Acting on that would not be a good idea. Too complicated. What if he’s bad in bed and we still have to cohost all of these events? Or worse, what if he thinks I’m bad in bed? And why am I suddenly thinking about sleeping with him just because he’s making innocuous physical contact?

“Blaire, I got it. No big deal,” he repeats, and I realize I’ve been staring at his hand wrapped around my wrist, lost in my own head. I hope it wasn’t for long.

“Really, I startled you. I can clean it up.”

“Blaire.” This time his tone makes me look up.

“Just let me help,” I press.

“You’re not holding a dishrag.” He’s sort of smirking, but his cheeks are pink.

“What?” I glance back down to the cloth in my hand.

“Just give it to me, please.” He tries to pry it from my fingers, but his sudden desperation to take it away makes me want to hold on tighter.

“Just let go,” I tell him.

“No. You let go.”

Are we really having a kindergarten-style fight over this? He spins me around so my back is against his chest and bars his free arm around me, but I’m wiggly and for once it’s him who seems to be embarrassed. And suddenly I realize why.

Instead of a dishcloth, I’m holding a pair of boxer briefs with a cartoon Santa holding a beer on them. “Oh my God! Why the hell do you have boxers on your counter! Are they dirty?”

Ronan lets me go and raises both hands in the air. “They’re fresh from the laundry, I swear. They fell out of my laundry basket and I found them on the floor and tossed them on the counter this morning on the way out the door. I know I live alone and I’m a dude, but I don’t normally keep my underwear on the counter.”

This time it’s Ronan who’s red-faced instead of the other way around. I decide I should savor the experience since I have no idea when it’s going to happen again. I hold them up and frown at the way the peen pouch holds its shape. “What’s going on here?” I poke at the pouch.

He makes a noise that sounds half like he’s choking and also a groan. “Don’t do that.”

“Why not? You said they’re clean. Are you lying?”

“I’m not lying,” he croaks.

I know he’s telling the truth because the fresh smell of his laundry detergent prevails as I wave around his festive underwear. This is more fun than it should be. I peek inside. These aren’t like regular underwear at all. “Are these for sports or something? Like they have a built-in jockstrap?”

He tries to grab them from me but I spin out of reach, putting the island between us as a barrier. He pokes at his cheek with his tongue. “They offer support.” He uses his hand to demonstrate, but in the air, not by cupping his actual junk.

“Like a bra for your balls?” I make the same cupping motion in front of my chest. His underwear dangle from my pinkie.

“Yeah, sort of like a bra for my balls.”

“So it lifts and separates?”

“Same basic principle.” He closes his eyes for a few seconds, exhaling a long slow breath before he opens them again. “Can we stop talking about this now?”

“You’re the one who leaves underwear on your counter. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to be curious about them.”

He swallows thickly. “Is your curiosity sated?”

“Partially. I might have more questions later. Why? Is this conversation making you uncomfortable?”

He blinks a couple of times before his eyebrows rise. “We’re talking about my balls and your tits, Blaire.”

“And?” I play dumb, because this whole conversation is making me think about cupping his junk, so I have to assume it’s making him think about the same thing and possibly him acting as a human bra for my boobs.

“Well, Blaire, you’re fondling my underwear, we’re discussing cupping balls, you’re drawing attention to your chest, and men are visual creatures. So as you’re talking I’m imagining every single one of those things. And I’m wearing gray sweatpants and I’m commando now.”

“Seriously?” I push up on my tiptoes and try to get a look at his crotch, which is a silly thing to do because it’s not like I can see if he’s commando through his sweats.

He points a finger at me. “You stay right where you are.”

“Why?”

“Do you really need to ask?”

I shrug and give him a look that tells him I do, in fact, need to ask.

He plants his fists on the counter and huffs a laugh. He keeps his head bowed but lifts his gaze. “This conversation is stimulating.”

“Oh.” I glance down and back up a few times. “Oh! Are you aroused?”

All he does is glare at me.

“I see.” I nod primly and place his boxer briefs on the counter. I carefully smooth them out, bite my lip, and push them in his direction. “You know.” I wrinkle my nose. “I think I’m just going to excuse myself to the bathroom for a minute. It’s down the hall, isn’t it?” I motion in the direction he went when he changed into gray sweats.

“First door on the left,” he grinds out.

“I’ll give you a minute to…calm down, then,” I whisper. Yes, it’s sultry and on purpose.

“Much appreciated, Blaire.”

I wait until I’m halfway down the hall before I allow myself to smile. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one affected.

When I return from the bathroom—I take an extra long time and wish I’d thought to bring my purse along so I can fix my makeup—the underwear is no longer sitting on the counter, and Ronan has relocated to the couch.

In addition to the flights of beer, he’s set out bowls of chips, nuts, and popcorn. I grab my laptop and clipboard and join him.

I leave a cushion of space between us and adjust my dress so I can tuck my legs under all the fabric. If I’d been thinking, I would have lost the crinoline. It makes the skirt extra poofy—and hides my thighs and butt, which Maddy and Skylar had a habit of smacking anytime I wore jeans because, unlike them, I actually have a butt. Crinolines, while great for keeping the booty under wraps, are not necessarily the most comfortable thing to sit around in.

I battle the fabric down and use a throw pillow—there’s only one and it looks like it might have been cross-stitched by a grandmother—to keep it from poofing up again.