Clarke had joined the crew at first on the periphery, as Audrey’s occasional tagalong, but over time, he’d become friends with Oliver and Scott in his own right. He and Oliver had run loosely in the same circle for years. In fact, on paper, he and Oliver had plenty in common. Born and raised on the Upper East Side, fathers established business leaders. Had they not been sent to different prep schools, Clarke expected they’d have been friends long before now. As it was, though, it had taken Oliver falling in love with Naomi, and Naomi and Audrey becoming fast friends, to bring them together.

Scott was a bit more of a mystery to Clarke. He was from Vermont or New Hampshire or some place with a population of twelve, but he had made a name for himself, not just in the New York real estate world, but internationally, as a contractor in charge of some of the most prestigious skyscrapers and landmarks of their lifetime.

The result was a man who looked as comfortable in a tuxedo with champagne in his hand as he did with a leather jacket and beer. Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. The leather jacket, jeans, and boots Scott wore now seemed a far more natural fit. But Scott fit into their world when it suited him. Which wasn’t often.

“You know, maybe the bachelor party would be a good time for us to see the house?” Oliver said with a smirk as he looked at Clarke.

“Yeah, tell me you at least get a stripper out of this whole fake wedding thing,” Scott said. “I thought Claire was joking when she told me about it.”

“Not a joke. You were at the engagement party,” Clarke pointed out.

“I was,” Scott drawled. “Didn’t see much about it that looked fake.”

Clarke sat forward and ran this thumb over the label of the bottle.

“He’s referring to the kiss,” Oliver said.

“I know what he’s talking about,” Clarke said irritably. “Is this why I got invited to your dinner party? So you could interrogate me about it?”

“No, Naomi invited you to the dinner party so she could interrogate you. I’m merely giving you a reprieve,” Oliver said. “Though I suspect our man cave moments are limited before we’re summoned to the salad course, or some shit, so if you want to spill, do it now.”

“I don’t want to spill,” Clarke said. He realized the moment the words were out that it was a lie. He did want to talk about it, and these two guys were as good a bet as any. He stood and paced the room, looking around without really seeing Oliver’s big-screen TV, the pool table, the built-in fridge, and the wet bar filled with an assortment of whiskies.

“You guys think I’m nuts.”