Page 118 of The Rom-Commers

“Why can’t you just have a conversation? Tell him you like him and see if he likes you?”

“Please,” I said. “If human relationships worked like that, I’d be out of a job.”

Sylvie thought it over for a minute before saying, “Guess it’s time for Plan B.”

“What’s Plan B?”

“I’m FedExing you my slinkiest slinky dress and my strappiest strappy sandals.”

“For what?”

Sylvie leaned into the FaceTime camera, likeDuh. “Put them on and see what happens.”

“Just put on a slinky dress for no reason and walk around his house like a lunatic?”

“Like asexylunatic,” Sylvie corrected. “It’s a maxi dress with a plunging V-neck made of silky fabric printed with giant tropical leaves. You’ve never worn anything like this in your life. You’re going to discover a whole new side of yourself.”

“What possible excuse would I have for wearing something like that?” I demanded.

“You’re a writer,” Sylvie said. “Make something up.”

UGH. LEAVE ITto me and Sylvie to overthink that lovely kiss and drain its afterglow with overprocessing.

Hadit just been research?

I hadn’t thought so at the time. But the fact that it hadn’t led to anything else seemed to refute that view. We had a mad kiss—and then ate dinner. It hadn’t seemed strange at the time, but the more I overthought it, the less sure I felt.

Maybe I didn’t really want to know.

I sent Charlie an overly cheerful text that said,Day off from swimming today! Enjoy sleeping in!

And then I took a shower and did the best I could with my hair and put on just a hint of eyeliner and lipstick—enough to try to look better without looking like I was trying. And then I tried on ten different outfits to wear before deciding to go with my usual writerly duds under my usual strawberry hoodie so that if that life-ruining kiss last night had, after all, only been research on Charlie’s end, I had plausible deniability.

It hadn’t been research for me.

But I would never, ever admit that—unless it hadn’t been research for Charlie, either.

I showed up at the writing table and couldn’t decide if Charlie had put product in his hair—or if it was just wet. If he was wearing aftershave—or if that was just his deodorant. If he was glancing my way more than usual—or just the regular amount.

One thing was for sure: There was a bouquet of peonies on the table.

“Nice flowers,” I said, sitting down.

Charlie looked over, like he hadn’t noticed them. “Yeah.”

“Were they there yesterday?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Any idea how they got there?”

Charlie nodded. “We were out of coffee this morning, so I had to hit the store.”

“Peonies are my favorite flower.”

Charlie looked up at that. “Are they? I wondered.”

“You wondered?”

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