Once the first courses arrive and Marie finally stops hovering over us, Brooke relaxes considerably. This leads me to believe her initial standoffishness when I picked her up was at least partially due to hunger.

Then again, she's also halfway through a glass of wine, which could be helping too.

Brooke scoops up the last bite of crispy crab cake and closes her eyes, letting out a moan that's borderline sexual. "Oh my god. These are unreal."

"They are." The crab cakes are delicious, but seeing Brooke's reaction is even better. Hell, I'd go out of my way to feed her these again just so I could watch her near-orgasmic response.

How can someone make eating seem so sexual? My brain is in the gutter and there's no hope of dragging it out. Probably to be expected when you're sitting across the table from someone who looks like her.

But in addition to that, we haven't stopped talking since we ordered our Pinot Noir. Even I have to admit there's something else between us beyond mere physical chemistry. Something I'd always wondered about, but never had the chance to confirm.

Whether Brooke is willing to admit that remains to be seen, however.

Setting down my fork, I pull out my phone and navigate to the catering spreadsheet Vidya sent. Appetizers are highlighted in blue, salads in green, mains in orange, with dessert at the bottom in pink. Then I survey my appetizer plate filled with half-eaten miniature versions of the potential hors d'oeuvres, cross referencing it with the list on my screen to ensure the tasters we've been given correlate to what Vidya selected.

"Decision time," I tell Brooke, glancing up at her. "While this is still fresh in our minds."

Everything we've tried so far has at least been good, if not great, so it's just a matter of deciding which items are the best. Better than being stuck with bad options, but difficult in its own way because there aren't any clear losers or automatic eliminations.

Brooke dabs at her mouth with her white linen napkin, setting it back in her lap. "Okay, let's do this."

"Spicy crab cakes with lemon aioli? What's the verdict?" I ask, pointing at what's left of my crab cake with my fork to illustrate.

Brooke has already devoured every crumb of hers, which means her stance on them should be pretty clear—but I know better than to assume anything when it comes to her.

"Yes," she says. "Big yes from me."

"I second that." I make a note in the corresponding appetizer column, moving down the list. "Tempura sweet potato with sesame miso dip?"

Brooke tilts her head thoughtfully. "I liked them. What did you think?"

"They were good," I agree, taking a sip of Pinot Noir. Even the wine list tonight is top tier. Or maybe my opinions are being colored by the company. "I was a little underwhelmed with the caprese skewers. They were still good, but nothing special."

"Agreed. I could make those, and we both know I'm hopeless in the kitchen."

She's not entirely wrong. According to Brendan, Brooke once started a small house fire as a teenager when she forgot she had macaroni cooking on the stove. Fortunately, nothing was harmed other than her pride.

"You do make a mean grilled cheese, though."

Her mouth tugs into a half-smile and vulnerability skirts the edges of her expression. She looks away, picking up her wine glass. There's a sparkly lip-shaped on the rim from her lipcloss. It's then that I notice her light pink nails are freshly manicured, too.

Yeah, she's totally going to say yes for Friday.

This certainty inspires a paradoxical rush of confidence and fear within me. I don't think I could stop myself from going after Brooke now if I tried—even though I'm not sure where it's headed.

Could be straight off a cliff, knowing my track record.

I return my attention to the list. "That leaves us with the miniature pulled pork sliders on a brioche bun or the chicken tacos."

"The choice there is obvious." Brooke tips up her crystal goblet, dark ruby liquid meeting her lips. "Not even up for debate."

"Pulled pork?" I guess, praying I'm right. With any luck, we can continue to channel our good vibes into agreeing on a menu tonight without too much debate. Neither of us is good at compromise, and when thrown together, we both tend to dig in our heels.

"Obviously." She sets down her glass and leans forward, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. A tiny smile plays on her lips. "Wait. Did we just agree on something? Three somethings?"

"I guess we did."

*

"No way." I shake my head, grabbing my glass of ice water from beside my plate. I've had a generous serving of wine and I'm trying to slow myself down because it has gone straight to my head. Or maybe that's Dean's presence. "That's too funny. I can't picture Brendan having a rebellious phase."

According to Dean, when Brendan was fresh off a nasty breakup with his college girlfriend during junior year, he abandoned his beloved sweaters in favor of t-shirts, got drunk every weekend, and made out with two different girls in the span of two weeks. I'm not sure if 'made out with' is a polite euphemism for something else to tame the ick factor because, well, he's still my brother. But because it's Brendan, I suspect that's truly all it was.

Dean smirks, because we both know he's the bad influence friend who was right there cheering Brendan along. "Rebellious is relative," he says. "It lasted for all of one month."

Marie bustles in with a silver tray balanced precariously on one hand. Because of the volume of food involved in the tasting, the meal has stretched out over an hour and a half already. I'm glad I didn't come alone; that would have been incredibly depressing.

She sets down our plates and resumes her military-perfect posture, clasping her hands as she studies us hawkishly. "How is everything so far?"

"Wonderful," Dean says, reaching across the table for my hand. When his fingers land on my skin, brushing affectionately, my heart practically trips over itself. "Especially the crab cakes. Right, pumpkin?"

"Just perfect." I give his shin a tiny kick under the table for the pumpkin jab and his lips tug ever so slightly, but his expression doesn't crack. Damn poker face.

With a nod, Marie turns and leaves us alone again. Reluctantly, I pull my hand away from Dean before I go into cardiac arrest in the middle of the restaurant.

There is an enormous amount of food in front of us: herb roasted chicken, wine-glazed filet, and blackened salmon. All small portions, but it adds up between the three. On the side are garlic mashed potatoes and caramelized brussels sprouts with bacon.

"Pumpkin, Hollis?" I pick up my knife, cutting into the salmon. It melts away like butter.

Dean lifts a broad shoulder. "I didn't think Marie would appreciate the subtle genius behind 'Lululemon'." He spears a miniature cabbage with his fork, studying it. "Have to admit, I'm not the biggest brussels sprouts fan, but bacon makes everything better."

"Bacon is one of the only other things I can cook," I admit.

"We could fix that, you know."

"We?" I ask.

He either intentionally ignores or misses the true intent behind my question. "Sure. I could teach you."

Dean's phone lights up beside his glass of water and I stiffen involuntarily as reality crashes back down around me. His gaze flicks down with an expression of utter disinterest that partially soothes my worries. If anything, it seems like he's annoyed at the interruption. But then why is his phone on?

"Brendan would like to know how the evening is going." He recites aloud, glancing back up at me. His eyes darken, voice dropping, and my heart stumbles again. "What should I tell him, Brooke? How is it going?"

Beneath the table, his leg grazes mine in a move that's clearly meant to arouse me—and it works.

I take longer than necessary to chew my food because my brain has taken an abrupt leave of absence. "It's going well," I finally say. "We've only had minor disagreements."

"We haven't had any disagreements," Dean points out. His hand lands on my upper thigh, thumb tracing my bare skin for a beat. Fever sparks within me. Suddenly, I'm in danger of spontaneously combusting.

"Yeah, but Brendan would never believe that," I force out. "It would probably make him more suspicious. He'd think we were fighting nonstop and trying to lie about that." Ironic, considering what we're really lying about.

Dean laughs and removes his hand from my leg, fingers flying across the screen as he composes a reply. "True."

He exchanges a few more texts back and forth with Brendan while I try to focus on my food, pondering his phone usage in general. When he sets down his phone, curiosity gets the best of me.

Before I can think it through, I ask, "Who's Joshua?"

His face goes blank and he freezes. He looks like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. A few seconds crawl by before he finally responds and his tone is unnaturally even.

"My brother."

Well, that makes a lot more sense than a secret child.

"Oh. Okay." I hope the relief isn't evident on my face.

Dean shifts his weight, working his jaw. "Josh has"—he falters—"personal difficulties. That's why I always check my phone, not because I'm trying to be an asshole."

I want to ask him more about what he means, but I can tell from his body language alone that I shouldn't. He's wound tighter than a spring. I suspect he has exceeded his sharing allotment for the day.

He clears his throat, draining the last of his wine, and we lapse into silence for with our food. As we both start to get full, our eating slows and the need for conversation blooms.

Dean must agree, because he speaks up first. "Jason said he was trying to talk you into teaching some class at the studio."

"Thinking about it. Not sure yet." In truth, the more I think about it, the more I want to go for it. Helping other people reach their fitness goals seems rewarding, and heaven knows it would be a welcome change from all the superficiality I deal with constantly online. Plus, it would be a great distraction to keep me from obsessing over numbers and metrics.

There's just the small hurdle of my imaginary degree.

His dark eyebrows lift. "No? You'd be great. You're very charismatic and would command the room well. Plus, you're hot. That's always a selling point with coaches."

Heat unfurls through my body and I try to ignore the rush of validation I get from his offhand compliments.

"I feel like this is vaguely approaching sexual harassment territory," I say teasingly.

"Vaguely?" He scrubs a hand across his jaw, a predatory glint in his eyes. "When it comes to what I want to do to you, I can get incredibly specific if you'd like."

There's a familiar tug between my thighs and I quickly cross my legs. Doomed. I'm doomed. There is no way I am getting out of this situation with Dean alive. Or clothed.

Marie returns in the nick of time to collect our plates and deliver a dessert sampler that I'm far too full to attempt. In addition to the wedding cake, Brendan and Vidya are opting to have handmade donuts glazed and topped to order.

We both survey the vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry donuts. They're artfully decorated an assortment of toppings: sprinkles, toasted coconut, miniature chocolate chips, Nutella, and a white chocolate glaze.

"Those look amazing, but it I eat one more thing, I'm going to explode," I tell him.

He eyes the box like he's thinking the same thing.

"Me too. But I can drop those off at Brendan's place later to give them a consolation prize."

Guilt sucker punches me in the gut again. They should be the ones here right now, not his freeloading sister who's secretly sleeping with his best friend. What are we even doing?

"That's a great idea. Thank you."

*

For nearly the whole ride home, we flirt shamelessly while Dean's hand rests on my thigh. It's both comforting and entirely distracting.

When we turn onto my street, my nerves skyrocket. What I want and think I should do don't align in the slightest. And talking it over with Peyton and Charity was like having a devil on one shoulder and angel on the other.

As it turns out, when I told Dean I wouldn't get attached, I lied. I honestly thought I wouldn't. I've fooled around with guys in the past and had it mean nothing. It was a non-issue. But we never had the same kind of history between us like I do with Dean.

Or the inescapable gravitational pull.

Dean pulls into the visitor parking for my building, and my nerves hit an all-time high.

"Are you sure you don't want me to handle more of the wedding details?" Mostly, I'm trying to keep us both focused on the real reason we were together tonight.

"I've got it handled," he says, shifting the ignition into park. "All good."

In our text thread, we reached an agreement where he handles all the details, money, and numbers, while I help choose everything. Once upon a time, I would have worried about him throwing it back in my face—because let's face it, he's doing way more work—but he's been surprisingly nice about it. He even tried to claim it was better this way because he doesn't want to pick things like flowers. But he's a control freak, so I know that part is a lie.

We start up my sidewalk and his arm slides around my waist. This is easy—too easy—and too familiar. My brain slams on the breaks and I come to a screeching halt.

Dean turns to look down at me, puzzled. "What's wrong?"

"I can't invite you in." The words fall at my feet like an anvil.

Much as I want to fall into bed with him for a third time, I want to protect my heart even more. And if we do have sex again, I'll be left questioning whether that's all he wants. If I don't draw the line in the sand right here, right now, I can't trust myself to behave.

"Okay..." his dark green eyes narrow, but he doesn't seem surprised. If anything, it's almost like he was expecting it.

"I didn't want you to get the wrong impression. I just think it'll complicate things too much while we're supposed to be focused on the wedding."

"Walking you to your door isn't a ploy, Brooke." He reaches over and pulls open the glass door, holding for me. "Though I can't lie and say that coming in wouldn't be a bonus."

We ride the elevator up in silence, but his arm is still around my body, tucking me against him. I want to explain, to tell him it's not that I don't want to let him do all those deliciously dirty things again, it's that I like all those things a little too much and now my feelings have gotten caught in the crossfire.

Our steps echo through the empty hall. I wonder whether his invitation for date on Friday still stands. Or did was that automatically withdrawn with my awkward attempt to set a booty call boundary? My stomach twists at the thought.

If sex is all Dean wants, though, it's better I know that now.

We come to a stop outside my unit and he watches while I retrieve my keys from my purse. Absurdly, I find myself wondering whether he got the button I tore off his shirt fixed yet. I suspect my brain is scrambling to hold onto any shred of reality it can instead of drowning in Dean.

"Thanks for driving tonight," I tell him. "And for helping me with everything."

While I'm partly trying to break the silence, I am also genuinely grateful for the assistance. Without him, I'd have lost my mind already. Probably would have gone thousands of dollars over budget and ran away to Mexico, completing my character arc as the black sheep of the family.

"My pleasure."

"You like planning weddings? That's cute, Dean." I bump him with my shoulder playfully, trying to lighten mood. "Maybe you should start a little side hustle after this."

He takes a step closer, backing me up against the door to my apartment. "I meant because of you." His eyes stay trained on me while fingers bracket my waist beneath my coat, his grip possessive and claiming.

"I thought you said walking me to my door wasn't a ploy." I'm breathless and trying to hide it, because I'm two seconds away from inviting him in. Again.

Dean gives me a crooked grin that impedes my ability to stay upright. "It's not my fault you want me to kiss you right now."

If anyone else said that to me, I would laugh. But in this case, he's right. Frustratingly so. Kissing is the least of what I want him to do. There's something in the way he handles me that makes my brain immediately shut down and my body seize control.

"You think I want you to kiss me?" I try to scoff, but it sounds more like a wheeze.

He cocks a brow. "Tell me you don't."

"I..." My gaze drifts down to his perfect mouth, quickly snapping back up to his eyes. "Can't." My voice is strained. "We both know where that will lead."

"Tell you what." His thumbs stroke my hipbones through the fabric of my dress and my body begs for him to move lower. "I'll kiss you, but I'm not coming in."

"Right." This sounds like a PG version of just the tip.

He reaches up and gently cups my cheek, eyes searching mine. "I won't, even if you ask me to. Consider it an experiment. I'd like to test a hypothesis."

Only Dean Hollis could make science sound appealing.

Plus, I conducted a little science experiment of my own back on New Years Eve and look where that got me: naked and under Dean, which is probably about to happen again. But for some reason, I believe him. Maybe it's the earnest expression on his face, or the fact that my resolve not to invite him in has already weakened to 50/50 at best.

"What's your hypothesis?"

"I'll tell you once I know the answer."

I don't have time to respond because he leans in, bringing his lips to meet mine. Still holding my face, he kisses me softly and slowly. It should seem sweet—but the deliberate control behind his movements is more sexy than anything. He has a way of reminding me who's in charge even when he's being gentle.