Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
“Someone thinks highly of himself,” I said.
“And I think highly of you, Owen,” River said, his tone utterly sincere now, no trace of flirting in it. His soft brown eyes turned serious. “And I don’t gamble with important things like friends.”
Like River, I also didn’t want to lose a friend on account of some kernel of attraction which would surely fade. Lust was temporary. Friends were forever. “We’ll make a deal,” I said, acting on bravado. “A pact that we won’t ever sleep together. It’s the brand-new When Harry Met Rod rule—friends don’t gamble on sex with friends.”
River’s eyes twinkled with humor—or maybe delight that I saw things his way. “That’s it! Doesn’t matter that you’re a cutie. No going back, now—we have a pact. A no-sex pact. Which, to be clear, means no blow jobs either.”
I nodded. “And no hand jobs.”
“No kissing. Anywhere,” he added.
When I laughed, it was definitely harder. But then I frowned. “Damn, those are all my favorite things.”
“Mine too. But that’s my point—we have too much fun together to risk it, even for our favorite things. We need to seal this.”
River stopped and lifted his coffee cup. I did the same, tapping the rims together.
“To friendship,” I said.
“To the Friends Don’t Bang Friends Treaty,” River added. “By the power invested in coffee, I hereby declare we’re never having sex ever.”
We stuck to the pact—past college, through breakups and brief flings with other men, through good times and bad—never gambling with the thing that mattered most.
Now, eight years later, we’re still great friends thanks to the pact.
But then, the way you feel at twenty isn’t always the way you feel at twenty-eight. Wants and needs change, and so does what you’re willing to risk.
1
RIVER
Present day, November
This is the year I’m going to learn how to make a pie.
“How hard can it be? You get crust and pumpkins and apples and pecans and stuff like that. If I can mix drinks this good, surely I can make a terrific pecan pumpkin apple pie,” I say to Owen as I mix a Negroni for a customer.
“Because Campari, gin, and vermouth are the same as pecans, pumpkins, and apples? Also, you do realize most pies don’t call for pecans and pumpkins and apples in the same recipe?” Owen points out, dragging a hand through his dark brown hair that has just the right amount of swoop to it as it hits his forehead with the perfect bit of bounce. Like a shampoo commercial.
“Details. Besides, who made you the pie-meister? Maybe my pie will taste good as an Everything But The Kitchen Sink Pie. I’ll toss in gin too,” I suggest, then bring the Negroni to a tall Asian guy at the end of the bar who’s transfixed by his phone, but nervously tapping his fingers on the wood at the same time. My guess? He’s meeting someone from an app here any minute, and he’s worried the guy won’t show. “Bet he’ll be here soon, hun,” I say, with a grin.
The man looks up, breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks. I hope so.”
I return to Owen, who’s knocking back the Tom Collins I whipped up for him when he arrived ten minutes ago.
“My pie will be as good as that cocktail you’re devouring,” I state.
“I’ll see your Tom Collins, but I’m going to raise you on the pie challenge. I bet you’re bluffing. I have a hunch you can’t make a decent pie, River, especially if you’re thinking of putting gin in it,” he challenges.
“You doubt me? That just makes me want to bake it and invite you to Thanksgiving at Mama Michaels’s house to prove you’re wrong about my gin-pie-baking skills.”
Owen laughs, tossing his head back. “You really do think you’re good at everything, don’t you?”
“Think so? I know so,” I say, then quickly scan the establishment I own. My servers are tending to customers, another bartender is quenching the thirst of most of the patrons here at the counter, and everyone seems happy right now. Good thing, since that means I can indulge in one of my favorite pastimes—chatting with Owen.
“Then, I can’t wait to try this Kitchen Sink Pie and say I told you so. Also, why are you acting like you aren’t going to invite me to your parents’ house on Thanksgiving? You’ve invited me to every Turkey Day since you moved back to San Francisco.”
I groan. “But you were with Ezra last year, and you didn’t come.”
Owen shoots me a sharp stare. “Yes, and it’s not like I had the best time getting almost dumped by him in Napa, then getting officially dumped over Christmas in Las Vegas. We are, to quote Ms. Swift, ‘We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together.’”
“Hallelujah! He was the worst.”
“Tell me about it. He wouldn’t go with me to Friendsgiving last year. Should have been my tip-off,” Owen says, shaking his head.