He rolls his eyes like that’s the craziest thing anyone has ever said. He reaches for my cheek, sliding a thumb across my jaw. “We’re absolutely friends, even though I would very much like to kiss you deliberately again.”

My heart hammers.

My body pulses.

Oh yes, I want all the deliberate kisses.

Everywhere.

And I’m pretty sure that’s what’s called friends with benefits. Because I’m the kind of woman who says what’s on her mind, who likes clarity, I do just that. “That was a friends-with-benefits kind of a kiss, right?”

“And it was a very good benefit of our friendship, wouldn’t you say?”

I can’t stop smiling. “I would definitely say so.”

This time I wave goodbye for real, shut the door, sigh ever so happily, lean my head back against the wall, and close my eyes.

I just kissed the best man.

And it was spectacular.

12

Nadia

Flopping down onto the soft couch, one arm hanging off the side, I can’t stop grinning.

It’s just not possible. This smile can’t be erased.

Running my finger across my lower lip, I let the reel play before my eyes once more.

The way he swept his thumb over my jaw, held my face, explored my lips.

With a contented sigh, I savor the aftereffects of the knee-weakening kiss with the man I’ve crushed on since I was a teenager.

My skin tingles, and as I close my eyes, the movie screen shows me A Kiss with Crosby over and over.

It’s a fantastic double feature.

Morning sun streaks through the window. A heavy breath pulls from my chest. A yawn tugs at my mouth as I rouse.

A slow glance down reveals I fell asleep in my dress. Must have kicked off my shoes, but otherwise I’m still in bridesmaid couture.

Dragging myself up from the couch, I head to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and shimmy out of my dress. I return to the suite, tug a T-shirt from my overnight bag, and find my phone on the table.

I call Scarlett on FaceTime. Her eyes widen the second she sees me. “Someone slept with her makeup on and her hair still done up bridesmaid-style,” she says, an I know what you did last night grin lighting up her face.

I feign innocence. “And yet I still look fabulous, right?”

“Yes, you look like you were fucked fabulously,” she says, mincing no words.

“Is it a good look?” I ask playfully, patting my day-after do. It’s a wild mess, hair sticking up everywhere.

“Cover-worthy of a Joy Delivered catalog. That fantastic.” Scarlett waves a hand airily as she strolls along the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés in the sixth arrondissement, its gorgeous spires reaching just out of sight of the phone camera. “Now give me the bang report. It’s time. You’re wearing all the evidence. Look at your hair, woman. It’s a wild mess.” She peers at the screen, as if hunting for someone else behind me. “Where is he?”

Laughing, I fling myself onto the couch. “We did not bang. Neither dick banging nor finger banging,” I say, since I can definitely go full filth with my girlfriends. But girl talk is cone-of-silence-level vault.

“Tongue banging?” she asks, a hopeful pitch in her voice.

A daring tremble runs through me at the prospect of Crosby’s tongue exploring me all over.

But now’s not the time to daydream about his downtown skills.

Though I want to. Oh hell, do I want to. I may be a virgin, but my imagination is very sexually active.

“We kissed, and it was fantastic,” I say in a wild, wondrous confession. “And kissing as in first base.”

She blinks several times. “Whoa. I was sort of joking. But sort of not. You really did kiss your wedding date? The one you were just going to go with as friends?”

“Yes,” I say, humming as I knit my brow. “Should I feel bad?”

A smidge of guilt wedges into my chest. We were supposed to be buddies. Just friends.

I violated our friendship pact.

“Was it a bad kiss?”

My jaw drops. “Wash your mouth out with soap. It was amazing. Like Paris-lit-up-at-Christmastime amazing. Like kisses-under-the-streetlamp-along-the-Seine amazing,” I say, using terms near and dear to my friend.

She brings her hand to her heart. “So it was the perfect kiss?”

“Exactly,” I say, then I share more details of the night—the talking, the teasing, the dancing. The dick pic I never saw, the nip slip that didn’t happen, our accidental jokes.

Still, was it a terrible mistake to kick things up to the kiss level?

But we didn’t let the genie out of the bottle.

The genie is still in the lamp, I’m sure.

“The kiss was quite intentional though?” Scarlett asks, as if needing to confirm it.

“It was.”

She sighs. “Interesting.”

I sit up, skin prickling, spidey-senses on alert. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you went from going as friends to ending the night with a kiss. That’s interesting.” She stops at a street corner, the sound of a bus rumbling along the boulevard landing on my ears.

“Interesting good, or interesting bad?” Nerves speckle my voice. My anxiety resurfaces. Did I mess things up? “Should I be worried about something?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “No. At least I don’t think so. But how did you end things with him?”

My heart beats faster with worry. Like I did something wrong by tiptoeing across that line. Maybe we both did. “I’m seeing him later this week because he’s going to be my plus-one at the Sports Network Awards. Why do you sound like you’re worried about me? Should I be worried?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not, my friend. You’re a badass woman. An adult. A formidable force of nature and the toughest owner in the NFL.” She draws a deep breath as she crosses the street. “But you also entertained a spectacular kiss with a man you want last night.”

“Right, but we agreed to be friends with benefits. We were both on the same page. Besides, he has spring training in a little more than a week, so he’ll be gone. It’s not like there’s even a chance for this to continue,” I say, telling her and reminding myself. Sure, we crossed the line, but we both agreed to, both wanted to, and both know we can handle it. “We’re simply going to two events together, and if something happens, fine. But it’s not like we made any plans to kiss again per se.”

Though as I give that voice, the words sound odd—like I’m convincing myself.

“Ah, it’s the friends-with-benefits plan. That ought to be quite uncomplicated,” she says, nodding as she marches past a chocolate shop.

The sight of it makes my mouth water, even as her dry words make my stomach churn. “You think I’m being foolish?”

She laughs gently. “I don’t think you’re being foolish,” she says, taking her time, speaking slowly. “But I also think you should be realistic about what this is. Friends with benefits is risky—both to the benefits and the friendship. Even with the expiration date.”

I sit up straighter, absorbing her words. “Of course,” I say, drawing on my stores of confidence, my internal strength. “I know that. I’ll remember it. I swear. And the expiration date just makes sense.”