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“A…practice boyfriend?” George looked charmingly miffed as he clutched his jar of pickles close. He hadn’t let go of them since I’d handed them to him. Like he was worried they’d grow legs and walk off if he didn’t hold them tight.

“Yeah!” The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. “ My practice boyfriend.” I nodded, oddly elated by the prospect. June had said the arrangement didn’t need to be anything but temporary. That, paired with what George had said about wanting an affectionate boyfriend, had given me the idea.

“Like fake dating?” George sounded dubious at best.

“Yes and no.” I tapped my fingers on the wheel, getting hyped up the more I thought about it. “It wouldn’t be fake. Just…temporary? Assuming you’re as uninterested in your family’s matchmaking efforts as I am with mine.” Mrs. Milton had been way too excited when I’d asked her what I’d need to get back in to George’s good graces.

Like a hairspray-obsessed kid on Christmas.

“I’m not looking for a boyfriend,” George huffed.

“See? Neither am I! It would be perfect.”

“I’m not looking for a practice boyfriend either,” George scowled, guarding his jar of pickles like a blond goblin hoarding treasure. “I’m thirty-three. Feels juvenile.”

“You sure?” I couldn’t help but feel disappointed. “You’d get all the attention you could ever want. More even.” This was perfect. I was a genius. A goddamn genius. This could be the best of both worlds—everything I’d ever wanted for long enough I could savor it. Things would end before George got sick of me. It’d be perfect . “It’d get your family—and mine—off both our backs.” I could please June, attend the wedding with someone, and get to spend time with George, without pressure. He wouldn’t see beneath my cracks. I could be a perfect boyfriend for seven days. Fuck yes, I could. “And it’d be fun! A week of affection, no strings attached.”

George eyed me distrustfully.

I continued, “I’ve never had someone to spoil before.” I’d never had the opportunity to be the kind of boyfriend I’d always wanted to be—too afraid of being too much, too afraid of scaring whoever I was dating off with my “intensity.” Too afraid of being rejected when they realized what was beneath my polished exterior.

George tilted his head to the side, the light in his eyes warming. “You… want to spoil someone?”

“Oh yeah,” I bobbed my head. “So much. More than anything.” That was the most honest I’d ever been. I couldn’t believe how easily the words had come out, considering how closely I’d guarded that secret.

“I’m not having sex with you,” George scoffed. “If that’s why you?—”

“Sex is optional,” I was quick to reassure. I meant that. “Totally optional, and totally up to you. ”

“Hmm.” George leaned back in his seat. My sincerity was evident. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s good enough for me.” It was tempting to try to sell the idea to him more. But…I’d been in sales long enough to know that at this point, that wouldn’t help. If George desired what I had on offer, he’d take it. And…maybe like June had said, the best way to convince him would be to show him what he’d be missing if he said no.

George was baffled but pleased when I took us to a diner for brunch. The place was darling, a mom-and-pop joint that looked straight out of the seventies. I made sure to pay for his food, finding great satisfaction in the way he ate.

These tiny, dainty bites.

I wanted to poke fun, but I was on my best behavior at present, and figured that wouldn’t get me any extra points. I got the door for him too, grinning when this little perplexed wrinkle formed between his brows as he stepped outside and into the sun.

It caught on his hair, making it glisten like spun gold. He was dressed more casually today. A tight-fitting white t-shirt that clung to his lean frame. Dark denim that highlighted the length of his legs and the bounce of his ass. His biceps were toned, if still skinny, like he spent a lot of time doing cardio, with a side of lifting, not in the gym, but in his everyday life. An effortless sort of strength.

I tried not to ogle.

But failed, spectacularly.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I groaned. Caller ID said it was the florist. Normally, I’d ignore it—but with June’s wedding only a week away, I was constantly on edge, worried something was going to go wrong. Unfortunately for me, my intuition was right .

“You go ahead,” I urged. “Here.” I tossed George the car keys, not wanting him to be stuck in the heat while I dealt with this. “I gotta take this.”

George caught the keys. Only barely. They bumped off his fingers, and he scrambled to try and snatch them before they fell to the ground. He didn’t ask any questions as he moved to the car and gracefully climbed inside, folding those long, long legs into the space.

I licked my lips, then forced my mind out of the gutter.

“Hi, Miranda,” I answered the call, aiming for cheerful—as I knew that was the best way to deal with this particular employee. She was a sweetheart. I could tell she hadn’t had much praise in her life, because every time I told her what a good job she was doing, she perked right up.

It took fifteen minutes to get her off the phone after we’d come to the conclusion that I’d need to go in person to approve the bouquets. Something had happened with the original shipment, and that meant a new headache for me—and her.

When she hung up, I received another call—this time from the venue we’d booked. So it wasn’t like I could ignore it. This one took even longer. Nearly half an hour. By the time I returned to my car and the blond I’d left inside it, I felt wrung out.

“Sorry,” I apologized, slipping into the driver’s side. I was relieved to feel the blast of AC—especially because that meant George hadn’t been in here roasting. “We had a problem with an overbooking issue, and I—you know what? It doesn’t matter. I fixed it. I’ll need to go into the city to deal with the florist, which again, I apologize for. It’s a last-minute…uh.” I stopped talking when I saw George’s face.

He didn’t look annoyed.

He looked sleepy.

Like he’d been out here napping. Maybe his night had been as sleepless as mine? I grinned, unable to help myself.

That was a new face .

I’d never seen him relaxed. It felt like disturbing a tired kitty, all comfortable and safe. I wished I could go back in time. Wished I could enter the car quieter, so I could let him nap longer. That or pull out my phone and snap a picture. I got the feeling George-Arthur Milton didn’t let his guard down often, if ever.

“How far are we?” George asked, voice huskier than before. He was trying to pretend like I hadn’t caught him napping.

So cute.

Fuck.

“From the campgrounds?” I clarified. Now that we’d been honest with one another, things were…easy. Effortless. I didn’t overanalyze why that was. Or why even though he’d refused my offer I still felt hopeful.

It felt weird to talk to him without flirting or arguing. But it was nice too. The underlying electricity between us was still there—no doubt the sexual chemistry that June had called us out for, but…it was softer somehow.

George nodded slowly. A lock of blond hair fell onto his forehead, the wavy strand sticking to his skin. I had to squeeze the steering wheel tight so I could resist the urge to reach over and tuck it back into place.

“Not long. But…I’ve got a few things I have to do before we head up, if you don’t mind tagging along,” I added. “That was what I was on the phone about.”

“Do what you must,” George sighed, in the most dramatic way possible, eyes drifting shut.

His peace didn’t last.

Unfortunately for both of us.

His phone buzzed, and he frowned, pulling it out of his pocket with a couple dazed blinks. He sobered quickly, his entire body going rigid. The air in the car felt colder as George’s good mood disappeared. There was a haunted look about him as his lips pressed into a thin, wobbly line, his body curling in tightly, as small as he could make it.

Like he hoped to disappear .

“What’s wrong?” I didn’t have any right to be nosy. But…fuck. He’d lost all the color in his cheeks in a matter of seconds. I wanted to fix it. I needed to fix it.

“It’s nothing.” George’s tone was biting. The screen on his phone went black. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okaayyy.” I didn’t press, even though I wanted to. Maybe the text had something to do with the ex he’d mentioned? The one he’d said wasn’t open with affection.

Was that George’s way of calling him a dick?

Why didn’t he just outright say it?

He’d called me that yesterday.

George didn’t speak for an entire minute.

And it was the most excruciating minute of my life—second only to the minute I’d had to wait for him to accept my pickle-apology.

I didn’t dare pull out onto the road. I could tell he wasn’t done yet. And that he might— possibly —need more support.

I’d always had a talent for reading people. It was what made me good at my job. And it was also why I knew how unpalatable I was. The look in people’s eyes when I did something “too much” was telling enough, even without them having to outright say.

George’s eyes stormed. A hurricane of a thousand different emotions, swirling, ebbing, rioting in the depths of his gaze.

“You know…if that’s your ex and he’s not leaving you alone…” I kept my tone carefully neutral. “I can help.”

“I didn’t say yes to your hare-brained “practice boyfriend” scheme.”

“Pro-bono,” I promised. “On the house. No schemes attached.”

“Doing your civic duty?” George sighed, fingers tapping anxiously on the lid of his pickle jar.

“Offered in good faith,” I swore. It was difficult not to reach out and yoink his phone out of his hand so I could see what had ruined his mood. I managed. But only barely .

“And if I were to accept your…no-strings-attached offer…” George frowned. “What would that…entail?”

“Depends on the severity of the infection.” I paused. “Or should I say…inf-ex-tion?”

George rolled his eyes, but he was amused.

“You’ll have to let me see your phone so I can properly diagnose.” I held a hand out. A beat passed as George glared at my palm like he expected it to grow teeth and bite him. Then…with an anxious puff of air, he handed the phone over.

“The password is 102219,” he sighed. I arched a brow. “My cat’s birthday.”

“Right.” It was even more difficult not to laugh. But this situation called for the utmost seriousness, so I schooled my expression as I typed in the code. The main screen was a photo of what had to be the ugliest—and cutest—cat I’d ever seen. All white fur with blue bug eyes, and what I guessed to be a permanently annoyed appearance, much like his owner. “What’s his name?”

“I’m not telling you,” George growled.

“Why not?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I like laughing.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t like being laughed at.” George’s hands twitched, like he was about to yank his phone back, so I stopped teasing.

“One sec.” I opened his texts. There were four unopened messages from a guy simply called “Brendon.” The ex, presumably, seeing as they were the only texts in his entire phone that were untouched. It was difficult not to snoop. The most recent text, aside from Brendon’s, was right there—to a woman named Missy, and all it said was:

George

I hate you.

I could only assume Missy was the dildo-planting roommate.

Opening the texts from Brendon, my good mood vanished. Scrolling, scrolling, I passed hundreds and hundreds of thinly veiled pleas for attention. Insults. Backhanded jabs. The occasional outright abusive statement. Things that made my fucking blood boil. They evidently worked together, as interspersed between each biting remark were work-related questions.

My grip on George’s phone tightened to the point of pain, and I had to take a second to calm down before I snapped the damn thing.

I may not know George well, but no one—and I mean no one—deserved to be treated like that.

“Seems to me like he can’t let go,” I said after a tense minute of silence. “How long have you been broken up?”

“A year,” George answered. He’d wilted, head back against the headrest, his eyes on the pickle container on his lap. Well that answered my question about why the last year had been shitty.

“Have you ever shown anyone these?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

George shrugged. “Why would I?”

“Because it’s…fucked up, George. Especially if you work together. He shouldn’t be sending you this shit.”

George shrugged again. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it fucking matters.” I bit my tongue. He looked small enough as it was. The last thing he needed was to be chewed out. My anger wasn’t directed at him, but at the creep he’d used to date. “Okay.” I blew out a breath. “Does he follow you anywhere? Social media? Anything like that?”

George nodded.

“Where?”

“Picstogram.” George was sounding more despondent by the minute. Dissociating maybe? I dunno. I was quick to pull up his account, and didn’t even have to ask for Brendon’s username. George’s profile was full of pictures of the same ugly cat on his phone screen, as well as a few book reviews, mostly anime comics. I didn’t recognize any of them. The anime I watched was action-oriented, and George seemed to favor romance .

On every post, he only had a handful of likes.

Joe_Milton95 was one of his bigger fans, as well as MrsMiltonDoesHair. The only person who liked each post that wasn’t family, was a guy with no profile picture, and a username with more numbers than words.

Okay…so Brendon liked to keep his footprint online anonymous.

He spent a lot of time following up with George, given the fact that he’d reacted to every fucking post since they’d broken up. Sometimes he’d even comment. Like a creep.

I could handle that.

“Did you ever post him on your account?” I asked, even though I could see that George hadn’t.

“No,” George sighed. “He didn’t want me to.”

“Even better.”

“What?” George turned his attention back to me, that adorable little grimple on his chin returning. “Why would that?—”

“Because. There’s only one way to deal with assholes like this. He won’t leave you alone because in his fucked head, he thinks you’re available.”

“But I am available.” George wasn’t getting it.

“Not to him.” I turned on his phone camera, aimed it at one of his long, deliciously limber thighs. “You can say no, but let me just…” I licked my lips, floored by how fucking bad I wanted to bite his thighs. “Can I touch you?”

I hadn’t asked earlier when I’d touched him.

But…maybe I should have.

George deliberated before he nodded, a quick up and down.

When I lay my hand on his upper quad it nearly enveloped the whole width of it. I groaned, unable to help myself as I fanned my fingers out, stroking along the denim of his jeans.

“How is groping me going to help with?—”

“Hold still,” I aimed the camera and shot a picture of my hand on his leg. The pickle jar was in it, but only a bit—enough to cause intrigue but not detract from the possessive grip I had on him. And fuck, was it possessive. My fingers digging in, holding him in place like it was my right to do so. “There.” Reluctantly, I removed my hand, flipping the camera around to show him. “Post that. Maybe it’ll get him to back off.”

George stared at the photo, his eyes wide. He licked his lips, pupils expanding as he saw what I saw. How fucking good we looked together. My ring and watch catching the light, tan skin against dark denim. Our size difference evident in the way I dug my fingers in just right.

“You really think this will work?”

“Believe me. It’ll piss him the fuck off. But—” I nodded. “He’ll get the message.”

George studied the picture for a minute longer. I couldn’t read his expression, and I didn’t want to rush him. I figured it was his choice—and as big as I talked, I wasn’t entirely sure my plan would work.

I could only hope.

“Fuck it.” George decided. Then he opened Picstogram again and began the uploading process.

“Caption it…” I said, hovering over his shoulder, my breath tickling his ear. He jumped, but didn’t scoot out of my space. “Big hands are good for opening jars…among other things.”

“No.” George scrunched his nose. “Absolutely not.”

“Fine. Something less sexy.” He shivered, and I fought the urge to blow on his ear directly to see how he’d react. “How about, I like my pickles like I like my?—”

“You’re really bad at this,” George laughed. It was way calmer than the charming choking noises he’d made earlier. Another expression to add to my collection.

“I can’t help it if my brain thinks in innuendo.”

“I’m going to caption it with an emoji,” George decided. “A sun. Because it’s summer. ”

“Is there a pickle emoji?”

“Yes.” I was not surprised he knew that. I’d never met another person whose favorite food was pickles. It suited him. Considering his sour disposition and penchant for phallic-shaped objects.

“Oh. Add a heart. He’ll hate that,” I tacked on.

“I’m not trying to make him jealous.” George scowled. “I just…want him to leave me alone.”

“I know,” I replied, even though I hadn’t. And now that I did, I felt something almost…pleased settle over me. It was good to know how little interest George had in his ex. Really good to know. “Do it anyway.”

“Fine.” George selected a blue heart, then hit post. He didn’t check that it’d gone up, simply closed out of the app. Immediately, his phone buzzed. A text. From Brendon.

I snatched it away before he could read it.

“Wh—”

“It doesn’t matter what he has to say,” I said, deleting the message. “We don’t care.”

“We don’t?” George looked to me for guidance. God, was that heady.

“No.”

“Oh.” He glared at his phone. “Okay.” And then stronger. “We don’t.”

“Our point has been made. Anything he says from this point onward is going to be bullshit to try and hurt you.” Another text came in, and I deleted it also. “You know what? Why don’t we turn your phone off?”

“But—”

“I know you can’t block him.” They worked together. “But if he can’t reach you, he can’t bug you. Right?”

“Right,” George repeated. I waited to see what he’d say next.

“You have a choice here. Off or on. Your pick. I’ll do it for you so you don’t have to see anything.”

“But what if…” George made a frustrated noise. “What if there really is so mething work-related?”

“Funny, I thought you were on vacation. You know… To spend a week away from the shit show back home?” I raised a brow, challenging him. George’s eyes widened. The sound he made was incredulous but resigned.

“Okay. You’re right.”

“Off or on?”

“Off.” George sounded firm. Which was good. His earlier indecision, his earlier ice gone. I turned his phone off and handed it to him.

“You can put it in my glove box for safe keeping if you want. That way you don’t need to worry about it getting lost.”

“Oh, but—” George plucked at his hair anxiously. “Missy is watching Mr. Pickles. What if she calls—or needs me, or?—”

Mr. Pickles.

His cat was named Mr. Pickles?

It took everything I had not to laugh.

George paused, seemingly realizing what he’d said too late. His hand dropped back to his lap. “Oh, fuck off.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” He smacked my shoulder, harder than necessary. “Stop looking so pleased.” I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t outright grin.

“I’m not pleased,” I countered, “I’m—I mean. I’d ask why you named him that, but I already know the answer.”

“I’ll tell my mom to let Missy know she can reach me through her phone,” George ignored me. “That way I won’t have to see his texts, and I can still be reached.”

“Mhm, good plan.” Mr. Pickles, Mr. Pickles, Mr.—

“I will strangle you,” George warned. I doubted his bitty little fingers were strong enough to cut off my air supply.

“Okay, okay.” I backed off, turning my face away from him, feigning like I was checking the mirrors when in reality I was hiding my grin. “No more smiling or good humor. None.”

“Thank god.”

“One miserable Alex coming right up.”

“That would be preferable.”

We pulled out of the parking lot, and it wasn’t until we’d hit the open road that I lost the battle with my laughter. Only, despite George claiming he hated being laughed at, he was the one that looked pleased. There was a smile on his lips, a private one, aimed out the window at the rolling fields of corn and the endless blue sky, not at me.

But it was my smile regardless.

Which was why it wasn’t fair.

Wasn’t fair at all—as I toted him around on the rest of my last-minute errands before we headed to the camp—that he hadn’t said yes to being my practice boyfriend. Because after one day I already knew I’d do anything to see that smile again.