Don’t sleep with your best friend. Take it from me. I did it. And it was awful—I-wish-the-tequila-made-me-forget kind of bad. The problem is, Luke has forgotten. He swears that he can’t remember a thing about that night beyond the trays of tequila shots being set on the tables. But I can’t forget. I can’t forget how good his hands felt until I fell over and hit my hip on the dresser, and I sure as hell can’t forget the entire two minutes. It’s awkward, embarrassing, and the new subject of a couple of dirty lucid dreams. But I have no intention of telling him what we did. Nothing good comes from telling your best friend he’s the worst guy you’ve ever slept with. And that makes having tequila on my birthday a very, very bad idea…