<h2 ss="chapter-subtitle">You win</a></h2>


    <em>WILL:</em>


    <em>Turns out the restaurant has a dress code now. Wear something semi-fancy.</em>


    W<small ss="calibre6">ILL THROWS ME THAT CURVEBALL TWENTY MINUTES BEFORE HE</small>’<small ss="calibre6">S</small>supposed to pick me up. Men! How does he expect me to make myself look “semi-fancy” in the span of<em ss="calibre2">twenty minutes</em>?


    Sighing, I ditch my jeans and halter top on the bed and approach my closet to find something more suitable for a nice dinner. I flip through hangers until I find a shimmering red dress. I slide the smooth fabric off the rack and wriggle into it, then put my hair up in a neat bun and apply some red lipstick that perfectly matches the dress.


    There. Semi-fancy.


    Will picks me up, looking hot in a white button-down shirt and ck trousers. His brown hair is shorter than thest time I saw him, giving him a more boyish vibe.


    “Jesus.” He whistles as I slide into the passenger side. “I really hope Lindley didn’t see you leave the house looking like that. Otherwise, he’ll think I’m taking you out on a date and kick my ass.”


    <span id="page_237" title="237" role="doc-pagebreak">“He already thinks it’s a date,” I answer, grinning. “I got interrogated hardcore earlier.”


    We chat on the way to the restaurant, a very familiar corner location on Main Street. “Wasn’t this a breakfast cest week?” I ask in confusion.


    “Last month,” he corrects, snickering. “Last week they were the sushi ce.”


    I hope<em ss="calibre2">this</em>venture sticks because we’re greeted by a very appealing ambiance when we walk inside. It’s a Mediterranean restaurant now, offering small, secluded tables hidden between tropical palm fronds you might find in Greece and framed photographs of Santorini and the Greek inds lining the white sto walls. There’s even a live band. Well, a guitarist and a guy softly ying the bongos. But it’s still cool. I like it here now.


    Will doesn’t get a chance to pull out my chair—an overeager waiter appears out of nowhere to do it for him. He then seats Will too and snaps open our napkins with an borate flourish, handing them to us to put in ourps. We’re both trying not tough as he ends his extravagant show by offering us a pair of red leatherbound menus.


    Once he’s gone, we take a moment to study the menus.


    “Welp.” Will lifts his head and shes an innocent smile. “It’s all Greek to me.”


    Iugh so loud ites out as a snort. “Oh my God, that was some.”


    But I mean, he’s not wrong. The entire menu is written in Greek. I can make no sense of the foreign characters on the page. There isn’t even an English option underneath.


    I purse my lips. “I think I know why this owner keeps rebranding.”


    “Yeah, I think so too.”


    We’re forced to ask the waiter to trante every single item, which takes forever. Finally, we order our meals and settle back in our chairs, while soft guitar music wafts all around us. Will spends some timeining about his father, who’s been putting up a<span id="page_238" title="238" role="doc-pagebreak">fight about Will wanting to spend a year in Europe after graduation. I learn that Mr. Larsen is a congressman who splits his time between DC and Connecticut with Will’s stepmom. We bond over stepmoms for a bit, as it turns out we both like ours. His parents aren’t divorced, though; his mom died when he was four, and he was raised by a troop of nannies until his dad remarried.


    Eventually, I steer the subject toward Beckett because the curiosity is eating at me.


    “How’s it going with Beck? He’sing back soon, right?”


    “Next week.”


    I don’t miss the way Will’s features strain. “Uh-oh. The situation is still bothering you?”


    “A little. Maybe it would be different if I’d been with someone since he left. But I haven’t met anyone I vibe with.”


    “So yourst encounter is still that awkward one where you kept picturing Beck.”


    “Yup.” He sounds glum.


    “Okay. Well. Where are we on the arousal scale now? When you think about hooking up with Beckett and a woman, is it less of a turnoff? Or more?”


    He sighs.


    “More, huh?”


    “It’s all I fucking think about,” he mumbles.


    “Honestly, I think you’re stressing way too hard about this. Everyone has their kinks.”


    “Yeah?” he challenges. “What’s yours?”


    “None of your business.”


    Will grins.


    “So what are you going to do when Beckett gets home?”


    “I don’t know.”


    “Have you talked to him since he left?”


    The question startles him. “Sure. We text every day. He’s my best friend.”


    <span id="page_239" title="239" role="doc-pagebreak">“Then don’t you think you should be talking to<em ss="calibre2">him</em>about all this? Tell him what’s been bothering you?”


    “Maybe.”


    He sounds nomittal. Typical guy. Yes, let’s keep everything bottled up instead. That’s always a splendid idea.


    The rest of dinner passes over decent food and some excellent conversation. I really like Will. He started off as Gigi’s friend, but he and I have grown closer now that we’re both in Hastings for the summer. And maybe it makes me an asshole because he’s so stressed about it, but I’m all over this Will and Beckett situation. I don’t know if I could ever have a threesome myself, but I can’t deny the fantasy is appealing. It doesn’t hurt that Will and Beck are two ludicrously attractive hockey yers. I can see how any girl would be tempted to be crushed between those two hard bodies.


    The waiter is clearing away our empty tes when I get a text from Shane. I expect some grumblyint about me being out with Will. Instead, I find a link to a document. Okay. That’s weird.


    I have to pee, so I decide to open the message in the bathroom. One, because it’s rude to check it in front of Will, and two, because I’m afraid to check it in front of Will.


    And I’m far too curious to wait until I get home.


    After I do my business and wash my hands, I find a follow-up text from Shane. All it says is:you win.


    I click the link and almost dieughing on the tiled floor.


    It’s an application.


    A literal application for the position of my friend with benefits.


    Hrious headings assault my eyes. Name. Penis size. Skills—oh my God. He listed all his favorite sex positions in order of what he considers himself most skilled at, to least skilled. Reverse cowgirl is on the bottom.


    Myughter bounces off the acoustics in the bathroom. If I hadn’t just peed, I might actually pee myself. And yet despite the<span id="page_240" title="240" role="doc-pagebreak">sheer absurdity of what I’m reading, I can’t fight the rush of arousal that floods my bloodstream.


    Under turn-ons, he wrote:


    Calling the shots.


    Not against being watched.This belongs to N?velDrama.Org.


    My breath catches, heat tickling the tips of my breasts. Under final thoughts, he was more articte:


    As your fake boyfriend and real friend with benefits, I take the duty of pleasuring you very seriously. I guarantee at least one orgasm per session, whether by tongue, finger, or cock.


    My entire body clenches. The idea of his mouth or fingers or tongue anywhere on me makes my heart speed up.


    I will worship your body, respect it, and fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before. Thank you for your consideration.


    I stare at the screen until it times out and turns ck. Jesus. I inhale a long, unsteady breath, just as another message pops up.


    <em>SHANE:</em>


    <em>So? Do I have the job?</em>