She stiffens, and I’m sure she’s about to turn and give me hell when I say to the cashier, “I’ll take a coffee, black, because I’m an adult.” Poppy glares up at me. “She’s paying,” I say to the cashier.

Poppy sighs and hands the cashier a handful of dollar bills. “Can you back up, please? God, you’re such a mouth breather.”

“Hey Pop Tart, nice to see you too.”

The woman hands us our drinks, but before Poppy can take hers I reach over and place another cardboard ring on her cup. “Here let me get you another sleeve for that. We don’t want you to burn your hands and get an ouchie.”

She rewards me with a snide smile. “Hot cocoa is a perfectly acceptable drink for an adult on a cold midwinter day.”

I watch on in horror as she removes the lid and pours in three sugars. “I don’t know how your body is this banging. I’ve never met anyone who looks like you and eats that much sugar.”

“Well, I work hard for this ass.”

“And the men of New York thank you.”

“Oh please, it’s not like I do it for them.”

“Then why do it?”

She smiles. “It’s my punishment for eating sugar.”

“You know I could help out with that. Just say the word and I’ll happily bring my hand down on your ass and give you a good, hard spanking.” I take a sip of my coffee. It’s so hot it scalds my tongue and throat. That’s good. Pain is good. It will remind me to quit fucking flirting with her.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot you were strictly vanilla. Hashtag hooray for missionary.”

“I am not that vanilla. I don’t even like missionary. That was Chase.” She stops walking, shakes her head, and throws up her free hand. “Why am I even talking to you about this?”

“Because deep down you want to say yes to me spanking you.”

“You’re sick.”

“And this feels very much like a date. So tell me, Pop Tart, why are we in Central Park on a Sunday, drinking coffee—or in your case cocoa?”

“I wanted to talk to you about your duties as the best man.”

“My duties? Didn’t I already fulfill them by flying Chase to Vegas and throwing him a spectacular bachelor weekend that was spectacularly crashed by you and his lovely bride-to-be?”

“No, your duties are to make sure he’s there on time, make sure you have the rings, ensure—”

“Wait. I have to have the rings?”

“Yes, Leo, that is typically the job of the best man. Have you never been to a wedding before?”

“Of course I have. I’m just not obsessive compulsive about it like some people.”

“I am not obsessive compulsive about weddings.”

“Um, yes. Yes, you are. You made a career out of it.”

“Well, at least I don’t sit in a boardroom all day with a bunch of stuffy suits debating whether to give away free pretzels or peanuts.”

“Aww, your ignorance is so cute.” I ruffle her hair. Poppy swats at my hand with her gloved one and gives me a pissy look as she smooths down her already wind-tousled curls. It’s fucking adorable how she has to be so perfect all the time. “So, that’s the reason you called me here? To tell me I have to look after the rings?”

“Well, yes, and I was wondering what you’re getting them as a wedding gift.”

I shrug and shove my hands in my coat pockets. “Beats the shit outta me. A bottle of scotch for him and some lingerie for her?”

“So really you’re buying both gifts for Chase.”

“Sure, if you want to look at it that way.”

Poppy stares at me, incredulous. “You have to get them more than that.”

“Okay, then what are you getting them?”

“I don’t know.” She bites her lip, and it’s fucking torture.

“Wait, what? You don’t know? Bridal Barbie has no clue what to get the bride and groom?”

“Okay, for a start, I am not Bridal Barbie, and secondly, I don’t know what I’m getting them because it’s not as if this wedding was a thing until a month ago. I mean, who gets married on the spur of the moment like this after only being together for such a short time?”

Oh shit. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know anything. Fuck. “It’s crazy, right?” I say, but my voice is off, high-pitched and forced. She stares at me, and her scrutinizing gaze sees more than I want it too.

She studies my face. “Out with it.”

“Out with what?” Fuck. I did it again. Since when can I not lie to Pop Tart?

When I meet her eyes again, they’re glassy. Ah, shit.

“What are you not saying?”

“I . . .”

“Goddamn it, Leo. Tell me.”

I rake my hand through my hair. I can’t believe I’m about to do this. I’m about to rat out my best friend a week before his wedding, but one look at Poppy’s face and I’m done for. I might have actually caught a couple of feelings for this woman, which is ridiculous, but here she is, tugging at my heartstrings with her tears. “They’re pregnant.”

She laughs. Too loud, as if I just told her a hilarious joke. But I’m not joking, and a beat later, I see it—the second her heart breaks in two. She clears her throat and makes a good show of acting brave. Her eyes glaze over with rage and she takes a step toward me, grabbing my lapel with her free hand. “No. You’re lying.”

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I didn’t say it to hurt you. I said it because I saw you hurting so I—”

“Thought you’d drive the knife in deeper? God, you’re just as sick as him.”

“Poppy, I thought you should know. You deserve better than Chase. Hell, even Claire deserves better than him.”

“Isn’t he your best friend? What happened to the bro code?”

“The bro code is the reason people get hurt.”

“So what? I’m supposed to believe you’ve suddenly grown a conscience?”

“Hey, I’m not the one who fucked your best friend and got her pregnant.”

She takes a deep breath in and shoves me. I stumble back. My coffee goes flying. I lose my balance and land on my ass in the pond. Poppy’s hand shoots up to cover her mouth, and then she laughs.

“Jesus, woman, you are all different kinds of bipolar.” I’m soaked to the bone, sitting in a shallow pool of water in the middle of Central Park while Pop Tart has a fucking mental breakdown, and all I want is to pull her to me. All I want is to comfort her and tell her none of this is her fault.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and I don’t know if it’s a sob or a laugh that comes out of her mouth, but my chest tightens. It’s at that precise moment that I realize I’m fucking head over heels in love with this woman. This is territory I’ve never been in before.

She sets her cup and purse down, removes her glove, and offers her hand to me. I stare at it a beat too long, and just when it looks like she might retract it, I take hold and pull her towards me. She lands face-first in the water and comes up swinging and cursing blue murder, and all I can do is laugh.

Goddamn, we are both so fucking screwed.