But I'm trapped, totally stuck in a corner. Ollie knows why him living here might not be the best situation-we're newly dating, I thought he was moving, and keeping our relationship a secret will be a heck of a lot easier if we don't have to do it right under Bridge's nose! But that's what he's hoping, of course. That I'll crack. That I'll confess. That I'll end what I know he thinks is madness. But not this time, because this time, my friendship with Bridge is on the line, and no amount of teasing will push me over that edge.

I smile at him, silently accepting his challenge. "Of course I don't have a problem with you staying here, why would I?"

"See?" He turns to Bridge. "Skye loves me."

I clench my fists and take a deep breath to keep from launching myself across the room to shut him up. But he knows I'm angry. Oh, he knows. Because right after he speaks, he does that perfectly infuriating half smirk, the one that pushes one of his incredibly sexy dimples into full view, and flashes his eyes in my direction.

Two can play at that game.

"Of course, I love you," I admit lightheartedly, ignoring the pounding in my chest.

"I'm your favorite person," he volleys back.

"Sure you are," I respond sweetly.

"You can't get enough of me."

I shake my head. "Never enough."

"Especially on the nights when..." My eyes go wide, but he's totally calm and collected. "I make dinner."

"Right," I chime in, forcing the words through my lips. "Dinner."

"Why, were you thinking of something else?"

I grit my teeth. "Of course not."

"Because cooking isn't my only talent."

I lift my eyebrows. "You sure about that?"

His grin only deepens. I'm pretty sure my cheeks are about to turn red because, damn, he is sure about that. And, well, I can't really fault him. Let's just say his performance last night merited an eleven...

I break eye contact and reach for my mimosa again, taking a long sip and trying to push away the memories flashing through my mind. The touching. The kissing. The... Wow, is it hot in here or is it just me? I take another gulp, letting the tangy coolness wash over me. The orange juice is definitely helping. The champagne? Not so much.

Before I know it, my glass is empty.

Ollie is smiling at me with an even more self-satisfied expression.

And Bridge is just confused.

"You two are so weird," she murmurs, shaking her head. "But you're my weirdoes, so, Ollie, I guess you can stay-under one condition."

"What?" he asks wryly.

Bridge just gives him an overly sweet, toothy grin. "Take the plates to the kitchen, and then leave for a few hours because I need to tell Skye about my night, and I really don't think you want to stick around to hear all the sordid details."

"Every time," he mutters, rolling his eyes. But he still reaches across the coffee table and gathers up our now empty plates. "I have to leave anyway, I got the lunch and dinner shift at work since it's still my first year. The head chef wanted some holiday time with his family, so I won't be home until late."

"I'd wait up," Bridge says, "but tomorrow is Monday, and we have a new artist visiting the gallery, and I've been on vacation for a week, so basically, it's going to suck."

"I would too," I add, following Bridge's lead, trying to cover my tracks. "But tomorrow is Monday, and I need to face Blythe who will inevitably rub my breakup with Patrick in my face, and I have another column to write. So...yeah, I'm with Bridge."

He just shakes his head and disappears into the bathroom. A second later, the shower turns on. Finally able to breathe easy for the first time since my very rude awakening from John this morning, I grab Bridge's empty glass and head into the kitchen to give us both refills. Hey-she was right. Tomorrow is Monday, tomorrow is going to stink. So we might as well make it a Sunday Funday and enjoy the mimosas while we can. And we do...a little too much.

By the time Ollie leaves, Bridge and I are on our third glass, and she's already started telling me all about gym boy, her date from last night, who will henceforth be known by the oh-so-subtle code-name, Mr. Hottie. But from what she's telling me, it's a well-deserved nickname. And I'll probably be hearing it for quite some time.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table right when Bridge starts filling me in on her night after I left the club, and I don't really want to look at it. But I do. And Ollie's name flashes across my screen.

Ollie: Sorry if I took that too far before.

Ah, screw it.

The edges of my lips tug up and against my better judgment, I reach for my phone. Because Ollie apologized. For once, he actually freaking apologized!

Me: Me too! I know you want to tell Bridge, but I'm just not ready!

Ollie: I understand.

And then the thought bubble pops up, showing me he's typing. It disappears. Reappears. I'm so curious, I drown Bridge out, totally ignoring her as I stare at my phone to see what's coming next.

Ollie: Besides, this whole secret roommate relationship thing could have its advantages.

My lips tug wider.

Me: Like what??

Ollie: I'll show you when I get home tonight.

I gasp.

I can't help it.

Not loudly, just a silent exhale, but my entire body comes to life in a single moment. Every nerve. Every muscle. Every cell. A shiver races through me, and I bite my lip to try to hold back the grin pushing so heavily against my cheeks. But really, what else do you expect me to do with a text like that from Oliver McDonough? Breathe normally?

You know me better than that.

Because those eight little words are all I need for my imagination to run wild, to slip away into a world of skin and sighs and stars.

"Uh, Skye?"

I snap back to reality, glancing at Bridge as my heart stops. Somehow I manage to choke out one strangled word. "What?"

She holds my gaze for a moment, a very prolonged moment, and I can see the questions percolating. "I was saying how we couldn't find a cab back to his apartment, so we ended up walking along the Hudson for a little bit?"

"Right," I murmur. "So romantic."

"Yeah." She pauses, still watching me strangely, with an expression I can't quite read. But then she blinks and it's gone. "So, anyway..."

And this time I tuck my phone beneath the couch cushion, far away, because I owe Bridge my undivided attention. After everything she's done for me, and before everything I'm about to do to her, I owe her at least this. An afternoon with her best friend, open and honest and eager.

I dread confrontation. Dread it. Especially on a Monday. I mean, come on, the first Monday back after a holiday is hard enough as it is. Add an inevitable face-off with your arch nemesis at work, who just happens to be your ex-boyfriend's sister, and it just becomes plain cruel.

I don't remember him coming in, I really don't. But that doesn't mean I'm going to complain when I wake up wrapped in Ollie's arms, pressed against his chest in a warm embrace.

I stay there, hitting my snooze button, just enjoying this simple moment that I never in my wildest dreams ever thought would actually happen. Okay...maybe in my wildest dreams. Because, well, yeah I've certainly imagined this moment a million times. I've imagined it so much that I already have the scene perfected, easily recalled in my mind. Oliver McDonough, my impossible crush, lulls me from a deep slumber by whispering morning, beautiful into my ear before pulling me against his chest where I melt into his passionate kiss, jolting alive in a single second as his touch rouses me more efficiently than any cup of coffee ever could.

At least, that's how I always pictured it.

But, this is real life.

So when I finally find the strength to shift in his arms, turning to face him, I don't find Oliver McDonough, suave seducer of my dreams. I find Ollie, passed out with drool dribbling down his cheek as a teeny-tiny snore escapes his lips.

But you know what?

It's better. A million times better.

Because it's real.

Grinning like an idiot, I lift my palm to his cheek, running my thumb over his skin, drinking him in as my fingers make their way to his thick, dark hair.

"Mhmm," he murmurs.

"Morning," I whisper.

He smiles lazily, still keeping his eyes closed. "It's too early to be morning."

"Not for those of us who have to get to their office by 8:45 a.m."

"I hate corporate America," he grumbles, pulling me closer and tightening his hold. "Screw the man. I don't want you to leave."

"You know, when you said you'd show me the advantages of having you as a roommate and a boyfriend, imprisonment wasn't really what I had in mind," I tease.

Ollie finally opens his eyes, grinning. "But you were so adorable last night in your drunken stupor, I just couldn't wake you-literally. I tried. Twice."

I shove him playfully. "Blame your sister for that."

"She always has been your bad influence."

"So how'd I end up with the secret affair?"

Ollie leans in, kissing my neck. "Because I'm an even worse influence."

True.

But I don't say anything. I don't have the breath to say anything as Ollie continues trailing light touches along my skin, making his way toward my lips in a deliciously slow meander. One of his hands finds the hem of my shirt, slipping underneath, as his fingers scorch my skin, drawing circles on my hip. And then he takes a different path, brushing over my butt, down the back of my leg, pulling my knee up until it's wrapped around him. My hands find his back, digging into his hard muscles, tugging him closer.

Just when I'm about to give into the moment, my alarm goes off.

Talk about timing.

"Press snooze," he whispers.

I groan. Decisions, decisions. Obviously, I don't want to move. But my mind is already wandering to the day ahead, the talk with my boss, the run-in with Blythe, and the column I somehow need to pull out of my ass before five o'clock.

I break away from his kiss. "I can't. I have to go."

And before I can change my mind, I push myself out of his arms. Only, I push a little too hard, forgetting that this is my room and not Ollie's. Did I mention I only have a twin bed? A semi-lofted twin bed?

Yeah, well, I forgot too, which is why I tumble off the side, free-falling for a second before smacking into the ground. Hard.

"Ow!" I yelp.

"Skye?" Bridge calls. "You okay?"

Crap! I forgot she was still here. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just, I slipped."

I turn, glancing at Ollie in a panic, but he's no help. His entire body is shaking, and he's pressed a pillow over his face, trying to cover the sound of muffled laughter. If Bridge wasn't home, I'd punch him. I still might.

"Need me to help?" she calls louder, and I know she's right outside the door.

"No!" I shriek, jumping toward the door, staring at the knob. But it's still. She's not coming in.

"Okay," she says, and I can almost envision her shrugging, discounting my odd behavior as just another neurotic Skylar freak-out, not at all uncommon. To be honest, I never realized my perpetual neuroses would come in handy one day. But I've got to say, I'm sort of thankful that my strange, erratic behavior is so normal. Bridge doesn't suspect a thing.

Ollie, on the other hand...

I turn back around, glaring. He's now sitting up on the bed, not looking at all apologetic. His shoulders are quivering just enough for me to know he's still trying to hold back his mirth. I chuck a pillow at his face and try my best to ignore him while I get dressed.

Easier said than done.

Because as I strip off my T-shirt, I can feel his sapphire eyes like a physical caress. And even though we've now shared two nights together, everything feels different in the bright light of day. More sensual. More intimate. More real.

"You're killing me," he whispers, voice strained.

But I don't turn around because I know if I look into his eyes, I'll give in to the taut yearning in the air, urging me to close the distance between us. Instead, I slowly open the door, checking to make sure Bridge is in her room before stepping through and shutting it behind me.

My skin is steaming when I step into the frigid January air. I'm antsy for the entire subway ride. It's only when I notice the perfectly manicured hand holding the elevator open in the lobby of my office building that I feel as though a bucket of cold water has been poured over my head, dousing the flames. Because I recognize those french tips. I'd recognize them anywhere.

"Morning, Blythe," I say politely as I step into the elevator she was holding. And then I pause as a suffocating dread washes over me. I've never been claustrophobic before, but I feel a sudden urge to escape, as though the walls are closing in.

Because no one else is here.

We're alone.

And the doors just closed.

"Skylar," she chirps, suspiciously cheerful. "How was your vacation?"