I wave my hand at Ann. “Oh, you know, that’s really okay.” I laugh. “I can see from here.” I look at Ellie’s boobs. And yup—bare, everything bare. “Those for sure look firm.” I give her a thumbs up. “Good job growing.”

Ellie laughs. “Isn’t she fun? Come on, Lottie, just feel. You can feel what the baby will be sucking on. You know I don’t care at all.”

She might not care, but I do.

“It’s very educational,” Ann says. “You can mimic the sucking sensation.”

I laugh and shake my head. “I’m all about education, but I think I’m good with not sucking my friend’s nipple.”

Ann and Ellie both look at each other and then throw back their heads and laugh.

“Not with your mouth,” Ann says, grabbing my hand. “With your fingers.”

In a flash, my hand smacks right into Ellie’s left breast and her extremely hard nipple rubs against my fingers.

Thick, tight, just . . . a solid nip.

And I’m touching it.

I’m touching another woman’s nipple.

Fondling is more like it, as Ann makes me move my fingers all over it.

“Oo, that tickles,” Ellie says, and that’s it for me.

I yank my hand away and fold my arms across my chest. “You’ve got some baby suckers there,” I say, trying to mentally block this day already from memory.

Huxley is going to owe me big time.

“I’m so excited you think so.” Ellie lowers her shirt and bra. “So, what do you think, Ann? Can we milk some breasts?”

“You didn’t come here not to.” Ann pats me on the shoulder. “This is where the fun begins.”

“Lottie?” Huxley calls out. “Where are you?”

I don’t say anything.

I don’t even move.

Instead, I sit in the living room, on the most comfortable couch I’ve ever sat on, stiffly perched at the edge, hands in my lap, as I stare at the elaborate fireplace right in front of me.

There are no words for what my morning was like. No words at all.

After being squirted in the eye by a fake breast glued to a wall, I’ve done my fair share of adulting for today.

“There you are,” Huxley says, stopping in the living room doorway. “I just got a text from Dave. He told me Ellie won’t stop raving about this morning.” When I don’t look at him, I hear him shuffle across the floor to get in my line of sight. “Uh, everything okay?”

Lips pressed together, I shake my head. “Nope. Not even close.”

“What happened?”

“I touched her bare boob, Huxley. I touched Ellie’s bare boob.”

“What?” he asks as he takes a seat on the coffee table so he’s sitting across from me. His handsome face comes into view, but it does nothing to ease the tension in my shoulders. “What do you mean, you touched her boob?”

“And I got squirted in the face.”

“By her boob?” Huxley practically yells.

“No, by a boob on the wall.”

He sits taller. “You’re going to have to run through it for me, because I’m confused.”

“As am I.” I pat his knee. “As am I.” I let out a deep breath and say, “I don’t have it in me to recount what happened. Just know, if I ever proved how serious I’m taking this deal, today would be the day.”

“Sounds like it.” Guilt washes over his face. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

I snap out of my funk and connect with his eyes.

There he is.

The Chipotle guy.

Right there. The stern scowl on his forehead is gone. The boyish charm is brimming in his eyes. And the way he pulls on the back of his neck—unmistakable.

“It’s fine,” I say. “Traumatizing. I will have to bleach my eyes, but I’ll make it.”

He smirks and then reaches behind him to his back pocket. That’s when I notice he’s wearing jeans and sneakers. Well, hello, Mr. Casual.

“I got something for you.”

“You did?” I ask.

He nods and brings a rolled-up piece of fabric out in front of him.

“What is it?”

He unravels it and holds it up. “Thought you might like it.”

In front of me is a cream-colored, vintage rock band T-shirt with Fleetwood Mac on the front, the image from their Rumours album.

“Oh my God.” I take it from him. “This is amazing.” I hold it out and study it.

“Check out the back,” he says.

I turn it around and take in all the city tour dates.

“Wait, is this an original tour shirt?”

“Yeah,” he says. When I glance up, I catch the pride in his eyes.

“Holy shit, Huxley. This is . . . wow, this is amazing.” I clutch it to my chest. “Thank you. This means so much to me.”

And this is exactly why I’m having such a hard time. Because the thoughtfulness behind this T-shirt only makes me like him that much more. The gesture cracks open my chest and pulls on my heart, forcing me to look at him in a different light.

He rubs his hands on his legs. “Glad you like it.” He glances to the side and it almost looks as though he’s . . . nervous. Nervous about what? “I wasn’t sure if you had anything else planned for today. Do you?”

He’s acting really weird.

Very strange.

Not like the demanding man I’ve come to know very well.

“Uh, nothing on the docket. Just trying to erase what happened this morning.”

He nods and continues to rub his hands on his thighs. “Well, if that’s all you have planned, I was thinking I might take you somewhere.”

Take me somewhere?

An inch of hope blooms in my belly. It’s coupled with excitement.

Is he . . . is he asking me out?

Is that why he’s nervous?

Is that why he’s rocking back and forth?

Because he’s nervous to ask me out?

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Lottie. Remember, he wouldn’t kiss you over the weekend. Even when the rain was dripping off his chest and he was thrusting into you, he kept his lips to himself.

I choke down my raw emotions and ask, “Like on a date?”

His eyes land on mine. And for a torturous second, I’m terrified I read him completely wrong, until he says, “Yeah, like on a date.”

Oh God. He’s serious.

The honesty.

The shadow of hope in his eyes.

The nervous tick in his hands.

How could I possibly say no? There’s no way I could say no, not when my body gravitates toward him, when I can sense my heart opening up to him, even when I try to hide it or hold back. He’s got me hooked. It’s undeniable.

I’m positively hooked on this man.

I try to keep my emotions casual, though. “What were you thinking?”

His nervous ticks morph into a confident smile as he reaches to pull out something else from his back pocket. He holds a piece of paper in front of me and then flicks his fingers so the one piece of paper in his hand turns into two. “Care to go to a Fleetwood Mac concert with me?”

“What?” I shout, standing from the couch and grabbing the tickets to look at them closely. “No way. There’s no way . . .” My eyes scan the tickets. “Holy shit, these are tickets, these are real fucking tickets. Huxley, did you know these are real tickets?”

He chuckles as he stands as well. “Do you think I’d buy fake ones?”

“No, I mean—I just thought, you know, it would be like a fake ticket and then we go on the patio and play the music, pretending it’s a concert, but these are real. They have a barcode on them.”

“The barcode makes all the difference.”

In disbelief, I stare down at the tickets. “I can’t believe this. I didn’t know they were going to be in Los Angeles. I—Huxley . . .” I glance up at him. “Wait. This concert is in Portland.”

Hope falls as I realize the mistake.

He tilts up my chin and says, “I know. The jet is ready to take us once you get dressed.”

“Jet?” I ask.

A cocky smirk appears on his face. “Yeah, you do realize I have a private jet, right? We can go wherever we want, when we want.” He winks, the confidence in full swing now. “That’s what happens when you have a rich fake fiancé.”

“Wait . . . so we’re flying to Portland tonight and we’re really going to go see Fleetwood Mac . . . in concert?”