He nods.

But I can't even. I had completely forgotten, but the image of Ollie on the couch, sitting with ice packs under his butt and an utterly grumpy expression on his gorgeous face has suddenly flooded to the forefront of my mind. Bridge tried to tease him, but her mom practically killed us for making fun. We had no idea why, but now it totally makes sense.

"So?" he prompts, looking at me pointedly, eyeing my shirt.

Instead, I slide my foot out from underneath me and pull off one of my fuzzy socks, holding it before him as payment.

"That's all I get for that story?" he asks with disbelief.

I throw the sock in his face. "Yup."

"Okay, I see how it is." He nods slowly.

I hold up my foot, wiggling my toes, and say, "Your turn."

Spurred on by my unspoken challenge, his gaze turns serious. He could ask for my most embarrassing moment, but let's be honest, there's almost too much material to choose from, and he's witnessed most of it. Falling off a stage and breaking my wrist? Check. Confessing my undying love? Check. Walking in on Bridge's date utterly naked in the living room? Check. Though, to be fair, I think that was mortifying for all parties involved, but still. I just know he's thinking of something else, something more worthy.

And then he finds it. "When did you first realize you loved me?"

"Oh god," I mutter, because I know the exact moment, and it's terrible. So bizarre. So embarrassing.

But my response only makes him more curious. "Come on. You know my answer. I never realized anything until that night you woke me up and kissed me. That changed everything for me, but for you it was different."

But he can see my hesitation.

So he leans forward, enticing me with an offer he knows I won't refuse. "I'll give you my shirt in exchange for the truth."

I groan.

Because Ollie's six-pack. Enough said.

But I would have given in anyway...I think. "Fine," I say. "But you have to promise to never tell this to Bridge or anyone ever."

His eyes flash with intrigue. "Done."

I sigh. "Do you remember Halloween when you were a senior? Bridge and I were freshman."

His face clears as he thinks back. "I don't know."

"It was the year the football team decided to switch uniforms-"

"With the cheerleaders," he says slowly, remembering.

I nod sadly, because really, it's a little pathetic. "Well, do you remember at lunch you guys all got up as a team and performed a skit for them in the middle of the cafeteria? Pom-poms and all?" He nods. "I don't know, I just remember watching you in the moment, seeing the utter confidence and carefreeness of you, how much you were smiling and laughing and entertaining the room, how much you didn't give a crap what everyone else thought, how much every person in there was feeding off your attitude, and I just thought, I want that. I want him. And from that moment on, you weren't Ollie, Bridge's brother anymore. You were Oliver, this guy I was utterly in love with but couldn't have."

I shrug.

Like I said, humiliating.

But Ollie stares at me, blank in the face. "Wait, that's the moment you fell in love with me?"

I nod sadly.

"When I was cross-dressing?"

"Uh-huh."

"And making a fool of myself?"

"Yup."

"And waving bright red pom-poms in the air?"

"Sad, but true."

There's an awkward pause where we're both utterly silent, staring at each other. And then Ollie bursts into action, bouncing the bed as he jumps to his knees, annoyed. "How is that the moment you fell for me?"

I shake my head, exhaling sharply. "I don't know. I didn't ask for it to happen, it just did."

"I'm not giving you my shirt for that," he replies, crossing his arms.

I gape. "Hey, no fair. A deal's a deal."

"I got a sock, you'll get a shoe."

I wrinkle my nose, getting slightly offended. "And what exactly is wrong with my moment? What is so horrible about it? You realized you loved me after breaking my heart and kicking me out of your room at two in the morning."

"True," Ollie mutters and falls back against the bed, spent. "I guess, I just...I wish mine was different too. Neither of those moments are really the stuff great love stories are made of, you know? And I want ours to be great."

I can't help it. The brimming annoyance vanishes, replaced with a sudden inner glow that brings a smile to my lips. Because Oliver McDonough just said he wants us to have a great love story. And you know what? I'm starting to believe that maybe we do.

So I lean over, curling into the open spot next to him, pressing my head to his chest, listening to the solid beat within. "I think our moments are pretty great."

He snorts. "You do?"

I look up at him, catching his starry eyes. "I do. Because that might be the moment I first thought I loved you, but it was just the start. And there have been so many moments since. Moments in high school when you went out of your way to ditch the gawking cheerleaders, surprising everyone by coming over to talk to me instead. Or even after graduation, when you used to stay home to make popcorn and watch movies with Bridge and me instead of going drinking with all your old friends. And there were other moments when I really needed you, and you were always there. Like when I used to sneak out of my house at two in the morning, crying because my parents were fighting again, and you stayed up all night making me grilled cheese and brownies while Bridge dried my tears. There were so many times I didn't think I'd ever smile again, and then you'd say something, anything, and suddenly I was grinning through the pain. Those late night escapes meant so much to me, more than I think you'll ever really understand. And you know what? I wouldn't change anything that happened. Not a single moment, because somehow all those moments brought us here. And here is exactly where I want to be."

Ollie holds my gaze, lips quivering toward a smile, wavering as though he's fighting with himself to keep them firm. And then he sighs, letting them widen as he shakes his head. "Did it really have to happen when I was wearing a miniskirt?"

"You have great legs," I tease, shrugging. "Now, strip."

He pushes me away with a mirthful grunt and sits up. A moment later, I have his shirt. And the answer was most definitely worth this view.

Two minutes later, Ollie gets my second sock.

Five minutes, and I get his pants.

Ten, he gets mine.

And twenty, we've abandoned the game. Because I got his boxers, he got my bra, and resistance was pretty much futile after that.

Do you remember when you were learning how to swim and your mom or dad would put you in the pool and say, just paddle to us? But then they'd take little tiny steps back and back and back, so you kept paddling and paddling, but they were always just a little out of reach? Story of my freaking life. Except the little thing that's always out of reach is this elusive idea of confidence people are always telling me I need to find. And I'm trying so hard, but every time I feel close, something happens to make all the doubts rush forward and push that self-assurance farther away.

"I guess I was wrong," Blythe whispers, leaning over as we shuffle along with the rest of the crowd filing away from the now empty runway, making slow progress toward fresh air and the door.

I glance over, knotting my brows. "About what?"

"You made it to fashion week," she replies, shrugging. And then she smiles, letting me in on the joke. "You're not as much of a screw up as I thought."

I'm not as surprised as I once was by the cordial, almost friendly, expression she's offering. Somehow, someway, we've made peace. It's strange. Bizarre. And I'm still not quite sure how we got here, yet I'm glad we did. I mean, yes, she can still be selfish and a bit of a biotch and sort of manipulatively controlling, but at least now, it's no longer directed at me. And I've needed her and the other girls too. I've needed someone to talk to, I've needed work to be my solace, because home, well, let's just say it's not the sanctuary it once was.

Bridge has barely spoken to me since the epically disastrous double date. Not only that, she's full-on avoiding me. Never home. Not texting. The two of us have hardly crossed paths even though she sleeps ten feet away. It's been almost three weeks, and the most I've heard is the ring of her alarm every morning before she hops in the shower and then bolts out the front door a full half an hour before I'm ready to get out of bed. At least we were maintaining eye contact during that first week, but now, whenever we run into each other in the hall, she looks away before I even get the chance to speak. And there's something I can't quite read in her eye, something that's somehow guilty, something I don't for the life of me understand.

As if that weren't enough, Ollie has been a ghost the past two weeks. His boss caught the flu, infected two other people, and now all the other kitchen staff are picking up some serious slack. He's been too tired to even crawl into my bed when he gets home. I haven't kissed him, let alone anything else, in days.

And me?

I've jumped full force into work, because what else do I have left with no best friend, basically no boyfriend, and a dire need to keep busy so my mind can't go off on the many anxious tangents constantly circling in the background? I've pulled more late nights in the past three weeks than I ever did in college, and now fashion week is finally here, so the crazy keeps on coming. All day yesterday. All day today. All weekend. And almost all of next week until Thursday. No breaks. No personal time. Nothing.

And let me tell you, it's not as glamorous as you might think.

Oh, sure, if you're Victoria and you get to sit in the front row with your oversized sunglasses, wearing the outfits your entire staff spent weeks putting together, secretly passing judgment while you lean over and whisper to the celebrity who happens to be sitting next to you.

But for the assistants? Lower than low on the totem pole? It's exhausting. We go back stage, interviewing designers, interviewing models, getting ideas for op-eds about the industry and the clothes. Then we scramble to the back of the room when the lights go out, pushing through the horde to find a spot where we can actually see the runway, and frantically write down all the notes the editors will need later on-every designer, every article of clothing, the order seen, any well-known models, any notable mishaps we can comment on later. Then after the show, we're not even done. We have to hunt down all the celebrity guests, see if they're talking to anyone juicy, doing anything notable, desperately working for a pull quote that might put a smile on Victoria's face.

I'm freaking exhausted.

Fashion is harder than running a marathon, I'm not even kidding. Because we do it in high heels! Well, we're supposed to. Blythe, Isabel, and Rebecca do. Me? Not so much. And my feet still ache.

"God, isn't fashion week just the best?" Rebecca says, pushing through two people to reach Blythe and me, pulling Isabel behind her.

At first I think maybe, just maybe, she's being sarcastic. But her entire face is glowing, full of life, and I realize that somehow she finds this experience invigorating. When I turn to Isabel and Blythe for assistance, I can't help but notice how they're both nodding their heads, wearing matching dreamy expressions.

"It's making me miss the catwalk," Isabel adds. I forgot she used to be a model. "Fashion week was always the best time to be walking. The clothes. The shows. The energy up there was just unbeatable."

"But didn't you sort of love the craziness of today?" Blythe comments. "I mean, I used to go to the shows with my mom, but we always had seats, we were always escorted to and from the runway. Being in the thick of it all was amazing."

"Amazing," Rebecca mirrors. "That's why I used to love going to my dad's shows. Because he let me go back stage, I got to see everything that went on. By the time the clothes hit the runway, everything is perfection, but behind the scenes, it's utter chaos, this excited fervor that can't be matched anywhere else."

Isabel nudges my arm. "So, how are you liking your first ever fashion week? Nothing like it, right?"

"Right," I say slowly, nodding, unable to match their enthusiasm.

To my left, Blythe laughs under her breath. "You hate it."

"I do not!" I say, pretending to be offended.

But really, she's dead-on. And she knows it.

"You're miserable," she charges.

"I wouldn't say miserable," I say slowly, trying to be fair. "More like-"

"Indifferent?" Rebecca supplies, not at all judgmental, just honest.

I shrug, not sure how to answer.

"Skye, don't take this the wrong way," Isabel starts. "But why are you still doing this job? You don't seem very, I don't know, what word am I looking for?"

"Passionate," Blythe supplies.

Isabel nods. "Yeah. You don't seem very passionate about it."

I'm saved from answering because we've reached the door and need to shift into a single file line to squeeze our way out. But the question percolates, lingering in the back of my thoughts as I step into the crisp night and take a deep breath of city air-tainted with car exhaust, yet somehow refreshing all the same. Why am I still at this job? Well, I mean, aside from the obvious-a paycheck, health care, benefits, a place to go every day. My column? I've always wanted to write for a living but not about myself, not about my personal life, about books and characters and plots that keep me up until dawn. And when I stand in the heart of Lincoln Center, surrounded by the enthusiastic chatter of all these people who live and breathe fashion, I can't help but feel like an intruder. Like I don't belong. Like I never will.

So what am I still doing here?

"Hey, look over there," Blythe exclaims.

I turn, pivoting toward the spot where she's pointing. Isabel and Rebecca do the same.

"Oh, that's so cute, he brought flowers," Isabel chimes in, ever the romantic. But I still don't see anything. "I wonder who they're for? Maybe one of the models? Could've been her first fashion week show."

"He's hot," Rebecca murmurs under her breath, readjusting her glasses.

"Maybe he's a model," Blythe says.

I follow her gaze, wondering if the fact that they all have at least six inches on me right now could really make so much of a difference. Evidently, yes. Because I see no flowers, no model, no- "Skye!"

And then suddenly I do see him.

Because he's Ollie. And he's looking for me.

"Do you know him?" Isabel asks, tossing me a strange look.

But I don't care, because I haven't seen his smiling face or his turquoise eyes or his strong hands in days. Before I know what I'm doing, I'm weaving through the crowd, light on my feet, flying toward him. Literally, flying toward him because when I get close enough, I jump, never doubting for a moment he'll catch me.

Before he can say anything, I bury my head in his neck, breathing in the buttery kitchen smell always clinging to his skin, hugging my arms over his shoulders, holding myself up. But he's strong, and he clasps my waist against him with one firm forearm, pulling the other one away to keep the flowers safe.

"I guess you missed me?" he asks, joking.

I pull back, embarrassed but too happy to care. "Maybe a little."

"Me too," he confesses, giving me a quick peck on the lips-too quick. But he's already releasing me slowly, letting my feet drop gently to the ground as he steps back. "These are for you."

I take the bouquet, pressing the ivory petals against my nose, recognizing the subtle sweetness of roses. But I'm still so shocked I'm having trouble processing everything. "How are you here? Waiting for me? With flowers?"

He grins. "My boss finally came back today, and as a thanks for all my hard work, I got the night off and any day I want next week."