By nine fifty the next morning, I’ve got my Eric duds laid out on the sofa for inspection, tea and coffee on the kitchen table in case Dude 101 requires additional caffeine, and I’m slipping out of my apartment to fetch my new, extra-sticky mustache glue from Spence.

Dude lessons. Seriously.

I do not need dude lessons.

What does Jack think I’ve been doing for the past twenty-eight years? I grew up in a house full of men, I wore my brother’s hand-me-downs until I was fourteen, and until my bad haircut grew out and my boobs grew in (sometime around tenth or eleventh grade), I was mistaken for a boy at least once a week.

I practically am a man. At least on the inside.

I certainly feel more comfortable with men than women.

Then again, karaoke with a few of the ladies from the office last night was a blast. I didn’t score any information for my article—it was too loud in the back of the Korean restaurant—but it was so much fun. No one pressured “Eric” to sing, no one judged the people who did let out their inner diva—even when Barb from accounting massacred My Heart Will Go On. Twice. And I was home by a respectable ten-thirty.

I would be totally rested, in fact, if I hadn’t tossed and turned until one in the morning, stressing about being alone with Jack in my tiny apartment.

Sexy, sanity-testing, lick-able, off-limits Jack.

Why my twisted libido has decided now is a good time to develop an even more serious crush on Jack than the one I had in college, I have no idea. Probably because it’s a traitor, like my upper lip, which seems determined to de-sticky-fy every brand of mustache glue known to man.

“You should never have agreed to this,” I grumble, though I know I had no choice. Jack made it clear when he dismissed me yesterday that “no” was not an option.

I wonder if he’s that much of a control freak in the bedroom…

Ugh. Now is not the time for fantasizing about the sexual proclivities of my brother’s best friend. I need to get my glue, get home, and get my game face on.

I’m knocking softly on Spence’s door—hoping he and Sonia aren’t sleeping in—when the elevator pings open behind me, and Jack steps out.

I’m not even facing his direction, but I know it’s Jack from the eucalyptus, spice, and sexy-as-sin man scent drifting down the hall.

Damn it, he’s early!

I curse beneath my breath as Sonia opens the door, her dark, corkscrew curls forming a sleep-mussed halo around her face.

“My, my…a quarter for my swear jar so early in the morning?” Sonia’s smile lights up her cherub’s face, the one that belies the mischief-maker within. “Not like you, Ellie Bellie, but thank you for starting my morning off right.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll drop it off later.” I glance over my shoulder to see Jack prowling our way, looking ridiculously stylish in gray slacks and a white button-down. I hold up a finger—indicating I’ll be right with him—and turn back to Sonia. “I need to grab that glue your dad scored for me.”

“Just a sec.” Sonia takes a breath, clearly preparing to shout for her father instead of going to get him, in the way of nine-year-olds everywhere, when Spencer appears behind her.

“Heard you knock.” He holds up the glue with one hand as he wraps an arm around Sonia’s shoulders with the other. The contrast between Spencer’s vampire-pallor—a hazard of working in dark theaters—and Sonia’s golden-brown skin is even more startling today than usual.

But before I can ask him if he’s sure that he’s getting enough vitamin D, Spence spots Jack down the hall, and his blue eyes sparkle to life. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” he murmurs. “Who is that?”

“Thank you.” I take the glue. “That’s my boss. And my brother’s oldest friend. And my friend. Sort of. Sometimes.” I sigh. “It’s complicated.”

“Sounds like it.” Spencer’s blond brows wiggle. “So that’s the boss man. How have we not heard more about this Tall Drink of Delicious Complications?”

“She’s been holding out on us.” Sonia nods, lips puckering judgmentally.

“Don’t be crazy.” I back away, refusing to tell either of these lovable gossip hounds anything about Jack. “Catch you two later.”

“Later, Ellie,” they singsong in a way that makes my cheeks flush pink, ensuring I’m more flustered than usual by the time I reach where Jack is leaning against the wall by the fake potted fern.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” he asks, voice cool.

“They just woke up,” I say, continuing down the hall. “And I figured you’d want to get right to work, correct? Since I’m so desperately in need of assistance?”

Jack crosses his arms, standing way too close as I work my key into my lock.

Damn it, why does he have to smell so good? And be so warm and magnetic and tingle-inducing?

“Interesting tone.” He follows me inside, glancing around my much-cleaner-than-usual apartment with an arched brow. His eyes widen when he spots my bed against the far wall—hard to hide it when you live in a studio—but thankfully he doesn’t comment. “You don’t think you need help?”

“I don’t.” I toss the glue onto the coffee table beside my mustache and do-it-myself dude makeup. “I just needed fresh glue, and Spencer brought me some from his costume shop. So I’m all set.”

Jack snorts. “Set to blow your cover before you even get started. If you hadn’t spent half of yesterday watching orientation videos, you would’ve been made. The way you walk alone is—”

“So maybe my walk isn’t super masculine,” I cut in, propping my hands on my hips. “Not all men are, you know. There are plenty of guys in New York who have a little swing in their step.”

“You don’t walk like a man with a swing in his step,” Jack says flatly. “You walk like someone who’s never had a dick between your legs. There’s a difference.”

Heat floods to my face, but before I can think of an appropriate response to that bombshell, Jack waves a hand in the air between us.

“I didn’t mean it like that…” He shakes his head, wincing as if the thought of me with a dick between my legs makes him queasy. “I meant, you walk like a woman who has woman parts, and eventually people are going to notice. Bare minimum, that needs to be addressed before Monday.”

I cross my arms, wishing I’d changed out of my yoga pants and comfy tee into something that made me feel less scrubby and powerless. Ian’s right—clothes are more important than I give them credit for.

So maybe Jack is right, too…

No matter how much I would like to believe I didn’t make an idiot of myself yesterday, Jack has the same sharp eye as my brother. And even if he’s wrong, advice from someone who has been an actual man his entire life can’t hurt. Besides, he’s got skin in this game, too. The least I can do is play along.

“Fine,” I grumble, shoulders hunching. “Teach me how to walk.”

Jack exhales. “I’ll try, but not while you look like that.”

“Like what? Like I woke up half an hour ago? Sorry, but that’s not my fault. That’s your fault for inviting yourself over at a ridiculously early hour for a Saturday.”

“I was thinking like a crab refusing to come out of her shell,” Jack says, tone cooling again. “But please accept my apologies for the early hour. I assume your hot date went well, then?”

I bite my lip, eyes lifting guiltily to the ceiling, wishing I hadn’t let that fib out the door. “You could say that.”

“So, who is he?” Jack moves closer, hands sliding into his pockets in that too-relaxed way that always makes me nervous.

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” He’s so close now that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, a fact that has my pulse jumping. “But you’re struggling to pull this off as it is, without some random guy keeping you out all night.”

“It wasn’t a guy,” I confess. “I went out with Lulu, Paige, and a couple other girls from the office for Korean food and karaoke.”

For a second Jack looks almost relieved, but then his forehead bunches again. “Tell me you didn’t sing.”

I roll my eyes hard. “I’m not a hundred percent solid on my man voice when I’m talking. I know better than to belt out Blaze of Glory.”

His lips curve. “So, you admit it. You need my help.”

“I need practice,” I say, meeting him halfway.

“Then let’s get to work, Seyfried.” He points a finger at the couch. “Man clothes. Now. And this time stuff a sock in it.”

I blink. “A sock in what? My mouth?”

“Not a bad idea, but I meant down your pants. Until you master the art of pretending you’ve got something down there, you should use a prop.” He steps back, his gaze sweeping up and down my frame, inciting a sudden urge to fidget. “But nothing too big. No one’s going to buy that Eric is packing heat.”

I’m tempted to ask why not—surely you can’t judge cock-size by a guy’s build—but think better of it. Considering my tendency to blush when Jack’s around, that doesn’t seem like a wise line of questioning. The sooner I can ease his fears and get him out the door the better.

Ten minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom dressed in my Eric gear—minus the mustache, man wig, and makeup—to find Jack has helped himself to tea.

When he sees me he stops mid-sip, setting the mug back on my kitchen table. “Where’s the sock?”

I shift from one foot to the other, trying to remember if I’ve ever felt more self-conscious than I do at this moment, with Jack’s attention laser-focused on my crotch. “I didn’t have a spare sock in the bathroom, so I improvised.”

Jack arches a dubious brow, but thankfully doesn’t question me. He does not need to know I’ve got a shower cap wrapped in toilet paper nestled between my thighs.

Strategically avoiding the bed, he sits at the kitchen table and motions to the only clear stretch of hardwood in my six hundred square foot studio—the pathway from the door to the kitchen table. “All right. Show me what you’ve got.”

“Fine.” Lifting my chin—fake it till you make it!—I cross to the door, turn, and execute my best dude walk. One foot in front of the other, shoulders back, no hip swaying, no bounce in my step.

Jack’s expression remains eloquently unimpressed.

“What?” I reach the table and prop a hand on my waist. “What was wrong with that?”

“Where do I start?” He casts a pointed look at my hip. “And every time you stick one of those out you give yourself away.”

“Well, I’m not trying now. I’m taking a break for feedback.”

“No breaks for feedback.” He snaps his fingers. “Stay in character, keep the curves hidden, remember you have a penis. Go. Again.”

And so, I do it again.

And again.

And again, until I’m so self-conscious my eyelid is twitching, and walking starts to feel as unnatural as riding a bicycle under water.

“Now you look like a robot,” Jack says.

“I feel like a robot,” I huff in frustration. “This isn’t working. You’re making me nervous, and I stink at learning things when I’m nervous.”

“Why am I making you nervous?” He seems so sincerely puzzled I can’t help but laugh.

I wave an arm his way. “Are you kidding me? You’re staring at me like Heidi Klum about to tell me whether I’m in or I’m out. I’m not a supermodel, Jack. I’m not used to people watching me strut up and down the catwalk.”

He frowns harder. “Isn’t that show about fashion design? Not modeling?”

I cross my arms with a sigh.

“Okay, I hear you,” he says, rising from his judgment chair. “Would it help if I walked with you? Maybe in front and you can shadow me until you feel more relaxed?”

“Maybe,” I mumble, though I doubt I’m going to nail the signature Jack glide-prowl any time this century. But at least it will take his focus off of my body for a few minutes, hopefully giving me the chance to pull myself together.

“All right. Let’s give it a go.”

I follow him back to the starting point, wishing I weren’t so aware of the way his broad shoulders make my tiny apartment feel even smaller than usual.

“Chest relaxed, not thrust out or caved in.” Jack turns and starts down our improvised catwalk with me close behind, trying to imitate his utter ease in his body. “Let each step roll out after the next. No bounce, no sway, barely any effort.”

My growl of frustration turns to a laugh as he spins to face me. “Stop. Don’t look.” I flap my hands. “I’m not ready for you to look.”

“Is this helping?”

“Too soon to tell,” I say. “But honestly, I’m not comfortable in my own body. Let alone Eric’s. So, if you’re looking for Vin Diesel-level of masculine perfection—”

“Wait.” Jack frowns. “Vin Diesel is your idea of masculine perfection? Seriously?”

“Well, he’s…” Actually, I’ve never given it much thought. But now that Jack’s brought it up, I’m pretty sure my idea of masculine perfection is standing right here, towering over me with fiery green eyes and perfectly tousled hair and all the confidence one would expect from a guy who understands he’s God’s gift to womankind.

I clear my throat and avert my eyes, hoping my thoughts aren’t showing on my face. “Just throwing out an example. My point is, you may need to adjust your expectations.”

“Why?” His gaze sharpens, making me feel like he’s looking right through me, seeing all my silly, embarrassing secrets. “Why aren’t you comfortable in your own body?”

My shoulders bounce up and down beneath my suit coat as a wave of shyness prickles beneath my skin. “I don’t know. I’m just…”

“Just what?” Jack eases closer, making my already elevated pulse gallop faster.

“I was never great at sports, I haven’t been out dancing since college, and I spend most of my time alone in my apartment not touching other people,” I say, cheeks heating as I make my pathetic confession. “I’m not exactly leading a carnal existence. Unless you count my intimate time with a block of sharp cheddar before bed.”

Jack doesn’t say anything for so long, my flush becomes a full-fledged cheek-meltdown.

“Pretend I never said that,” I finally say in a rush. “Keep walking. I’ll keep following. I’ll get it eventually.”

“No more walking.” Jack scrubs a hand across his jaw. “You still have your dad’s old record player?”

I force my gaze to his, relieved to see he isn’t looking at me like I’m the saddest cheese-binging loner in Loner Town. “On the bottom shelf, under the TV. Why?”

Jack doesn’t answer. He circles my couch, crouches in front of the entertainment center, and makes a selection from my collection of vintage vinyl. A moment later, Bring It On Home to Me by Sam Cooke fills the room.

“May I have this dance, Miss Seyfried?” Jack stands, holding a hand out my way.

I shake my head with a flustered laugh. “You don’t have to do that. Seriously, Jack, I—”

“Get over here, Eleanor.” He crooks a finger. “We’re going to get you comfortable in your own skin.”

Right. Because slow-dancing with a man who makes my heart beat out of my chest is such a comfortable experience.

But I’ve made enough embarrassing confessions for one day. So I grit my teeth and cross the room, moving stiffly into position in front of Jack.

“Let’s get rid of this.” He reaches for my lapels, guiding my blazer off my shoulders, making the heart-pounding even worse as he tosses the coat onto the couch and wraps an arm around my waist. “I’ve never danced with someone in a suit.”

“Which is why this is silly. I need to learn to walk like a man, not dance like a woman.”

“You already know how to dance like a woman.” Jack’s arm tightens around me, making my breath catch as he takes control of the dance. “So dance with me. Focus on getting into your body and quit giving me lip.”

“You’re very bossy,” I murmur as I glide one palm up to his shoulder.

“And you’re very beautiful,” he says, making my mouth go dry. “Which is part of the problem, Ellie. Even with the mustache and man-makeup, I can’t believe other people don’t see it.”

“They don’t,” I say as Sam Cooke croons on. “Trust me, Jack. No one suspects a thing. I can do this.”

“You can do anything you set your mind to.” He draws me even closer, until my bound chest is inches from his and my fluttering stomach brushes against his belt buckle. I don’t think I’ve ever been this close to Jack, and damn if I don’t want to get even closer. “You’re one of the most self-disciplined people I know.”

“Thank you.” I tilt my head back, holding his gaze, even though I shouldn’t. If my eyes aren’t giving me away already, they will sooner or later.

I’ve never been good at hiding the way I feel, and right now I’m feeling so many risky things. Attraction and longing and even more dangerous things like…gratitude. It’s been so long since someone told me I was beautiful, and even longer since I knew they weren’t just talking about the way I look.

“You’re welcome.” Jack’s voice is low as he spins us both in a slow circle, his hips swaying so close to mine that for a moment I forget how to breathe. “But I’m not sure…”

“Not sure about what?” My head is spinning now, too. If I don’t exhale soon, I’m going to pass out, but then Jack will probably catch me, and I can think of worse things than being scooped up in his arms.

Lots of worse things.

“I’m not sure I deserve your thanks.” He stops swaying, but I barely notice. The flash of his sparkly green eyes has me totally off kilter.

And then he leans down, his lips moving closer to mine, and I realize several things all at once.

One: Jack is going to kiss me. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill.

Two: I didn’t brush my teeth since I tossed back my morning espresso, and I probably have coffee bean breath.

Three: It’s been six months since I’ve kissed anyone, and that was just Smith, my ex-boyfriend—who was only kissing me because our mutual friend Gregory was too busy to come drink with us and keep us from falling into stupid patterns that never worked out because Smith is an overgrown child and I am done dating a man who plays Xbox twenty hours a week—and it is possible I’ve forgotten how kissing is done.

Four: I can’t feel my arms. It’s like the eighth-grade Christmas dance all over again. I’m under the mistletoe with Bradley Jones, and he’s moving in, and I’m so overwhelmed that my nervous system is short-circuiting.

Except now I’m twenty-eight and there is no mistletoe, which means the gorgeous man about to press his lips to mine is doing so of his own free will. And, God, but he smells even better this close.

How on earth is that even possible?

My lips are parting to say something—possibly to ask about his delicious man scent or to blurt out an embarrassing confession about how long it’s been since my last make-out session—when a hard knock on the door fills the silence.

Jack and I jump apart, and my breath rushes out with a shaky laugh.

“Door,” I say, brilliant as ever. “I should get it.”

“Yeah.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll check the music.”

We scatter in different directions, and I do my best to talk my lungs into functioning. But I’m still dizzy when I open the door to reveal Sonia standing on my welcome mat with a tiny brown bottle in her hand.

“Hey,” she says with a grin. “Dad wanted me to run this down. He gave you the wrong glue. Did I hear Sam Cooke?”

“Yes, thank you.” I laugh as I take the glue. “Sorry.”

She frowns. “Sorry for what? Dad’s the one who gave you the wrong bottle.”

I shake my head, laughing some more because—anxiety. “Right. Sorry.” I wince. “Sorry about the sorry.”

“Oh-kay.” Sonia arches a skeptical brow. “No big deal. Can I come in? Why don’t you have your suit coat on? Do you need help?”

“So many questions you have,” I mutter through clenched teeth.

“Now you’re talking like Yoda.” Sonia puts a hand on my forehead. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

“I’m fine,” I say, praying Jack isn’t overhearing all this. “But I—”

“I just remembered,” Jack says, slipping past me on my left. “I have an appointment in SoHo at noon. Going to have to take a rain check on dude lessons.” He stops beside Sonia, extending a hand. “Hi, I’m Jack. You must be Sonia. I’ve heard a lot about you. Love your work with Ellie’s ringtone.”

“Thank you.” Sonia takes his hand and shakes it with a grin. “I do my best. I have a really embarrassing one queued up for next time.”

“Excellent.” Jack lifts a hand my way as he backs down the hall. “Sorry, Ellie. I’ll text you, okay? See if we can hook up tomorrow? Maybe in the park? Somewhere with more space?”

“Oh. Okay,” I stammer, forcing a stiff smile. “No problem. Just let me know.”

“Will do.” He punches the button to the elevator, relief illuminating his features as the doors slide open and he steps inside.

A second later he’s gone. And I’m left standing in my doorway in semi-drag with a bottle of glue and a head full of unanswered questions.

“Did that really almost happen?” I ask, not realizing I’ve spoken aloud until Sonia says—

“Did he really leave? Yes. More important question, are you really okay? You felt warm, El.”

I bet I did, I think, visions of that near kiss playing on endless repeat on my mental screen.

“I might need to lie down,” I say. “Tell your dad thanks for the glue.”

“Okay. Call us if you need something. Medicine or soup or whatever.”

“Thanks, sweetie,” I say as I close the door. I feel terrible for fibbing, but I can’t very well tell a nine-year-old that I’m feverish with unrequited lust.

It must be unrequited, or Jack wouldn’t have run out of here like my couch was on fire. The near kiss was simply a moment of insanity brought on by exposure to sexy vintage Motown.

Or maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was all in my crazy head.

I absolutely am crazy because Jack is all kinds of off-limits. He always has been and always will be. He’s my brother’s best friend and business partner. Even if he were interested in me, getting my lips anywhere near his is a horrible idea that would end in disaster when we eventually parted ways. Company parties and family functions to which Jack has always been invited would be ruined forever, and I don’t have enough friends or family members to alienate any of them.

I should assure him I can handle duding up solo, and make sure we’re never alone together again.

Instead, when his text pops up a few hours later, I don’t even try to resist.

Meet me tomorrow in Central Park at noon? Southwest corner of the Great Lawn? No need to come in full Eric gear, but bring your improv sock. I’ll bring lunch and we can practice manly eating after you master the walk.

See you then, I respond. I force myself to leave it at that, grateful that they don’t make an emoji for “I daydream about licking you an unseemly amount,” and that I can go to sleep with my dignity intact.

For tonight, anyway.