Carrie is gorgeous. Not just on the inside, but in every possible way.

She gives me an epic eye roll. “Please, Ryan. Don’t even bother. I’m not being modest. I’m stating a fact. You’re a master masseur at the O Spa. You’re a 10.”

“A 10.5,” I correct her. “You said so the other night.”

She blushes even harder at the mention. “Right. So, I mean, it’s a nice offer and all, but I can’t accept. And asking you to waste your weekend wouldn’t be fair.”

And then she mutters under her breath, something I can’t hear.

“What was that?”

She turns red. “Nothing.”

I reach for her arm and pull her closer. “What did you say, Carrie?” My voice goes low, an emotional rumble, and suddenly all my worry about this is gone. Heat flashes through me, the space between us changing as she slowly tips her head up, catching my eye.

Without flinching, she says, “Because I’m a 4 at best.”

Before I can answer — and my response would have been a kiss, goddammit — we’re rudely interrupted by a talking cockroach.

“WHAT?” A distinctly unwelcome British accent fills the air. “Did Ryan just call you a fucking FOUR, Carrie?” Zeke swaggers into the lounge and gives me a mock look of anger. He grabs Carrie out of my arms and spins her down into a dip, like they’re dancing.

Rage makes me damn near blind. My arms are empty.

And Zeke’s are full.

“You are a 7 on your worst day, Carrie. An 8.5 if you work on it,” he says, examining her face from their half-bent position.

“Uh, uh, thanks?” Carrie gasps. “But I don’t think you’re very good with math. Maybe you’re using the metric system?”

Zeke’s eyes narrow. His nose runs along her collarbone and I’m an inch away from breaking his dick off and stuffing it up one nostril.

“Nah. I know the difference.” He shoots me a look.

“Thanks,” she says, a nervous laugh coming out of her. “Let me go, though.”

“A beautiful woman in my arms wants me to set her free?” He kisses her on the cheek, but puts her upright. “Don’t let this bag of deflated ball sacs tell you you’re a four.”

“I didn’t,” I say through gritted teeth. “Carrie gave herself that number.” I look at her pointedly. “And she’s wrong.”

“You two are good for my ego,” she says with a giggle, pink returning to her cheeks.

“Heard your ego needs a boost since you got dumped by the guy who used to come to O and treat it like a feast for his eyes. Man, the way he ogled Ryan,” Zeke says as he shakes his head and makes himself a cup of tea.

“What?” She gives me an accusatory look. “Jamey didn’t, he wouldn’t…” Her eyes drift over my body, light and airy, like a butterfly landing on blades of grass.

“Oh, he did. We should have charged him for visiting you here at work.”

“Shut up, Zeke,” I warn him.

“Why were you giving each other numbers?” He looks me up and down. “Ryan here’s a 7 at best.”

“Hey!”

“No, he’s not,” Carrie protests. She squints one eye, like I’m a diamond she’s evaluating for flaws.

“Carrie told me I’m a 10.5,” I shoot back at him.

Zeke’s snort sounds unimpressed.

“What are you, then?” I challenge. “On Carrie’s scale, I’m a 10.5 and Henry’s an 11.”

In a rare display of modesty, Zeke nods. “Yeah. That fucking redwood tree is an 11. I’ll give you that. But you ain’t close to a 10.5, mate. If anyone’s a 10.5, it’s me.” He preens, showing off his guns, giving Carrie a come-hither grin that makes me homicidal.

How did we get from Carrie in my arms to eye-candying Zeke’s arms?

Carrie starts to walk toward the door. I know her deal.

Not letting her get away with it.

“You need a date,” I start, tapping her shoulder. She halts.

“A date?” Zeke puts his arms down and grabs his tea. As he sips, his eyes tip up, the lashes long. Those eyes miss nothing. He’s the biggest gossip at O — although he’s told everyone I am — and whatever I say to Carrie now will be repeated all over.

“I — you know Jenny’s getting married. I’m the maid of honor. Jamey’s the best man.”

“Right. Gotcha. So you need a crackerjack stud to take as a date.” Zeke purses his lips and thinks for a minute.

“Exactly,” she says, breathless, her eyes darting to me then away.

“Two birds, one stone,” Zeke adds cryptically.

“Huh?” Carrie asks.

“Impress the women who’ll think you’re a pathetic loser who just got dumped — ”

“Hey!” I protest.

“ — and make the gay ex a little jealous.”

“Hey,” I protest a little softer, my response a Gordian knot of confusion.

“Too bad you have to settle for Ryan. He’s a 7, you’re an 8… I’d take you myself but I’ve made other promises.” Zeke winks at me. “Brilliant idea, though, mate.” He pulls Carrie close and fake whispers, “Think about how it’ll play. Your best friend at work. You’ve carried a torch for him for years.”

My skin starts to buzz.

“But I — ” Carrie looks anywhere but at me.

“For show, Carrie,” Zeke stresses. “You’ve spent all this time dreaming about him, wondering what it would be like to kiss him, to make love with him, to fuck him in the backseat of the car, how his hands would feel on your hips while he bends you over a wood fence at a Montana ranch — ”

“We get the picture,” I growl.

“Go on,” Carrie says, mesmerized. Her tongue peeks out between her lips and she licks before swallowing, hard.

“And all this time, it turns out the flame he carries for you — get it? Carries? — is even bigger than your little torch. The cute surprise love story practically writes itself,” he adds with a flourish and a smirk, chucking her chin.

“Nice fiction,” I say in a low, tight voice.

“This could work?” Carrie’s voice goes up, high and thready the way women can get when they’re unsure.