He tries to grab them from me but I spin out of reach, putting the island between us as a barrier. He pokes at his cheek with his tongue. “They offer support.” He uses his hand to demonstrate, but in the air, not by cupping his actual junk.

“Like a bra for your balls?” I make the same cupping motion in front of my chest. His underwear dangle from my pinkie.

“Yeah, sort of like a bra for my balls.”

“So it lifts and separates?”

“Same basic principle.” He closes his eyes for a few seconds, exhaling a long slow breath before he opens them again. “Can we stop talking about this now?”

“You’re the one who leaves underwear on your counter. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to be curious about them.”

He swallows thickly. “Is your curiosity sated?”

“Partially. I might have more questions later. Why? Is this conversation making you uncomfortable?”

He blinks a couple of times before his eyebrows rise. “We’re talking about my balls and your tits, Blaire.”

“And?” I play dumb, because this whole conversation is making me think about cupping his junk, so I have to assume it’s making him think about the same thing and possibly him acting as a human bra for my boobs.

“Well, Blaire, you’re fondling my underwear, we’re discussing cupping balls, you’re drawing attention to your chest, and men are visual creatures. So as you’re talking I’m imagining every single one of those things. And I’m wearing gray sweatpants and I’m commando now.”

“Seriously?” I push up on my tiptoes and try to get a look at his crotch, which is a silly thing to do because it’s not like I can see if he’s commando through his sweats.

He points a finger at me. “You stay right where you are.”

“Why?”

“Do you really need to ask?”

I shrug and give him a look that tells him I do, in fact, need to ask.

He plants his fists on the counter and huffs a laugh. He keeps his head bowed but lifts his gaze. “This conversation is stimulating.”

“Oh.” I glance down and back up a few times. “Oh! Are you aroused?”

All he does is glare at me.

“I see.” I nod primly and place his boxer briefs on the counter. I carefully smooth them out, bite my lip, and push them in his direction. “You know.” I wrinkle my nose. “I think I’m just going to excuse myself to the bathroom for a minute. It’s down the hall, isn’t it?” I motion in the direction he went when he changed into gray sweats.

“First door on the left,” he grinds out.

“I’ll give you a minute to…calm down, then,” I whisper. Yes, it’s sultry and on purpose.

“Much appreciated, Blaire.”

I wait until I’m halfway down the hall before I allow myself to smile. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one affected.

When I return from the bathroom—I take an extra long time and wish I’d thought to bring my purse along so I can fix my makeup—the underwear is no longer sitting on the counter, and Ronan has relocated to the couch.

In addition to the flights of beer, he’s set out bowls of chips, nuts, and popcorn. I grab my laptop and clipboard and join him.

I leave a cushion of space between us and adjust my dress so I can tuck my legs under all the fabric. If I’d been thinking, I would have lost the crinoline. It makes the skirt extra poofy—and hides my thighs and butt, which Maddy and Skylar had a habit of smacking anytime I wore jeans because, unlike them, I actually have a butt. Crinolines, while great for keeping the booty under wraps, are not necessarily the most comfortable thing to sit around in.

I battle the fabric down and use a throw pillow—there’s only one and it looks like it might have been cross-stitched by a grandmother—to keep it from poofing up again.

“I’d offer you a pair of jogging pants, but I think you’d swim in mine.”

“It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“You don’t look all that comfortable.”

He gives me the raised eyebrow and I stare at him for a few more seconds before I finally give in, stand up, pull the crinoline down and step out of it. It holds its shape for a few long seconds, resembling a pretty fabric volcano before it sinks into a puddle on the floor.

“Happy now?” I sit back down and tuck my legs back under the skirt again.

“As long as you’re happy and comfortable, I’m happy and comfortable. You wear that thing every day?”

“It’s comfy, for the most part.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He motions to the spread. “Help yourself, but let me give you a rundown of the beers and what goes best with which snack.” He describes each craft brew: pumpkin, orange, rhubarb, and a hopped mango ale and tells me which snack to pair it with. I take a sip after each description, then follow it with a nibble of the accompanying snack so I can experience the way the flavors complement one another. “Where did these beers come from? They’re all delicious.” I go back to the rhubarb ale, because I favor the hint of sweetness and the tart, gentle tang that follows the initial bitterness of the hops.

“I made them.”

“What? When would you have time for that?”

“Gramps let me set up a brew in his garage. It’s just small batches, but I think it’ll be enough to have some decent options for New Year’s. What do you think?”

I set my beer down and clap my hands excitedly, and then grab his. “Oh my God! What about a craft beer and champagne theme! We can have specialty cupcakes based on the beer flavors and champagne. You can host the dinner and I’ll handle dessert. Do you think we can apply to have a gated outdoor space so people can go back and forth between our places as long as there’s security? Or is that too much? It might be too much.”

“I think it’s a great idea, and it’s sort of exactly what I was already thinking.”

“I’ll shut down B&B at ten and move the party over to The Knight Cap. We can have a cupcake table and appetizers and all the delicious craft beer. This is going to be fantastic.”

We spend the next hour sipping beers, eating snacks, and planning our New Year’s co-celebration. I start to get tired—beer hits me a lot faster than vodka for some reason—and when Ronan excuses himself to the bathroom, I stretch out and close my eyes for a few seconds.

I blink and try to roll over, but my face hits…a wall? No wait. Walls aren’t soft, and they aren’t made of…leather? I blink a couple of times, but close my eyes right away because the morning sun is streaming through the windows, blinding me. It’s enough time for me to come to the conclusion that I’m not in my own apartment.

Panic takes over for a few disorienting seconds until the familiar smell of Ronan’s cologne registers. I blink again, still trying to adjust to the light beyond my eyelids.

I can’t believe I fell asleep. Well, that’s not true; I’ve been burning the candle at both ends, working long hours, basically seven days a week, since the beginning of the summer. That I passed out on Ronan’s couch isn’t much of a surprise. That he didn’t wake me up and send me home sort of is.