He lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers. “Yeah, trust me, I’m not thrilled either,” he said. “What was that crack about me putting you second?”

“Why do you care?”

Looking surprised, he opened his mouth but then shut it again with a small shake of his head as if he couldn’t process her question. Instead of answering, he brushed past her to enter.

“Gee,” she said dryly. “Come on in.”

He looked around the small but cozy apartment she loved because it was home in a way no other place had ever been. She could tell that he didn’t miss anything, including the fact that her TV was paused on Netflix, there was a gallon of ice cream sitting open on the coffee table with a wooden spoon sticking out of it, and a slightly embarrassingly large glass of wine sat nearby. He turned to face her.

Yes, she knew what he’d been up to. Her stalking skills were even better than her event planning skills, and she prided herself on being the best at that. He had an Instagram account that he was annoyingly stingy about posting on, but she’d managed to learn some things. Such as when she left for New York to take her scholarship, he’d stayed here in San Francisco, taking care of his dad after his debilitating stroke and running The Canvas Shop. After his dad’s death, Diego had left for San Diego, and as far as she could tell, he’d not been back since.

Until now.

“I care,” Diego said, startling her.

“Huh.” She nodded. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

He stood still, watching her, his energy deceptively relaxed. Because he wasn’t. Relaxed. It’d been nearly a decade since she’d been wrapped around that gorgeous body, but she still knew it almost better than she knew her own.

“I thought we should talk,” he said.

“Okay, and here’s what I think,” she said carefully. “One, you’re the best man of your brother’s wedding. Two, I’m the wedding planner. Three, we’re doing this for Rocco. And none of those things are going to change, correct?”

He nodded curtly.

“So then, we have no choice,” she said. “We have to get through this. I suggest we make a pact.”

“A pact.”

“Yes,” she said.

His eyes darkened, and just like that, she was thrown back in time to the way they’d been. Young. Sweet. Ridiculously in love. And competitive as hell. They’d made a lot of pacts in those days. Actually, more like dares. Who could outrun the other to the pier and back. Who could get their homework done the fastest. Who could make better cinnamon and sugar toast… Each bet had come with a prize—winner’s choice, of course. And since neither ever had a cent to their name, the bounty had almost always been sexual.

She’d often counted on it.

The memories in his gaze had her swallowing hard. “The pact is we avoid each other whenever possible,” she said.