“Josie is pretty much a goddess of baked goods.”

“She is,” he says, adoration thick in his tone. “And this just makes my whole day better. Trust me, it was a shit afternoon. Well, for other people.”

“Let me guess. You had five stabbings,” I say, as a recap of last night’s game-winning homer plays on the Jumbotron.

He runs a hand through his—you guessed it—golden-brown hair and laughs deeply. “Four, actually. Along with three gunshots and a mustard jar inside a body cavity,” he says, then tells me exactly where the jar was found while he devours the pink frosting.

I cringe. “Dude, how can you eat while you tell that story?”

He shrugs. “I was born lacking any semblance of squeamishness. Guess that’s one reason I’m so amazing at my job,” he deadpans, like the cocky fucker I’ve known him to be. He’s a great guy, though. He’s always had my back, and I’m the same with him.

He finishes the cupcake, tucks the sticker in his pocket, and says, “Tell Josie she’s still the best baker around.”

“You should go in. Tell her yourself,” I say, since Josie and Chase know each other. He came home for a few breaks during college and stayed with us, and they became friendly. I stop, remembering the McHottie comment. “Wait. Don’t go in. Don’t see her.”

He frowns and holds up his hands as if weighing something. “See her, don’t see her? Which one is it, Hammer?”

“See her, Summers. But don’t hit on her,” I warn.

His eyebrows wriggle. “She’s still a total babe, right?”

I scowl. “Dude. Don’t say that. She’s my sister, not to mention my favorite person in the universe.”

“Empirically, though, she’s gorgeous. It’s a medical fact.”

“You can’t just say that shit on account of the degree. You can’t. It’s not allowed,” I say as the Yankees stream out of the dugout and the crowd cheers.

“Relax, man. I’ve been friends with her nearly as long as I’ve been friends with you. And I haven’t hit on her once.”

“Good. Can we talk about something else besides my sister?”

“Sure,” he says, casually. “Like, say, how’s life as a married man?”

I jerk my head. Glance down at my ring finger. It’s bare. “How’d you know?”

He laughs deeply. “Dude, you texted me at three in the morning from Vegas and said you got hitched. I thought you were pranking me. It was for real?” he asks as the announcer shares the lineup, and the players’ names and pictures flash on the Jumbotron.

I shrug, nod, and say yes.

“What’s the story?”

I give him the CliffsNotes version of what an amazing time Natalie and I had in Vegas, then buy a couple of brews from the beer man in the stands. And since I haven’t breathed a word to anyone, it actually feels good to tell Chase what went down.

“So you still haven’t fixed that little issue?” he asks as I hand him a cup. “I told you, there’s a pill for that. You should have taken it that night.”

“What’s the name of this pill?” I ask, taking the bait.

He taps his chin. “Let’s see. What was the name of it? A pharma rep brought one by the other day. Oh, right. It’s called Do the Motherfucking Opposite of Every Instinct You Have When it Comes to Women.”

“So it’s an opposite pill you’re prescribing after the fact.”

“Seriously, though, man,” he says, clasping my shoulder. “It’s a no harm, no foul situation. You’ve got it all sorted out, and now you move on.”

“Yeah, totally,” I say, taking a drink, but the words feel strangely empty.

“Hell, everyone does stupid shit in Vegas.”

“It’s the land of stupid shit.”

“It’s like a rite of passage.”

“Except you. You never do stupid shit,” I point out, and it’s true. Chase is the golden boy through and through. He skipped two grades in school, scored a full scholarship to college, and graduated top of his class. Went on to medical school, nabbed a great residency, then decided to take a year to help out in one of the most war-torn regions in the world. Oh, and he can save lives. So, there’s that. He has absolutely no problems when it comes to the ladies.

“No, I don’t. But if I were in Vegas, I’d probably have done the same,” he says. “Especially if I had a thing for my assistant like you do.”

I whip my head in his direction even though the bases are now loaded. “What? Why the fuck do you say that? You’ve only been back in town for two weeks. How would you know?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.”

“Whatever. Answer the question, man.”

Chase takes a hearty drink of the beer. “Because of how you just talked about her. You like this woman.”

I part my lips to speak, but what’s there to say? He’s right. I do like Natalie. I have from day one. But that doesn’t matter. My feelings aren’t the issue. The situation, however, is the issue, and it’s not changing anytime soon.

“Besides,” he continues, “you’re not the type of dude who just hits ’em and quits ’em.”

“I have a Tinder account,” I say defensively as the pitcher serves up a strike.