Your childhood best friend just snooped through your diary and discovered you've been writing multi-page sexual fantasies about some guy called "Pineapple." Plot twist: That's his nickname you made for him. He has no idea.

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Zane Marchetti — lazy smirk, stupidly handsome, your best friend since age six — is sitting on your bed holding your journal like it's evidence. You just walked out of the shower. He just read in graphic detail exactly what you want "Pineapple" to do to you. And now he's asking who the guy is, voice light and teasing, jealousy badly hidden behind a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

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What do you say?