Fox’s proposal seems so counterintuitive, though—Malcolm asked her to spend time with him. He’s expecting her to do it. But . . . what would happen if she fell for someone else while he’s watching? Even if it isn’t real, what happens if he believes it is? Joy can predict almost everything about Malcolm. Strangely, she doesn’t have an immediate answer for that.

“I’m not saying you’re right or I agree. But some points may have been made.” Joy tries to play it coy, looking over her shoulder at him. “What about Summer? What brilliant realization is she supposed to reach?”

“That Malcolm is in love with you.”

“He’s not, though. I’ll give you obsessed because that’s admittedly mutual, but he does like her. He’s not faking it, if that’s what you think.”

“I know,” he says. “But that doesn’t change the fact that they want us together, which is the topic at hand.”

“Summer. Not ‘they.’ ” As far as Joy can tell, Summer is the only one who stands to gain anything at the end of the charade. It adds up nicely: Malcolm told her about Caroline, which means he probably told her about the email. If she’s heard so much about Joy, she could have orchestrated a plan to meet in a controlled environment . . . with a distraction thrown Joy’s way so she could keep Malcolm to herself.

Or prove Caroline right. Joy is the problem. Joy is the one holding Malcolm back, sabotaging any chance he has being happy with someone else.

Shit.

Joy upgrades from chewing on her lip to gnawing at her cuticles. Summer truly has her stressed. “It doesn’t bother you that she’s doing this?”

“Things could be worse.” He meets her gaze. “Pretending to like you wouldn’t make the top ten worst things to ever happen to me.”

“What a nice, diplomatic way of saying I’m number eleven. Thanks.”

Fox tries not to laugh, but he’s struggling. He seems determined not to smile or show any expression other than harassed and grumpy ennui.

Joy crosses her arms in triumph, mirroring his posture. “Hypothetically, how would this work? Between us, I mean.”

His whole face brightens, but he still doesn’t smile. “Well, you said no kissing. No dry humping. Anything else off-limits?”

“A lot, probably.”

“Like what? I’m just trying to make sure you won’t slap me if I hold your hand. If we’re not comfortable with each other, he’ll never believe us.”

“I think I’ll reserve the slapping for when you do something with a bit more umph,” she says. “And I never said no kissing. Trying to lick my lungs and kissing are two completely different species of PDA. But don’t kiss me, though. I don’t like surprise kisses.”

“Is all kissing off-limits?” he asks. “There’s more than one kind of kiss.”