"Uh, fine," I murmur. Is it possible she doesn't know? Why is she being nice? I'm instantly on edge. "How about you?"

"Great," she purrs. "I spent a few days with my mom in St. Barths after Christmas. Nothing like a few days in the sun to change your outlook on life."

Did she have a personality transplant while she was there too? "Oh, that's nice. You look tan."

"I know," she jumps in, flicking her perfectly coifed blond hair over her shoulder, drawing my attention to the golden highlights.

And I could just leave it at that as the floors continue to rise, ticking up and up to show we're almost at the newsroom. But I can't go the entire day wondering if Blythe knows about Patrick and me and what she has up her sleeve. Because I refuse to believe one weekend at the beach could turn her into a suddenly nice person. It's not possible.

"So," I start, taking a deep breath. "When did you get back?"

"Yesterday morning," she says, turning to me fully. An evil spark flashes across her irises, glittering even brighter than her diamond earrings. But it's almost comforting. All is right with the world. Blythe is finally going to return to the Upper East Side biotch I know, and in a strange way love. "I saw Patrick."

"Oh, yeah? How is he?" I ask politely, bracing myself.

But before she can answer, the phone in my handbag buzzes loudly. Her eyes drop, curious for a moment, before turning derisive as she takes in my barely one-hundred-dollar purse. She, I can't help but notice, is carrying Chanel. The phone buzzes again.

"You can answer it," Blythe mutters. A smidgen of the annoyance I know is brewing beneath her skin leaks into her tone.

Somewhat gratified, I pull out my phone.

It's a text from Ollie, and as soon as my eyes read his name, I can't help it-a grin sprouts across my lips. Eagerly, I slide my finger across the screen, revealing his message.

Ollie: I've been trapped in your room for an hour. Bridge will not leave. Bladder situation is becoming dangerous. HELP.

I snort, totally forgetting about Blythe as I write a reply.

Me: I totally forgot she got a call from her boss yesterday! She needs to stay late so they gave her an extra hour to sleep in this morning since the gallery isn't open until eleven anyway. She should be leaving soon!!

Ollie: She is actually humming and dancing around the living room while I experience a slow painful death.

I know I should have some sympathy. And yet...

Me: Any last words?

He pauses for a moment, letting a few long seconds pass before he replies.

Ollie: Waking up to your face this morning was totally worth this pain.

So cheesy.

And yet, my heart melts just a little. Okay, a lot.

Blythe clears her throat.

My own tightens as I glance up and quickly stuff my phone back in my purse. I maybe, sort of forgot she was here for a minute. And yes, the daggers in her eyes are back.

"Well, you're looking a lot more cheerful than my brother is right now," she comments. "What are you so happy about? I'm pretty sure you won't do better than him in a million years."

Well, that answers my question.

Yes, Blythe definitely knows about the breakup.

"Cheerful?" I murmur, trying to wipe the somewhat guilty-okay, totally guilty-smile off my face. But something about her words draws me back to yesterday, reminding me of Bridge making an almost identical comment. For someone who just broke up with a man best described as Prince Charming, I'm suspiciously happy. And it's only a matter of time before someone starts looking for the reason why.

So, I divert.

Starting with something every self-involved human loves to hear.

"You're right." And though I absolutely loathe admitting this, she sort of is. I probably won't do better than Patrick. He was amazingly sweet, amazingly kind, amazingly patient, just amazing. On paper, Ollie is definitely a little more of a jerk, probably won't be able to take me on the same sorts of lavish dates and obviously has an annoying fascination with pissing me off. So, yeah, I might never do better than Patrick. But I don't need better-I need right. And Ollie? He's right. We match. We're both made up of all sorts of odd angles, but together, they fit.

Surprisingly (not!), Blythe doesn't need a window into my internal monologue to understand how right she is.

"I know," she snaps. "My brother is the best guy out there, and you missed out. I can't believe what an idiot you are."

And then, after a brief silence, she laughs. A delighted little chirp.

My eyes narrow.

"Why are you so happy?" I challenge back.

The grin she offers is sharp enough to slice. "Because now it's only a matter of time before you're out of my life completely."

My strength falters. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, please," she rolls her eyes, crossing her arms and wrinkling the sleeves of what I know must be a thousand-dollar wool coat. "You and I both know that writing for the style section isn't exactly your dream job. I mean, you barely know the difference between Fendi and Forever 21, you probably think Dolce & Gabanna is an ice cream shop, and you couldn't tell a Versace from a Valentino if your life depended on it."

Damn. She's totally right.

But I need to say something...

"So?"

Great retort, Skye.

Killing it.

Blythe's Cheshire cat smile deepens. "So," she starts, and just at that moment, the elevator dings, signaling we've arrived at our floor. "Your sham of a column is the only thing keeping you here. You're hanging by a thread. And the best part is, I don't even have to do anything. You're such a walking disaster, it's only a matter of time before you mess that up too. At this rate, I'd be amazed if you make it past fashion week."

And because the gods are totally against me, the doors of the elevator slide open at the exact moment Blythe is done speaking, presenting her with the perfect dramatic exit. Which, obviously, she takes, spinning on her Christian Louboutin heels (because, yes, I have learned some things!) and sashaying away without another word.

I want to chase after her.

I'm dying to have the last word.

But as I watch her glide away, I literally have nothing to say. Because I am a walking disaster. I really don't want this job forever. It probably is only a matter of time before I'm gone for good. And, dammit, I don't even know when fashion week is.

I do, however, manage to get off the elevator, squeezing through the closing doors just before one smacks into me-a small victory. Blythe has already disappeared into the rainbow of color that is the style section, and I'm standing stuck in the center of the rainy gray newsroom. But I prefer it here. My navy suit blends in here. And that was sort of Blythe's point.

With a sigh, I shift my gaze from the direction of my desk and turn toward the coffee machine. The run-in with Blythe actually went better than expected, and I deserve an extra-sugary caramel latte to celebrate. But as soon as I start walking, I hear my name being called.

"Skylar, just the person I was looking for."

I close my eyes tight, taking a deep breath, before turning around and plastering a smile on my face. Because, of course, it's my boss. I can't catch a break. "Victoria! How was your vacation?"

"Very nice," she responds quickly, rushing to get the small talk over with. "I had a lovely visit with my family in the Dominican. You?"

Taking one last mournful look over my shoulder at the coffee machine waiting only twenty feet away, I square my shoulders and respond with the one thing I know Victoria will want to hear. "Patrick and I broke up."

And while you might think the normal response to that statement would be sympathy or concern or even a smidge of compassion, I know better. And I'm not at all surprised by the excitement that immediately sprouts on Victoria's perfect face.

"Excellent!" she exclaims. "I was just going to ask you how the column for this week was coming, but I guess I don't have to. This will be perfect, PK was getting a little stale anyway. Happiness is only entertaining for so long. Who broke up with whom?"

"I ended things," I say quietly. Because even though it was my choice and even though I have Ollie, my heart hurts a little. I will miss Patrick. And he doesn't really deserve to be fodder for my column any longer.

"Hmm." Victoria shakes her head. "Shame. Everybody loves a good woman scorned angle..."

And the way she trails off makes me know she is leaving an opening for me to jump into. But I won't do that to Patrick, not after Saturday night, not after the way he wished for my wellbeing as I walked out his door. "It was more of a mutual decision," I tell her. "We were both ready to move on."

After a second, her eyes light up. "Conscious uncoupling. I love it-it's all the rage right now. Add in a New Year's resolution focus and have a copy on my desk by the end of the day."

I take a deep breath, thankful to have dodged that bullet. "Of course, I'll get right on it."

And I will...after two caramel lattes and a brief silent tear.

But Victoria doesn't need to know about that.

I've never been an early riser. In high school, my mom had to resort to squirting me in the face with a water gun to get me out of bed. But then again, I've never really had a reason to want to wake up early. Until now. Because this whole sharing my bed with the gorgeous man of my dreams thing might be turning sunrise into my favorite time of day.

For the seventh morning in a row, I wake to the gentle thrum of Ollie's heart beating in rhythm with mine. The most I've seen of him all week is in stolen moments before my alarm goes off, signaling the real world is calling.

But not today.

Today is Saturday.

And as the sun just barely starts to streak through my windows, my eyes flutter open with the knowledge that the only thing we need to worry about this morning is what time Bridge will wake up. When I lift my head from his chest, meeting those turquoise eyes I somehow knew were already open, I'm pretty sure we're having the exact same thought-that Bridge is a very late sleeper.

This time, when Ollie's hands dig into my thighs, there isn't an ounce of protest in me. And when he shifts, sliding me so I straddle him, I don't bother to break our kiss. I sink into it, smiling as I grip his shoulders, eliciting a deep throaty groan when I press all my weight against him, loving the way his skin already sizzles. Because for the seventh morning in a row, I've woken up in Ollie's arms, and there's a heck of a lot of built-up sexual tension we're both eager to undo.

So, well, we do.

Quite thoroughly.

And you know what?

It's getting easier and easier to believe that I've had sex with Oliver McDonough. That Oliver McDonough might actually love me. I'm not sure when that fact will really sink in, when it'll really hit me. But I don't think there's any harm in getting a little more proof in the meantime, just for good measure, you know?

At least, that's my thought process as we sneak out of his room with a furtive glance at Bridge's still-closed door and head into the kitchen. Because, well, we worked up an appetite. And I ask you, what's the benefit of dating a chef if I can't have my cake and eat a gourmet brunch too?

"Can I help with anything?" I murmur as I lean into his back, peering over his shoulder at the array of vegetables and eggs and raw meats decorating the countertop.

"Hmm," he teases with a grin, glancing down at me and leaning his head so it's resting against mine. "Trust you with a knife? And an open flame? I don't think so."

I punch him in the side softly. "I resent that." He raises his brows at me, challenging. But I hate to admit he sort of has a point, so I cross my arms, stubborn. "How about some coffee?"

"Sounds good," he says.

It's my turn to smile. "Look at that, for the first time ever we made a compromise. We are so good at this relationship thing."

Ollie's face turns serious. "Should we talk about this relationship thing?"

"Ugh," I groan and turn away, reaching into the fridge for the coffee beans and ignoring his question. "It's so early."

"We've been up for an hour."

"Exactly." I look back at him. "All of my pre-caffeine morning energy has been depleted, and you only have yourself to blame."

He rolls his eyes and gets back to chopping vegetables. I turn on the coffee pot and then jump on the empty part of the counter to do what I do best-watch Oliver McDonough. I mean, at this point I've perfected it into an art, really. Only now, I get to pine over him out in the open, blatantly staring without having to worry if he notices or if he sees, because he can notice and he can see. It's refreshing! Invigorating! Now, I don't need to anxiously cast longing glances from the corner of my eye. Casually stalking him is completely allowed. I'm free to admire the sexy concentration in his face, the outline of his masculine jaw, the heart-fluttering curve of his bicep, which I now know is just as strong as I always imagined, just as capable of lifting me up and throwing me onto a bed or shoving me up against a wall or cradling me gently, preciously, or...well, you get the idea. When it comes down to it, those commanding hands that are currently cracking open eggs and assertively stirring vegetables and artistically tossing in spices were all over me this morning. So, I feel it's perfectly within my rights to admire the graceful nuances with which they move.

At least, I did.

"Stop staring at me."

I jolt out of my trance, looking up from Ollie's hands and into the blue eyes shimmering with amusement. "Oh please, you love the attention."

He purses his lips, trying not to smile. But I know I have him. Because, let's be honest, it's true. So he jumps on the offensive, switching gears. "We really should talk about this, about us, about what it means..." He trails off.

I turn, reaching for a cup of coffee and forcing my gaze somewhere else. "Do we have to?"

"Yes," Ollie asserts.

"Why?" I whine.

"Because Bridge is your best friend."

"And?"

"Because I love my sister."

"And?"

"Because I love you." That gets my attention. I finally look up from my steaming mug, noticing that Ollie has stopped cooking and is just leaning against the counter, muscles flexed and tense, watching me. "Because I know you're scared, I am too, but in the long run Bridge will be less hurt if we tell her now, together, rather than finding out because we made a mistake."

"I know..." I say slowly.

"But?"

I sigh. "I've been in love with you since I was fifteen, Ollie, maybe younger. But that's the problem. What if I'm not in love with you? What if you're not in love with me? What if we're just in love with the idea of each other and now that we're dating, all those ideas fall apart?" He steps forward, reaching for me, but I hold my hands up. I need to get it all out now while I still have the courage. "I just think we need a little time to just be us, together, dating, before we get other people involved, before we add in the outside pressure. Our lives are too connected, once the secret's out, there's no going back."