"Well," I pause shaking my head, "the wad of cash burning a hole in my wallet says differently."

"But I'm giving it to you."

"I want to buy it."

She cocks her hip.

I cross my arms.

The painting sits between us.

Total standoff.

"How about I buy it, and you use the cash for our first round of celebratory drinks tonight?" I offer.

Bridge's eyes narrow for a moment. And then she smiles. "Deal. But you have to be the one to tell Patrick he's not paying."

I snort. "Deal."

We shake on it, and then, well, the shake turns to a hug, which turns to me thanking her, which turns to the two of us growing a little blubbery as we tell each other we love each other over and over again.

Five minutes later, after the emotional best friend moment is over, we return to the front side of the tent, ready to inspect the layout one last time before the fair opens for business. But a sight halts us.

Ollie and Patrick.

Talking.

Bridge and I stop short, immediately leaning closer so we can hear while trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. The two boys are at the back of the tent, murmuring quietly. Ollie's arms are crossed. Patrick's are resting in his pockets. The mood feels tense, yet almost unavoidable.

"...treat her right," Ollie has just finished saying.

Patrick nods. "You know I will."

Ollie lifts his brow, pulling a classic McDonough-family face that I know Patrick must recognize by now. And then he relaxes. "I still really don't like you, man. Maybe even less now that you're dating my sister."

Bridge and I suck in a breath at the same time.

Alarmed.

But Patrick takes it in stride. "That's cool. I'm not too fond of you either."

Bridge and I squeeze each other's hands, stopping the blood flow. Because, oh my god, this is horrible! What are we going to do if the guys we love despise each other? There's got to be something we can do, some way- But just as my mind goes off on a tangent, both of them grin. And then they're laughing like it's all some sort of secret joke. Before Bridge and I have time to blink, they go from professing their mutual loathing to chuckling together like old pals, lightly slapping each other on the back. All that's missing is cigars and two shots of whiskey. I mean, really.

I glance at her.

Bridge looks at me.

We just shake our heads, muttering at the same time, "Men."

"Hey, Skye," a voice chirps from just over my shoulder, practically giving me a heart attack. I jump, turning around in a panic, but relaxing when I realize it's Blythe. Her warm greeting for me has already changed as her eyes turn to Bridge, taking in her relaxed, paint-stained jeans and old, ripped coat, the clothes she decided to wear so she could paint her nerves away while waiting for people to stop by. Blythe herself is in designer spandex that hug her perfectly toned legs, and is using a multi-thousand-dollar bag to hold her sneakers for the gym. "Bridget."

"What are you doing here?" Bridge asks. Only, it's not the excited, oh my gosh what are you doing here, I'm so happy to see you, sort of tone. It's the, good lord what are you doing here, I was having such a great day until right now, sort of tone.

Of course, that little difference only makes Blythe grin smoothly. She shrugs, equal parts delicate and superior. "Just meeting a friend for Soul Cycle. I thought I'd stop by and check out your little show, say hi to my brother."

Almost on cue, Patrick reaches over, going in for a hug. "Hey, sis, didn't expect to see you here."

"I was in the neighborhood," she answers lightly. And then she turns to me, eyes filling with genuine interest for the first time since arriving. "Oh, did you hear back from that job application? Friday was so busy with Victoria, I completely forgot to ask."

I bite my lip, holding back my grin, trying not to squeal. "I got an interview!"

"You did?" Blythe exclaims.

"You did!" Bridge yells.

Immediately, they both look at each other, wrinkling their noses, because, obviously they're not allowed to agree on anything or have the same reaction to good news. Since, you know, they've now become mortal enemies, leaving Patrick and me stuck in the middle. But in a way, it's nice to have something to bond with him about. And secretly, I think Bridge and Blythe both appreciate finally finding a worthy opponent for their wit and sarcasm. Just another strange layer to our new little family.

"I did," I tell them calmly. "I snuck out of the office yesterday to take a call with their HR department, and I have an interview next week."

And even though I'm trying to be chill, you know, in the new, peaceful Skylar way, a little bit of my eagerness leaks out. Because, I'm freaking excited! And also...scared as hell. Because this job has my name written all over it. I'd be reviewing books and writing about books for a living! No more sex column...well, unless they throw a few bodice rippers my way, but I've come to realize a little smut is good for the soul. And the position is with a major national newspaper, for their online book blog. Talk about perfect! I mean, I'm probably too young or unqualified or not a good enough writer, but what if somehow they still want me? What if I'm able to feign confidence for the entire length of the interview? What if somehow I fool them long enough to convince them to hire me? What if I win them over with my dazzling personality?

Okay, dazzling personality might be a bit of a stretch...

But still! Can you imagine?

So, yeah, cue emotional turmoil for the past twenty-four hours.

Bridge grabs my shoulders, practically shaking me. "Why didn't you tell me last night?"

Ollie joins the group. "Because she was too busy having a mental breakdown."

I glare at him. "I was not," I start, but he lifts his eyebrows, challenging me. I swallow. "Okay, maybe I was having a little, teeny-weeny panic attack, but I'm all good now. And I'm totally ready to ace the interview."

Blythe jumps in. "I'll help you pick an outfit out tomorrow, something very put together and professional. The first impression means everything in an interview, and, well," she pauses, giving my current outfit a quick once over, "we both know you could use a little help in that department."

"I'll help, too," Bridge interjects. Blythe's eyes widen with disbelief, gaze falling on the paint-smudged jeans again. Obviously, that just heightens Bridge's conviction. "You want to make sure you still have a little bit of your personality shine through because they won't pick you if they think you're trying to be something you're not."

"Trust me," Blythe comments, "they will if that something is a professional woman who actually has her shit together. Which, no offense, Skye, isn't you."

I nod begrudgingly.

The fire in Bridge's eyes brightens, her natural instinct to defend me. But at the exact moment she parts her lips to release a quick retort, the alarm on her phone goes off. Bridge deflates. "It's time."

Blythe looks at her watch. "I've got to get to the studio. Text me later with a plan for tomorrow, okay?"

I nod and wave goodbye, smiling a little as I watch her saunter away. By the time I turn around, all my amusement is gone. Because my best friend, the ever confident, ever kickass Bridge is in the middle of a meltdown.

"Oh my god, what was I thinking?" she mutters as she collapses into one of the chairs set up in the front of her stall. "What if no one buys one? What if everyone hates them? What if this whole freaking fair is a complete and utter failure? I'm not a professional artist! What was I thinking?"

"Bridge," Ollie, Patrick, and I all say at the exact same time. Patrick sits next to her, wrapping her quivering body in his more than capable arms. I kneel in front of her, holding her hands, and Ollie stands behind me, watching over her with concern.

"Bridge, you'll be great," Patrick murmurs encouragingly. "Your paintings are beautiful, and people will love them, and if they don't, we'll try again in the future. Everything is going to be all right, trust me."

"But," she starts, shaking her head.

I tune her out, watching in sort of a quizzical, curious way as she spouts ridiculous thought after ridiculous thought, wondering if this is how I look on the outside to other people. Am I this annoying? Am I this unsure? This riddled by insane doubts and fears that sound ludicrous to other people? Because of course someone is going to buy her art. Duh, it's gorgeous. And all I want to do at the moment is what I always sort of hoped someone would do to me in the middle of one of my panic attacks-slap me out of it.

And I'm sure there's a way to do that with a little more finesse.

A little more grace.

A little more delicacy.

But time is of the essence, what with people beginning to meander through the stalls and all, so I just go for the literal interpretation.

I whack my palm into her cheek.

Yes, that's correct.

I slap her.

"Skye!" Bridge gasps.

I shrug. "You needed it."

Her mouth drops open, aghast. But then she twitches, pausing. "I guess I did," she admits, sitting a little straighter, looking a little more like herself. Then she rolls her head around her neck, stretching out the last of the nerves, and shakes the panic away, glancing at me. "How do you live like that all the time? It's exhausting."

I nod with faux seriousness. "It takes a special talent, I know."

And then I tug her up by the arms, bringing us both to a standing position before reaching around to grab the painting Bridge tried to give me before. "Besides, you don't have anything to worry about. You forgot, you have your first paying customer right here."

"Don't I get a say?" Ollie asks teasingly, as he leans over my shoulder to take a look at the canvas. I hold it up a little higher, smiling warmly as his hands come around me, pulling me back into his warm chest. Then he kisses the back of my head, squeezing even tighter as he takes in Bridge's portrayal of the day we think of as the start of everything, the start of us, the start of our future, the start of our real story. The day we chose each other. The day we promised to choose each other every day until forever.

"I love it," he whispers into my ear.

"Great," Bridge chimes in, reaching over to snatch the painting from my hand. "That'll be five hundred bucks."

Both of us stare at her pointedly.

Guess that whole it's a gift thing is off the table.

"Glad to see you haven't let your moment of glory get to your head," Ollie mutters wryly.

"Actually," Bridge counters, glaring at him. And then she continues, accusation heavy in her tone. "I just remembered that I saw books about Italy in the living room the other day and some printouts about culinary programs in Europe, and I remembered I'm not in the most charitable mood."

Okay, I have nothing.

She wasn't supposed to see those for at least another couple of months. Because the last thing I forgot to mention about this job I'm interviewing for? Working from home is an actual option after the first year of employment. So an overseas adventure with Ollie is looking pretty damn great and pretty damn possible, assuming Bridge doesn't murder us both in our sleep.

"Okay," I start amicably. But her McDonough stare just deepens, so I reach back, grabbing Ollie's hand. And because we know each other so well, because we've known each other for so long, without words we know exactly what each other is thinking. We don't need to speak. Don't need to look.

As one unit, we spring into action.

We run.

"I know where you live!" Bridge shouts after us.

But we don't stop until we're out of sight, bending over at the waist with laughter. Ollie wraps me in his arms, so I'm giggling against his chest, feeling his body shake mirthfully with mine.

"Oh man," he says, "We barely escaped."

"I know," I cry. "She's going to kill us."

And she is.

We both know it's only a matter of time. Which is why Ollie shifts his hands, sliding them slowly down to my hips, and I look up into his burning eyes.

"So," he whispers in a voice that immediately brings goose bumps to my skin and a warm flush to my cheeks, shifting the beat in my heart. "What should we do with our last few hours left?"

My grin is the only answer he needs.

Immediately, we hail a taxi, scrambling inside like two idiots in love, barely able to contain ourselves as we give the cabbie our address. Because, for the time being at least, I'm still a sex columnist. And even though Bridge made me promise to never speak of it ever again, she did feel obligated as my more experienced best friend to buy me a copy of the Kama Sutra. So, duh, obviously I'm racing home.

Ollie might not be Oliver (cue choir chanting) McDonough anymore, but he's still pretty freaking hot.

And even better, he's all mine.

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