We shifted to make room, Oliver sliding into the booth until he was directly across from me, Gabe’s knee pushing up against mine. I resisted the urge to wrap my leg around his like a vine.

“What did it for you?” Oliver asked. “His overrated movies or the faux timidity he calls a personality?”

“Both?”

Oliver laughed, slapping a hand down on the table.

When people turned to stare, he leaned forward, putting a finger to his lips as if I had been the one making the noise.

We all leaned forward, closer to the candle, as if we were conducting a secret meeting. If someone had told my teen self that the thing that would endear me to Oliver Matthias, the Darcy of my dreams, would be how much I hated Woody Allen, I would have thought they were insane.

As it was, I still wasn’t sure this whole thing wasn’t a drawn-out fever dream brought on by staring at shirtless pictures of Gabe before going to bed each night.

“We should keep that on the down low, though,” Oliver said, looking around conspiratorially. “You never know when the Woody fans will attack with their battle cry of ‘separate the art from the artist.’ ” He looked a bit sour at that. “Of course, people only care about defending terrible people making terrible art.”

“Chani thinks Angels in America is a great play,” Gabe interjected.

It seemed like a complete non sequitur, but Oliver responded with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“And she thinks people who have an issue with the fact that I kissed a man onstage in college have bigger personal problems to deal with.”

The two of them were having another conversation, completely independent of our other discussion.

“I see,” Oliver said.

“Yep.” Gabe took a sip of his drink and leaned back against the booth.

Oliver turned his attention to me, and smiled. A real smile.

“He told me you were smart,” he said.

“I am,” I said, the alcohol making me bold and flushed.

Or maybe the flush came from knowing that Gabe had spoken to Oliver about me. That I had been the topic of conversation between two of the hottest, most-sought-after men in Hollywood.

And the conversation had been flattering.

I actually pinched myself. Just to double-check that all this was truly happening. I pinched hard enough to give myself a bruise.

“We like smart women,” Oliver said, giving Gabe a knowing look.

I nearly choked on my drink.

Had I completely imagined the suggestive nature of that comment? Or was this one step away from revealing the kind of unexpected, secret sexual proclivities that Jo had warned me about?

I was full-on staring at Gabe and Oliver now, trying to figure out if part of their covert conversation had been sussing out whether or not I’d be down for a threesome.

While I was trying to figure out if I would be down for a threesome.