"What time is it?" I grab his arm, bringing the cell phone in his hand closer to read the clock. 1:37? How did it get so late so quickly?

But then I stop, realizing I'm touching Ollie's arm. Touching him. And his skin feels warm and soft, contoured with muscles, firm and strong. And my fingers tingle, too aware of the contact. My entire body goes still, frozen, as my mind focuses on the tiny little space between us.

Since that first night, I haven't seen Ollie the entire week. The restaurant life is work all afternoon, work all night, mornings off. He's usually asleep when I leave in the morning and working when I come home.

But now he's here. Inches away. And we're touching.

I look up.

Ollie is still watching me.

My heart leaps into my throat.

But then I remember, and I drop his arm. I remember that I already went down this road, already spent most of my life crushing on Ollie, and I won't do it again. "Bridge is dancing with someone," I say, and take a step back, licking my lips. "I just needed a break."

His ocean-hued eyes flick to the dance floor, darkening with a hint of overprotectiveness, but then they find their way back to me, filled with something I don't recognize. He blinks, and the storm clouds dissipate. "Do you want anything from the bar? I need a beer. The first Friday shift at a new restaurant is always tough."

"Water?"

He nods, disappearing. For a moment, I expect to see him walking to the dance floor with some girl. But he doesn’t. He comes back. To me.

"So why did Bridget drag you down here? Doesn’t seem like your usual scene."

I roll my eyes. "How'd you guess?"

"Well, the fact that you were standing alone in a dark corner was sort of a dead giveaway. But the look of general disdain on your face didn’t hurt."

I try to hold back my grin, but from his self-satisfied expression I know it didn’t quite work. I shrug. "She thinks I need to learn how to flirt."

"Do you?"

"I don't know."

"Want help?"

I start choking on my water. Nice—way to be cool. "From you?" I squeak when the fit subsides and I can finally speak again.

"What?" He shrugs, leaning against the spot beside me on the wall while he takes a long sip of his beer. I try not to notice the nicely chiseled shape of his jaw—and fail miserably. "We're…friends. I can help."

I'm not sure I like where this is going.

Scratch that—I one hundred percent, no doubt about it, do not like where this is going. And yet…

"Sure." The word just pops out of my mouth, from nowhere. Stupid voice with a stupid life of its own. But then, trying to draw some boundaries, I rush to add, "Strictly in the name of journalism of course."

Ollie grins, taking another sip from his bottle. "Of course."

"So, what's first, teacher?" I chug my water, mouth growing dryer by the second.

"You really want to know how to attract a guy?" Ollie glances at me, lips slightly pursed, turquoise eyes twinkling from the strobe light, a slight layer of stubble across his cheek. Does the room feel low on oxygen to anyone else? Because I suddenly feel unable to breathe.

He leans in closer.

Yeah, definitely can't breathe. It's a little painful actually. Constricting my chest.

"Just show him that you're interested," he whispers, holding my gaze. The rest of the room seems to fade away. The lights go dark. The sound mutes. All I can hear is the thud of my racing pulse.

I look away first, sucking in a long, slow breath. "And how do you suggest I do that?"

"Go up and say hello, sometimes just a look will do it." Ollie shrugs, pausing to scan the room. "Like that girl at the bar over there, that's the third time she's made eye contact with me."

I zone in on the girl he's talking about, standing at the bar with her friends, sipping on a cocktail, eyes still locked on Ollie. Short dress. Big hair. Suggestive grin. Heels that reach about as high as my thigh.

My stomach drops immediately, and then coils into a tight ball of anger. Okay, jealousy. No, anger. Well…ugh. Let's just stick with anger. "Oh my gosh, she sees us talking here and she's still ogling you so blatantly."

"What? It's not like we’re dating," Ollie mutters.

"Yeah, but she doesn’t know that. We could be. I just," I pause, stammering for a response that doesn't make me sound totally whiney and bitter. "I could never do that. If that's flirting, no wonder I'm horrible at it."

"Well, it's not all her fault."

I look at Ollie, aware of what's coming next and waiting for the appropriate time to release my eye roll.

"Women just can't help themselves around me."

Instead of the roll I expect, my gaze just sinks to the floor. I'm in no place to judge anyone—not for falling for his charms. "You should go talk to her," I find myself saying, eyes still on the stain-covered ground.

"Really?" He looks at me, but I refuse to reciprocate. The floor is much safer. Much easier to understand. Much less complicated. "I don't want to leave you here all by yourself."

And I suddenly realize what this entire conversation has been.

Pity.

Pity for his little sister's best friend alone in the club.

And now that I realize it, I can't bear to talk to him any longer. I can't bear to stand next to him. Can't bear to have him so close.

"Go, go," I say, swallowing back the pain and finally glancing up with a smile. "I'm fine, really. I just needed a break. I'm going to go find Bridget. You should talk to her."

"If you're sure…"

"I am," I say and nudge him with my shoulder. "Go."

"I'll see you at home," he says, then winks, "or not."

I don't watch him leave. I don't want to see him lead her to the dance floor, put his hands all over her body, and, ugh, kiss her.

A few minutes later, Bridget finds me. Her smile drops immediately when she sees my expression, eyes filling with concern. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." I shake my head and shrug.

And though I know her boy is out there somewhere waiting for her, expecting her to come back, Bridget grabs my arm and says, "Come on, I'm so over this place. How about pizza on the way home?"

And that's just one of the reasons why I love her.

The best boyfriend I've ever had was a fictional character. After all, the only one I've really had was John, and after almost four years, that ended with him cheating and me ruing the day he was born. So, yeah, I'll stick with my books.

The past few weeks have passed in a blur of failed romantic attempts and columns chronicling my ineptitude in the dating world.

Leaving my number with the cute barista? Now I need to walk an extra five minutes out of the way each morning to buy a coffee. Well that, or face him again and ignore the fact that he never called me—even though he put a heart next to my name three mornings in a row! I thought we had something, nameless barista boy, I really thought we did. And it would have made such a cute story too.

Visiting the local sports bar during Monday Night Football? A twenty-dollar dry cleaning bill to wash out the beer stains on the jersey Bridget's work friend let me borrow. Well, that and the number of a man who's old enough to be my father—because he thought it was adorable that I called a touchdown a goal. Sorry, my time at high school football games involved drooling over the quarterback—yes, it was Ollie—staring at his butt in those tight pants—come on, we've all done it—and gossiping with Bridget.