“But Buzz isn’t anything like Marlon. I would hate for you to compare the two—not that it’s any of my business, just saying.”

I appreciate that. “I know, but…”

“Okay, okay, I won’t harp on it. Just think about it.” She comes around the counter to my side. “Meanwhile, we should probably…” Her head tips toward the backyard and the party outside.

I follow her back out, water in hand, returning to the group we left not ten short minutes ago. Buzz automatically flocks to my side, and if this were an actual date with actual potential, my heart and stomach would be doing flip-flops at how attentive he is. My stomach would tighten into a knot at the sight of his toned arms and wide shoulders, and the way the sunlight makes his hair look a bit brighter.

His teeth are blinding when he smiles down at me.

Nope.

My stomach isn’t tightening from nerves. It must be something else—that’s the only way to explain it.

I rest a hand there, on my abs, pressing down.

He notices.

“Is the baby kicking?”

A laugh bursts out of me—I cannot help it—and I smack him out of sheer panic and mortification. “Oh my god would you shut up!” I nervously laugh again and tell the group, “I am not pregnant.” Turn to Buzz. “Please stop telling people I’m pregnant.”

“Guys, don’t say anything. It upsets her,” he tells his friends. “It’s not good for the baby.”

I smack him again with an eye roll. “Knock it off.”

No one knows what to say.

Except Buzz, of course. “Just kidding. She’s not pregnant.” Pause. “Yet.”

I can’t do anything but shake my head, and if anyone knows what to say or do, they’re not saying or doing it, which is making this entire scene uncomfortable.

So awkward it’s awful, and I’m not sure if I should laugh nervously or throw myself into the deep end of the pool.

“Hollis, is it?” our host asks. “Where did the two of you meet?”

I open my mouth to reply, but Buzz beats me to it. “We bumped into each other a few times, and I conned her into coming with me today.”

I wonder why he isn’t telling the truth. Considering these are his friends and not mine, I don’t add to his story, just corroborate it with a nod.

“Yup. He definitely had to bribe me into going out with him.” Ugh, I just made it sound like we’ve been out before.

“Have you seen him throw back tacos yet?”

I look at Buzz. “Tacos?”

“Taco Tuesday is my favorite.”

A giggle escapes my lips. “What does that mean? You’re one of those people who actually pounds back tacos once a week?”

“Basically. And that’s a deal breaker. Answer this question: hard shell or soft?”

I mull over my answer. “It depends. If the meat is nice and greasy, I love a hard shell. I love it when the bottom gets soft and the outside is crunchy. Otherwise, I love soft shells—if it’s stuffed full and has beans and lots of sour cream.”

Yum.

“I present to you: my dream girl!” Buzz obnoxiously announces to the entire backyard. I glance at the pool, calculating how many steps it would take to get to the edge and dive in versus scaling the back wall and fleeing.

The thing is, while it sounds like he’s making a joke, he looks dead serious. But that can’t be right, can it? From what I can see, this is a guy who doesn’t take anything seriously, so I can’t imagine being in a relationship with him. Can’t imagine him being faithful, or attentive, or—

“…not like a vertical taco or anything. Legit, with beef.”

I snap out of my daze and try to focus on what they’re saying. Vertical tacos? What on earth is he going on about?

I mean—these people think I’m with him with him, so even though this is all fake, I still want to strangle him for talking stupid! I still look bad for being here with him!

One of the wives—girlfriends?—takes pity on me and changes the subject, but it’s back to me, and I squirm.

“What do you do, Hollis?” Curious, she tips her head and waits for my reply, her blonde hair glistening in the sun, parted down the middle and curled within an inch of its life, probably extensions.

“I’m an editor.”

“Like, for a newspaper?”

“No one reads the newspaper.” Her husband/boyfriend rolls his eyes at her, which I think is rude. I recognize him as one of the outfielders on the Steam, Kevin something-or-other. Clearly he’s a self-absorbed prick if he’s going to belittle his significant other in public.

“Actually they do read the paper, but no—I’m not an editor for a newspaper. I’m in publishing. So, books.”

I wait for the questions to come.

“What kind of books?”

I shrug. “Fiction, mostly. Contemporary fiction.”

“Have I read anything you’ve edited?”

I think for a few seconds. “I edited As I Die Slowly which was on the New York Times best seller list for two weeks last year.” The author just sold the film rights to a production company.