He cups my cheeks in his hands, entrancing me in his gaze and rubbing his thumbs over my skin. "I don't want to go back."

I reach up, holding his hands. "That's because you have nothing to lose. Bridge is your sister, if anything happens, she'll pick you. She'll have to. And your parents, the family I love, the family that saved me when mine fell apart, I just can't lose them."

"You won't have to."

"We don't know that yet."

"I do," he whispers.

I let my head fall against his, touched by his confidence. And I wish I could be there, I really do. I want so badly to be there. But Oliver McDonough is whispering sweet nothings into my ear and part of me, a big part, still can't quite believe it. The little what-ifs are a nagging presence in the back of my mind that I can't ignore, not yet, not based on one night, six rushed mornings, and today-as wonderful as they've been.

"Give me a month," I murmur.

"One month?"

"Yeah, one month. By then, I'll know for sure, and we can tell Bridge. Just a few weeks to give us time to sort things out together, to go on a few dates, to have some time to get to know each other in this whole new way."

Ollie nods. "Four weeks." And then he grins, stepping closer. "I can do that. Besides..." He leans down, pressing a kiss to my neck, closing the distance between us and shifting my hands so they wrap around his neck. "I have to admit, having you all to myself does sound sort of amazing." He grips my waist, pulling me right to the edge of the counter so I have to lean against him to stay balanced. And I do, letting my head drop to the side with a sigh as his lips keep exploring. "And you might not think it, but I know whose side Bridget is going to take when she finds out, so I need to enjoy having you so close while I still can."

I laugh softly, pulling back so we're nose to nose. "What do you mean?"

Ollie grins. "Are you kidding? My ass is going to be thrown to the curb the second my sister finds out."

"She won't kick you out!"

He lifts his brows, amazed. "Of course she will. There's no way she'll let me stay, not when she knows what's going on."

I bite my bottom lip, thinking, because the idea never crossed my mind, but now that he's said it, I know he's right. And in a way, I already miss him.

All the more reason to keep us a secret.

And while I don't say it out loud, my expression must, because suddenly the space between us is electric, charged by a sense of urgency, as though our time is already running out. Without any prompting from Ollie, I lock my ankles behind his back and tug, bringing him as close as possible. In the same moment, his hands dig into my hair. Our faces snap together, magnetically charged. And though the kitchen is full of the sizzling smell of breakfast, we're only hungry for each other.

Until we hear the sound of a door opening.

Bridge.

I flinch, pulling away, every nerve on end, stopped still.

I can't breathe. Can't move.

But another door opens, closes. I hear the splash of the faucet and turn back to Ollie. We have a few more seconds, a minute maybe.

So we crash back together.

And something about this moment being so wrong, so forbidden, just makes it feel so right. My hands roam from his hips to his hair, tracing the muscles of his back, feeling them flex while his hands touch every part of me. My skin is on fire. His fingers are the matches, igniting bursts of flames with each caress, eliciting sighs with each ravenous grip.

When the faucet turns on and off, I know it's time to stop.

When the toilet flushes, I know I need to break away.

But I just can't. I'm addicted to the drug of Oliver McDonough wanting me, and I don't want the high to stop. Not yet.

When the door opens again, Ollie leaps back, hitting the wall of our small galley kitchen as he throws himself away, breathing hard. I know my face is flushed, so I jump off the counter and yank the fridge open, letting the cool air wash over my cheeks. He leans over the stove, turning the burner on full blast, using trembling hands to pick up the spatula and stir the sauteing vegetables. I fumble around the shelves, making noise to cover up my heavy breathing.

When Bridge walks in, my heart stops.

I can't meet her gaze, so I keep my eyes focused on the bottle of orange juice in my hand, not rising from my crouched position.

"You two are up early. Whatcha making? I'm starving," Bridge says, voice still fuzzy from sleep.

I finally stand. And the moment I take in Bridge's innocent smile, all that desire coursing through my system falls away, turning into a wave of guilt that rams into me like a punch to the gut, painful. Because she doesn't suspect a thing, and I feel like the worst person in the world for abusing her steadfast trust in both of us.

"Ask the chef," I grumble, nodding toward Ollie, because three words are about all I can manage.

Bridge stretches her arms up over her head, graceful as always, as she throws an amused grin in my direction. "Someone hasn't had her daily dose of caffeine yet." Then she drops her hands, sighing in satisfaction, and turns to Ollie. "So, bro, whatcha making?"

He shrugs, keeping his focus on the food. "Nothing fancy. Veggie omelets with some Italian sausage."

"So uninspired," Bridge teases, rolling her eyes as she steals the orange juice from my hand, pouring herself a glass. "So, what were you guys talking about without my dazzling wit to amuse you?"

Ollie and I look at each other at the same time.

Neither of us knows what to say, and a painful second of silence passes, stretching further and further, turning the air awkward and thin. My breath quickens as my heart begins to burn. The stillness permeates until I want to scream because I know how loudly the quiet speaks, how suspicious it probably seems.

"My column," I finally spit.

"Juicy. What about it?" she asks, jumping up onto the counter, sitting in the exact spot I was making out with her brother just a minute ago. I walk to the opposite side of the kitchen, next to the doorway, hoping for an ounce of cool air to billow in from the bedroom windows and calm me down.

"Oh, um..." Think, Skylar, think. "I just need some new ideas. With the whole Patrick relationship over, I'm back to square one, same place I was a few months ago."

"And," Ollie jumps in, letting a relaxed smile settle onto his lips as he shifts back into big brother mode. "I told her she should write about how sexy it is when a man knows his way around the kitchen."

Bridge snorts. "You wish."

I, however, silently have a heart attack.

Ollie just continues, voice so playful that I'm even starting to believe the joke. "Or ten methods to help resist the lure of a hot roommate."

He really needs to stop saying things like that.

I glare at him from across the room, but he winks. Winks!

Bridge shoves him. "I hope you mean me."

"Obviously," he says.

"You are irresistible, Bridge," I tease.

She shrugs. "I know."

Just like that, the tension oozes from my body because we're back in the same place we always are. Making fun of each other. And it's so comfortable, all the anxiety about Ollie and Bridge falls away, because at the heart of everything, we really are best friends-the three amigos.

"Well, I have an idea," Bridge chirps after a moment. "Let's go out tonight."

I cringe. Crowded bar? Noisy club? So not in the mood for that, especially when I already know who'll be keeping me warm tonight. Bridge doesn't know that, yet she can still read my resistance as easily as though the words are written across my forehead.

"Come on," she urges, jumping off the counter. "We haven't had a girl's night in ages, it'll be so much fun. Please!"

I grunt. Because a girl's night would be great, but I already know from the spark in Bridge's eye that tonight will be less about us and more about her mission to land me a new source of inspiration for my column. And how the heck am I going to sidestep all the men she throws in my direction without revealing that I already have all the inspiration I need right at home?

"Pretty please," she begs.

I take a deep breath, glancing at Ollie, but he holds his hands up, letting me know I'm on my own. After all, I'm the one who chose this path. I'm the only reason the insanity needs to continue. I'm the one who wants to wait to tell Bridge, so I'm going to have to be the one to deal with her in the meantime.

All the air in my chest puffs out, leaving me deflated. You'd think I'd know by now that I'll never win against Bridge anyway-especially not when her lips have that resolute pout they're currently sporting.

Stubborn freaking McDonoughs.

But my shoulders hunch, giving in, because I know there's no escape.

"Okay."

I remember learning about pheromones in high school and thinking, please, that will never work! Obviously, I still tried. Every time I was in the same room with Ollie, I gave off my best "come and get me" vibes. I got nothing. Only, now I realize what the problem was. Men don't want "I'm single and available" vibes-they want the challenge of a "leave me the hell alone" girl.

"You look like a nun," Bridge scolds, putting her hands on her hips as she looks me up and down, frowning. "What gives?"

I finger the hem of my black turtleneck, looking down at the cobalt jeans and sparkly flats I donned specifically to give off a club vibe. "What? It's January. I don't want to be cold."

Partially true.

Also partially true that Ollie was giving me the stink eye for the past few hours as Bridge went on and on and on about how she was going to help me reel in a man tonight. I figure the less skin he sees when he meets us out after his shift, the better. Clothing is the only silent protest I have left against Bridge, and even at that I'm failing.

"You don't want to be cold? Has it been that long since we've gone clubbing together? Those places are a million degrees."

"Yeah, but, outside..."

"It's called a coat, Skye," she drawls. "Now, come on, I want to help you get over this breakup, but you're making it really difficult. It's important to have a night out where you look and feel sexy, not for the guys, but for you. For your confidence!"

"Bridge," I say, reaching for my coat to try to cut off her attempts at throwing sequin garments in my direction. "I don't need help. I'm fine, really."

"Put it on," she orders, ignoring me and thrusting a silver and gold studded skirt in my direction. "And I'll let you keep the turtleneck."

"Bridge."

"Skye."

"Bridge..."

"You just lost turtleneck privileges," she snaps, turning around to dig into her closet, searching for a dress.

I know which one she's looking for before she pulls it out. And yes, I was right. It's a midnight blue silk wrap dress with a deep plunging V-neck-the very same one she made me wear to my first party after breaking up with John.

I shake my head.

She grins.

I put on my most intimidating stare.

It's useless.

"Come on," Bridge urges, stepping closer. "You look so killer in this dress. Please, for me? Please. Please."

"Oh, fine!" I break, snatching the dress from her hands. "You are so insufferable."

"It's part of my charm."

I grumble incoherently and stalk over to my room. "I'm going to wear this, but I want it on record that I'm not happy about it."

"Noted. Now get dressed."

An hour later, our cab pulls up in front of the bar Bridge selected, a little trendier than our usual pick. And not only am I in the dress, but I'm also in three-inch heels and bright sparkling earrings that Bridge insisted bring out the silver highlights in my eyes. My legs are ice as we shuffle over the sidewalk and hastily present our IDs to the bouncer. Two minutes later, the sweltering heat from the dance floor has already brought a fine sheen of sweat to my skin.

Damn. I hate it when she's right.

And she is.

Because now that I'm all dressed up, I sort of can't wait for Ollie to walk in and take a nice long look. Not because the dress accentuates all my curves just right, but because I feel sexier than I have in a long time, and I know that'll turn him on more than anything else ever could.

"Drinks?" Bridge shouts over the music.

I nod, following her to the bar. After a few minutes of trying to force the bartender to make eye contact with us, we're finally sipping on ice-cold vodka sodas and surveying the room.

"See anything you like?" Bridge asks, as though we're at Lord and Taylor's looking for shoes, not at a bar scoping out guys.

"I'm not really looking, how about you?"

She rolls her eyes and takes my hand, dragging me over to the dance floor. "I'm just trying to help you with your column."

Which, to be fair, I do need help with. Because I still don't have a topic for next week, seeing as my secret affair with Ollie is a no-write zone.

"Okay, let's just dance," she sighs. And then smiles. "That dress will do my job for me."

Amazingly, she's actually right.

No dress has ever really done the job of flirting for me before, but I guess there's a first time for everything. Because tonight, when a good-looking guy shifts through the throng of dancers, moving toward us, he doesn't stop at Bridge like I expected. He walks right up to me.

"Want to dance?" he murmurs, leaning close.