“I’ll admit, that’s pretty cool.”

We stop to enjoy the cupcakes in front of this art installation that was all over Instagram a few years ago. Is installation even the right word? It’s just one huge wall painted a sunflower yellow. I swear this thing used to be in the background of every single selfie tagged in Beverly Hills. It’s seen better days now, but I still think it’s got some character, and the yellow is nice. There’s a couple taking pictures there right now, both of them squatting down to the pavement to get their golden retriever into the frame.

“Okay, taste test.”

We both unbox our cupcakes, biting into them at the same time. Mine’s moist, and the flavor is good. The salt gives it that kick that really complements the icing.

“Oh my God,” Wyatt mutters, his mouth full. “This kicks ass.”

“Told you.”

He glares at me. “You said it’d be pretty good.”

“And isn’t it at least pretty good?”

“It’s more than that.” He swallows, then takes another bite, not noticing the strawberry frosting he’s left on his nose. I accidentally let out this snort when I see it.

“What?”

“You’ve got some …” I wipe my own nose.

Wyatt scrunches his nose, going cross-eyed.

“Here.” I grab one of the napkins left for us in the cupcake boxes and wipe it away for him.

“Thanks.”

“You’re so gross.”

“Whatever, Kearney.” Wyatt purses his frosting-covered lips and leans toward me, doing his best to leave a strawberry lip print on my cheek.

“Oh, gross!” I shove him away, making sure my cupcake remains safe. “Stop it!”

We down the cupcakes and buy some bottles of water because we’re both incredibly thirsty after that much sweet stuff. There’s a bit more walking as we make our way back to Rodeo Drive to try on our suits. I make it a point to show Wyatt Anderton Court, the Frank Lloyd Wright–designed shopping center that’s maybe my favorite building simply based off the aesthetics.

A brand-new sales associate greets us at the Gucci store and gets our suits.

“You try yours on first,” I say. “I want to make sure there are no more alterations that need to be made.”

“Okay.” Wyatt shuffles uncomfortably to the changing room. With any luck, this will be the last time I have to subject him to Gucci. After a few minutes, and some assistance from the store associate, Wyatt walks out to the main floor.

I can’t stop my jaw from dropping.

The charcoal suit hugs his body in all the right places, the fit defining his chest perfectly, the pants hugging his thighs. Then the boy does a spin and I get a firsthand look at how good his ass looks too.

What the fuck?

When did this happen?

Since when is Wyatt Fowler hot?

Like, he looked handsome yesterday, but today …