I press my lips together. He’s right. It’s not about what he thinks, because he and I aren’t together. We’re just friends. With really amazing benefits.

And from the very beginning we asserted that this was exclusive only as long as we wanted it to be. That the second one of us changes our mind, we just say the word, and go back to sleeping with other people.

But when I first suggested that he and I use each other to scratch an itch, I hadn’t thought it would be quite so…constant.

Or so consistently good.

But there are times when we’re apart. He goes to the gym nearly every day. And he went out for drinks with his friend John just last night. Maybe he’s got a few quickies scattered in here and there.

I want to know. I’m dying to know.

But I can’t ask him. It’s not my business.

“I think you should call him,” he says.

“I thought you just said it’s not about what you think,” I say, my voice taking on just the slightest edge.

“It’s not, it’s just…” Ben turns his head to look at me. “I think if you don’t start dating again, you’re never going to get over Lance.”

Lance? Lance? He thinks this is about Lance?

Of all the—

But wait. It should be about Lance.

Any hesitation over whether or not I call a promising romantic prospect absolutely should tie back to the fact that the guy I thought I was going to marry dumped me only a month ago.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “I’ll call him this weekend.”

“Good girl,” Ben says with a nod. And then the topic’s apparently closed, because he changes the subject. “You’re sure you’re buying tonight?”

“Absolutely,” I say.

Then I glance at him. “Wait, why do you ask it in that smug tone?”

His grin flashes white across the darkened car. “Just trying to figure out how many lobsters I want to order.”

Chapter 16

Ben

It’s been a long time since Parker and I have shared a meal like this.

I mean, we share meals all the time.

Random lunches if we’re out running errands, or taco Tuesdays with friends at our place, or waffles on Sundays, since they’re about the only thing I know how to make.

But tonight is different.

Tonight there’s a white tablecloth, and a gorgeous view of the city, candles, and, yes, champagne. Of course.

And for just the briefest of seconds, when we first sit down and are arguing over which appetizer to start with, I have a moment of panic.

Panic because this looks like a date.

No, not looks like a date. Feels like a date.

But the panic recedes almost immediately, because dates are all about sweaty palms and painful small talk and that slight nagging stress over whether there’s going to be another date to follow.

There’s none of that with Parker.

It’s just dinner with your best friend, my brain soothes. Chill.

And for the most part, my brain does settle down, except for one nagging, tiny seed of annoyance that I can’t stop thinking about:

Parker’s planning on calling that guy from the karaoke bar.

I mean, I told her to. I had to tell her that.

I meant what I’d said about her needing to get over Lance, and while she hasn’t been moping, I know her. I know she can’t possibly be as healed as she pretends to be. Not after that moron dropped her like it was no big thing.

But it bothers me that she’s thinking about other guys while she and I are still…you know. Doing it.

I mean it doesn’t bother me.

It bothers my ego. Because from my side of the bed, and the shower, and the couch, and the kitchen counter, things have been pretty damn exceptional.

So exceptional, in fact, that I haven’t even looked at another girl since that first night.

Whoa.

I sit back in my chair at that whopper of a realization, totally tuning out the inquisition Parker is giving our server over the preparation of the fish special.

Two weeks, and I’ve only been having sex with one girl.

Not just any girl. Parker.

Huh.

And, I know, I know, two weeks isn’t a big deal. Except to me it is.

The last relationship I had was in my sophomore year at college, and that lasted all of four semi-miserable months. Since then I’ve been happily cruising along in the no-commitment lane.

Sure, I’ve had plenty of repeat hookups with a few girls, but it’s generally been the once-and-done thing.

I run a hand over my face as I look across the table at Parks.

She’s wearing some sort of navy sweater dress, which shouldn’t be all that sexy since it’s a long-sleeved turtleneck kind of deal and shows almost no skin—especially since she’s paired it with knee-high boots—but it hugs her just right.

Her dark hair’s down today, flowing around her shoulders, and with the stupid candlelight, she looks…pretty.

I barely let our server finish his sentence before I blurt out, “Can I see your bourbon list?”

Parker shoots me a puzzled look, probably because I hardly ever drink anything other than beer, or sometimes wine if I’m with her. “I’ll save the rest of the champagne for you.”

Except that’s not the real reason I want the bourbon. The real reason I need something stronger than wine is to help me come to grips with the fact that I’m on the verge of a sexual rut.

Worse than the rut is that it doesn’t feel like a rut at all.