She’s put together tonight in her red sweater and fitted jeans, her dark hair pulled back in a clip, and she has colorful hoops dangling from her ears—the antithesis of what she was this morning in her robe and the little she had on beneath it.

I like her both ways. I want her both ways. But I’m going to have to let that go. Despite what Jake seems to think—despite how I acted last night—I know she isn’t a convenient lay I can use to numb myself without worrying about emotional entanglements. She’s a friend, an honorary Jackson, and we’re already entangled.

“Last night was what?” she asks, and I realize her gaze has drifted to my mouth again. Fuck me, but I like that she keeps doing that. Love it.

“Last night was a bigger favor than you realize.”

“Oh, no. I felt all those eyes on me when you called me up onstage. I realize how big it was. Huge. You owe me so big.” She laughs, not serious at all.

“I should have warned you. And I would have if it had occurred to me before that moment on the stage. So, yes, I owe you. But I can’t lie to my family.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” She mutters a curse. “It all seemed so simple before, but maybe it’s not. Your family will see mine. We’re doing a beer-tasting tour that includes a stop here, and the reception is at the banquet center.” She clenches a fist in her lap, and I don’t say anything because I can tell she’s thinking out loud. “The lie is already out there. Can it really hurt to keep it up? Do you think your family would play along?”

I nod slowly, imagining the conversation, my mom’s reaction and subsequent hope, Jake’s judgment, and Shay’s knowing grin. “If they think it’s important, they will. They care about you.”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was important,” she says.

I straighten and close the distance between us. Sitting on the barstool, she’s nearly eye level with me, and she stays perfectly still as I wrap a hand behind her neck. “I’ll have to touch you like this.” I graze the tender spot behind her ear with my thumb, then follow the path I kissed last night to the light purple bruise at the base of her neck. Some base, possessive part of me likes seeing my mark on her. Wants to mark her in other spots too—over her hipbones, on her inner thigh, her ass . . .

“I’ll have to endure it, I suppose.” Her lips twitch. “To make it believable.”

“But no sex,” I say, my gaze glued to her wicked smile.

Her smile falls away, and she lifts a hand and threads it through my hair. When she speaks, her lips nearly brush mine. “No sex.” For a beat so brief I almost miss it, her gaze flicks to Myla.

“Are you jealous of Myla Quincy?”