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Josie

WHEN A SCARF’S NO LONGER A SCARF

Don’t look now, but everything is going perfectly today. This never happens so I’m going to savor every single second. My flight into San Francisco arrived early. My black-and-white leopard-print luggage was the first to land on the carousel. And the town car my older brother sent for me—since his wife is fifty-nine million months pregnant with twins—cruised along the 101 and into the city easily without hitting any traffic, even on a Sunday afternoon.

The car pulls up in front of a charming yellow building in Hayes Valley that my college friend Maeve has been secretly renting from a trapeze artist, who’s been subleasing it from a foot archer (I didn’t even know that was a thing), so somehow this game of six-degrees-ofcircus-separation brought her to this vibrant neighborhood. And it brought this neighborhood to me, since I’ll be couching it here this week until I move into my own

short-term rental on Friday. My new job begins on Tuesday. I’m so excited to start this next phase of my life.

Right now.

The car stops and the driver hops out, hustling to my door and swinging it open for me. “Here you go, Josie. Can I help you with anything?”

I smile brightly at the man but decline. “I’ve got it,” I say, since I can’t let myself get used to drivers or special service. That’s my brother’s world—not mine.

I’m a do-it-yourself kind of gal, and my meager bank account thanks me for it. When the driver unloads the suitcases on the sidewalk, I thank him then take a beat to note what’s on this block. A cute café, a record shop, a noodle diner, and a sea of people swimming through the city.

It’s a little overwhelming, but in a good way. It’s also nothing like the quiet little town in Maine where I’ve lived most of my life. But I’m getting out of my comfort zone. I’m starting my ﬁrst job post master’s degree, and I’ve even got my list from my fabulous aunt Greta.

The list I’ve held onto for two years. The list I will definitely, absolutely finally tackle. Though maybe not item number one. That’s way out of my comfort zone. But the other things on the list are fine.

Well, mostly ﬁne.

We’ll see.

For now, I say goodbye to the driver, then send my big brother a text. Christian still worries about me, so he’ll want to know I navigated the wilds of the big bad city safely.

Josie: I’m here and all is well.

He doesn’t reply, but I’m not worried since he and his wife are about to have their hands full, which will be doubly hard since hockey starts at the end of this week, and it’s his second season as the team captain.

I drag my bags—bought secondhand at a thrift shop, naturally—up the stoop. After checking the front door code that Maeve texted me, I punch it into the keypad, then head up three steep and cardio-inducing ﬂights of stairs to the fourth ﬂoor, searching for B4.

Note to self: no need to join a gym this week.

I ﬁnd the door—it’s purple, which doesn’t surprise me but does delight me—and I try the code Maeve sent again. It doesn’t work. Which, knowing Maeve, also doesn’t surprise me.

The second I rap on the door though, it swings open inside and there’s a half-blonde/half-brunette tornado. In a mad dash, Maeve’s doing up the ﬁnal button on a starched white shirt, then stabbing a chopstick through her curls of light brown hair, streaked with blonde.

“Ahhhh! I’m the worst. I’m late for a last-minute catering gig for a Dark Futures exhibit at this gallery I’m dying to get my paintings into—the Frieda Claiborne Gallery. It’s a mile away. Meet me there at ten and we’ll grab food.”

Ten? What, are we still in college? I like to be in jammies at nine-thirty on the dot while enjoying a cheap merlot and debating the best book-to-ﬁlm adaptations of all time in a Reddit group.

But I smile and say, “Sounds great.”

She’s hugging me in a blur, then racing out the door as I barely catch my breath to call out, “Good luck. You’ll wow this Frieda, I just know it.”

She shudders as she walks backward toward the stairs. “I hear she’s tough.”

“So are you,” I say, as she spins around, but…wait.

I point to the purple door I’m holding open and the keypad on it that I’ll need to use the next time I return to this place. “Maeve, what’s the door code for here? It’s diﬀerent than the one downstairs.”

She waggles her phone. “It’s long so I’ll text it to you.” She wheels around, then turns right back, lifting a ﬁnger.

“If you hear a funny noise on the windowsill, don’t freak out. It’s just the pigeons banging.”

Okaaaay. “Didn’t have pigeon sex on today’s bingo card but thanks for the heads-up.”

“And the showerhead is kinda short, so you might have to, well, duck.”

I make a mental note. “Short shower. No problem.”

She winces, a guilty look in her hazel eyes. “Also, you can’t face forward on the toilet seat since it’s wedged right against the wall.”

I’d hate for her to feel bad when she’s opened her home to me, so I say, “I love acquiring new skills, like peeing sideways.”

“You’re the best,” she says, then blows me a kiss and races down the hall, jumping gracefully over the top step. “Watch out for this one,” she warns and is gone in a cloud of sweet plum perfume and tardiness.

I turn around, take a big welcoming breath, and survey the tiny one-bedroom. Yup. This is deﬁnitely the Maeve I met my freshman year of college. Her stuﬀ fucks like horny rabbits and multiplies. Paintbrushes are scat-

tered in the kitchen sink, plants grow wildly from the windowsill, and homemade lamps crafted from old liquor bottles and castaway rhinestones sit on the table.

But it’s home for the next few days till I can move into my own temporary place. I check the clock. It’s four. Which gives me plenty of time to explore the neighborhood before I meet Maeve. That just makes good sense. I like to research everything before I do it. That way I’m always prepared for whatever comes my way.

I need to stop.

Truly, I do. I came to San Francisco for my ﬁrst job as a librarian, not as a pigeon pornithographer.

But holy balls. Maeve did not lie. Not only is pigeon sex loud, it’s like a freaking pageant. I adjust my phone screen as I record the show. Big Bird over there has been strutting his stuﬀ on the windowsill, cooing and sashaying for Ms. Peck, who keeps scurrying around in circles. Tittering. She is deﬁnitely tittering. Then, he hops up on her back.

That’s how pigeons do it? Like they’re forming a cheerleading pyramid? I had no idea, but I can’t look away. The dude is perched there. Now, he’s flapping his wings. And five seconds later, he jumps off.

Talk about a quickie.

“Not impressed, Big Bird,” I say, then peer behind me into the apartment, like I need to check to make sure someone didn’t just watch me record birds doing it.

Nope. It’s just me here. The pornithographer. Best to get on with my evening. I hit end on my invasion of pigeon privacy and head into the bathroom.

Oh.

I stop abruptly. It’s like the size of a high school locker. But no matter. Maeve is giving me a free place to stay. Who cares if I have to squeeze into the bathroom?

I head to the toilet where, as promised, I have to pee sideways. Fun fact about peeing sideways—your knees bang the sink.

There’s a little scrape now on my left knee.

Fine, my life isn’t quite as perfect as it seemed an hour ago, but a shower will cure that. I strip out of my travel clothes and hop under the hot water, where I pretty much have to do a squat the entire time I’m under the spray. When I get out, my thighs are burning. But bright side and all—this building is a life hack, and I get cardio and strength training here.

The good news is there’s almost enough room in the bathroom to do my makeup.

A half hour later, my hair is dried and I’m wearing my oversized white T-shirt with an off-the shoulder neckline (cut by yours truly), my aunt Greta’s signature scarf to hold back my hair, my black-and-white cat-eye glasses, and a pair of pink fuzzy slippers. My face is lotioned and potioned. In the tiny bathroom, I finish slicking on mascara, then blush, as I google directions to the Frieda Claiborne Gallery while listening to a podcast about the history of San Francisco. The gallery is just down Hayes Street, so it’s not too far away.

I’ll just switch out of this shirt and pull on jeans and a hoodie, then take oﬀ. No need to dress up since I’m not actually attending the Dark Futures exhibit. Maeve’s texted the code so I’m good to go. As I head to my suitcase, set neatly by the ratty green couch, there’s a knock on the door.

Hmm. It’s not my place to answer it, but what if Maeve’s expecting something and forgot to tell me? I scurry to the door, setting down my phone to check the peephole. A woman with red hair and freckles ﬂying across her pale skin stands in the hall, frantically bouncing a baby on one hip and balancing a package on the other. And is that a little toddler wandering in bored circles behind her?

“Hey, Maeve. They dropped oﬀ your mail for me again,” she says, sounding like sleep has eluded her for a millennia.

Must be her neighbor. I swing open the door.

“Oh. You’re not—”

“I’m Josie. Maeve’s friend,” I say as the baby whimpers. “But let me take that. You look busy,” I say, reaching for the package, then setting it on the table right by the door inside the apartment.

The woman looks down at the baby with a heavy sigh. “She’s hungry. Eats constantly. But I have to go meet her father for a playdate.”

She doesn’t sound thrilled about the playdate. I bet the playdate she really wants is with her pillow. I so get it. My pillow and I are tight.

“Mom, I want an ice cream,” the toddler whines, making airplane arms as he spins in a circle. “Please. Now. Please now.”

“And we’re leaving any second,” she says in that I’m so exhausted but I’m faking it for you voice when her purse slinks down her arm, then careens to the ﬂoor in a heap.

Airplane boy seizes his chance and wings out, propelling down the hall toward the wobbly step. Tired Mom is grabbing her purse, so without hesitation, I rush

on pink fuzzy feet, lassoing the boy with my arm before he tumbles down a ﬂight of stairs.

Got him!

The mom gasps. “Oh my god. Thank you.”

In seconds she’s next to me, clutching him while thanking me profusely as the baby wails.

Note to self: say no, albeit nicely, when Christian asks me to babysit.

But I don’t share my child-free thoughts with the stranger. Instead, I just smile. “Glad to help.”

On another eﬀusive thank you, the harried mom takes the boy’s hand and heads down the steps. I whirl around, returning to the purple door, which must have fallen closed. I lift a ﬁnger to punch in a code…

A code I don’t know.

Since it’s on my phone.

On the other side of the door.

I groan in frustration.

Don’t look now, Josie. But nothing is going your way.

My good luck must have drained down the short shower stall.

Still, there has to be a solution. Every problem has several. I just need to ﬁnd one. That’s all. I head along the hall, scanning for the mom, peering down the stairs, but she’s already gone. I look back at the apartments on this ﬂoor, considering meeting my temporary neighbors. I could knock on doors and ask to borrow a phone.

But I don’t have Maeve’s number memorized anyway. Come to think of it, I don’t even know my brother’s number by rote. Even if I had a borrowed phone, I don’t know who I’d call.

I stare forlornly at B4, wishing the door would magically open. But there’s only one person who can let me

back into this place and she’s at an art gallery at 814 Hayes Street.

I glance down at my getting-ready outﬁt. A baggy Tshirt that hits me at the scraped knees and my pink fuzzy slippers.

Great. Just great.

But I shrug. Desperate times call for do-it-yourself measures. I undo Greta’s scarf from my hair, tie it around my waist, and turn my shirt into a not-at-all-fashionable T-shirt dress.

Then, chin up, I venture forth into the wilds of the city on my slippered feet without a phone.

Or even a bra.

Wesley

MY PLUS-ONE

I know what’s coming before my dad even asks.

“Yes, Dad, I had the high-protein jerk chicken breast with quinoa and lime cucumber salad for lunch,” I say to him on the phone as I stride through the sleek, state-ofthe-art kitchen of my townhome in Paciﬁc Heights, the black plates washed clean from the lunch he made sure the meal planner prepped and sent over to me.

“Good. Because it’s a recovery day and tomorrow you’ll have—”

Does he actually have the meal plan memorized? Wait. Stupid question. Of course he does. And so do I, since I knew this was coming too. I had my phone’s textto-speech app read the meal plan out loud till I learned it by heart. “The chicken and squash bowl.”

“You got it,” he says, pleased, like I’ve answered the right question in class. “You know what top nutrition leads to.”

“Top performance on the ice.” I ﬁnish the thought easily having heard it since I was in youth hockey.

His voice crackles through the line, persistent and unwavering. “You need to fuel your body right, son.”

“I’m like a Bugatti, Dad,” I say, attempting to lighten the mood.

“Good. That’s what we want on the ice. The better you fuel yourself, the lower the chance of injury. The lower the chance of injury, the more ice time…”

The better the chance for a great season and so on. I don’t really disagree. I’ve just heard it before, and there’s no mood lightening with Mister Serious, so I let it go.

“I know,” I say, as I leave the kitchen and head into the living room, staring longingly at the TV and the video game controller. A round of zombie slaying would be real nice right now.

“Are you heading to the gallery? Your walls were almost bare the last time I was at your place.”

So much for destroying the undead. Or seeing some of my teammates. I was this close to a round of pool with Max, Hugo, and Asher when Dad swooped in earlier today with his request. No, his insistence that I attend his new conquest’s—sorry, his girlfriend’s—art gallery show.

“On my way, Dad,” I say, as upbeat as I can manage about checking out the exhibit Frieda’s created called Dark Futures—whatever that is. But it feels ﬁtting—the future of this night is dark, even though I’m still meeting my guys—just a little later now. I’m going to need to detox after an evening at an art gallery.

I glance at the handful of framed concert posters I hung in the townhome I bought when I was traded to this team last February. “What’s wrong with the art I have?”

“Tame Impala? Wesley, you’re not a rock critic or a beat poet,” he says.

Are concert posters the de facto art of beat poets? I scratch my jaw. “Is anyone even a poet anymore?”

It’s another attempt to lighten the mood, but Dad sighs heavily. I can picture him in his oﬃce in Los Angeles, where he works half the time—thank god he’s most of the state away. I bet he’s pinching the bridge of his nose.

“That’s not the point. The point is it’s a contract year, and you need to manifest an attitude of success. Remember what I’ve told you?”

Repeat after me. “Be the whole athlete,” I say, and it’s empty but he won’t be able to tell.

“It’s a mentality, Wesley. And Frieda is expecting you so you should go.”

Well, I’d hate to disappoint his ﬂavor of the month. “I’ll manifest a new persona as an art connoisseur.”

“Perfect.”

My sarcasm was entirely lost on him.

I hang up, then head to the garage, passing a sleek mirror in the foyer on the way. Wait. I can’t wear a polo shirt. Frieda will tell Dad, then he’ll say I’m not looking the part.

Having your father as an agent is no joke. But the dude is sick with contracts, and a beast in negotiations, so I change into a tailored sage green dress shirt I usually only wear on game days with a suit.

I hop into my electric car and take oﬀ for the gallery at the edge of Hayes Valley, where I snag a sweet parking spot. When I get out, I check the gallery address once more. Passing by quaint cafés and designer boutiques, I picture the season ahead. Our training camp has gone well. Our ﬁrst game is in less than a week, and if chicken

and squash bowls do the trick for me on the ice, then ﬁne. Bring them on.

When I pass The Scoop, a small-batch ice cream shop though, I try to manifest a hatred for ice cream. But my manifesting skills are not that good. My mouth is watering for a salted caramel cone.

No way is that on the meal plan.

I jerk my gaze away, then head down the block, weaving through the evening crowds, bracing myself for an encounter with Frieda with her slicked-back hair and fake British accent. Maybe I can avoid her. Perhaps she’ll be so busy entertaining clients, I can pop in, go eenie, meenie, miney, moe at the walls, and then head to the bar with my friends. I’ll be in and out in a ﬂash, like a breakaway shot to the net.

And I’ll still get credit for having shown up.

But when the gallery comes into view, the tall, birdlike woman is staring down her nose at…what in the everloving fuck is that other woman wearing?

I peer more closely at the subject of Frieda’s disdain. A brunette with wavy hair, dressed in a long T-shirt and fuzzy slippers with a ﬂowery black scarf tied around her waist. That’s not what people wear to art galleries. That’s what people wear when it’s laundry day.

Is she down on her luck?

As I come closer, I catch pieces of the conversation.

The younger woman places her hands together in prayer. “I just need to get a passcode from one of your caterers. I swear, it’ll take one minute, and I’ll be done.”

Frieda’s tone is faux warm. “I desperately want to help you. But Frieda has made out a list, and you need to be on it. See? I’m in a quandary.”

She’s pretending she’s not Frieda? Give me a break.

“Yes. Same here! I’m in a quandary too,” the woman in the makeshift outﬁt says desperately, clearly hunting for common ground. “I’m locked out of my friend’s place without any of my things. I’m new in town, and I just need to get back in there.”

“I would think your phone could be useful,” Frieda oﬀers oh-so-helpfully.

Gee. A phone. Why didn’t that occur to her?

“My phone is in her place. If you could just tell Maeve that Josie is here,” she says, begging Frieda, “I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

Frieda pastes on an I don’t give a shit smile. “I wish I could help, truly, darling. I do. But I can’t. Frieda has made it clear. You need to be on the list.” She pauses, sighs, then frowns apologetically as she stage whispers, “Plus, we have a dress code, love.”

Oh, hell no.

The woman in the T-shirt—Josie, she said—turns around, and her eyes are shining with the threat of tears behind those cute glasses.

Well, if Frieda has made it clear you need to be on the guest list, I can make some things clear too. I stride right up to the woman in need and ﬂash her a helpful grin. My dad might think I have zero taste and a lack of focus, but one thing I do have? My improv skills are unparalleled.

“Hey, sweetie. Glad you could make it. I love your dress. You’re so fashion-forward, I can’t even keep up with you,” I say with a smile that I’m sure gleams.

The brunette whips her gaze to my eyes and the breath is nearly knocked out of me. Her lips are pink and glossy, her chestnut hair is wavy, and there’s a faded, pink jagged line on her chin—a scar somehow makes her even prettier.

Her blue eyes are bright and full of question marks. But it doesn’t take long for her to connect the dots. In seconds, she’s figured out my plan and she pops out a hip, showing off her outfit with a no-big-deal wave. “Oh, thanks, I just threw it together. A little DIY.”

“You look…incredible,” I say, and that’s not a lie. It’s the whole damn truth. Smugly, I turn to Frieda, then fasten on my most apologetic look. She already thinks I’m an idiot anyway. She’ll buy this next lie easily. “My bad. Did I forget to put my date on the list?” I tap my forehead, like details are just so hard for this guy. “Josie’s with me. My plus-one.”

“Your plus-one, Wesley?” Frieda’s lips twist into a doubtful scowl as she glares at me, then stabs a ﬁnger suspiciously in Josie’s direction. “I thought you were locked out of your friend’s place?”

“Oh, I am.” Josie looks up into my eyes and ﬂoors me again with the intensity of her stare. Then she ﬂashes the sweetest, most apologetic smile Frieda’s way as she says, “And I was in such a rush to leave because Wesley likes to surprise me with his fantastic date ideas, so he told me to meet him here. I’m excited for the show.”

Frieda’s false warmth recedes. She’s an iceberg now. “Of course. Enjoy the exhibit, Wesley,” she bites out, smiling so falsely that it’s a goddamn pleasure to watch her try to keep her shit together.

“Thanks, Fri,” I say since she hates nicknames and eﬀectively blowing her cover with Josie. “Appreciate your generosity.”

I oﬀer an arm to the woman in the T-shirt and slippers, and walk her into the gallery, all thoughts of seeing my teammates later as far from my mind as the chicken and squash bowl.

Josie

WHEN THE ART SPEAKS

I clutch the cocktail napkin with the door code like it’s the gold the hero hunts for in a pirate’s tale. “Thank you,” I say to Maeve after telling her the tale of my misfortune, down to my impromptu plus-one.

“Girl, thank you. For giving me a hell of a story. You are a determined tiger, walking through the city like that,” Maeve says, eyeing me up and down in my ragtag clothes that make me look like, well, like I was sleepwalking. She tips her forehead to Wesley, standing a few feet away and studying a painting of what looks like a vampiric ant. “Also, he’s not too unattractive.”

I laugh at her dry humor. “Yeah, he’s deﬁnitely not too bad at all. But he was just helping.”

“Right,” she whispers, her eyes darting to him again. “Hope you have fun.”

“It’s not like that,” I insist since I don’t want to assume anything.

But with a wink that says you lie, Maeve whirls around, balancing a tray of sparkling champagne flutes, offering them to the crowd. I turn back to the stranger who saved the day as he turns back to me. Scruff lines his chiseled jaw, his light brown eyes twinkle with amusement, and his full lips curve into a very playful grin. He wears a silver chain that draws my attention to the fair skin of his throat, and inexplicably makes me wonder how he’d taste if I kissed him there—right there by his Adam’s apple. Does he wear cologne? Would it go to my head?

Get a grip.

He’s a stranger. I shouldn’t lust after a stranger. Instead, I brandish the napkin like it’s a prize. “I’ve got it,” I say, with more relief than I’ve ever felt.

“Now protect that, Josie,” he says.

“With my life,” I say, and I’m about to stuﬀ it in the safest spot possible—my bra—when I remember that I’m not wearing one.

I just fold it, curling my ﬁngers around it. He’s probably ready to take oﬀ and, I dunno, study the art here or whatever people who go to art openings do. “Thank you, Wesley,” I say since I heard Frieda the Wicked Witch use his name. “That was amazing. And I seriously appreciate it. Is there anything I can do for you?”

I genuinely want to thank him. I also maybe, possibly, don’t mind looking at him because this man is…unreal. He’s six-foot-ﬁfty, and his shirt is hugging his pecs, and cuddling his biceps that go on for days. And his wavy, wild, dark brown hair is just a delicious mess. The kind of mess I want to drag my ﬁngers through.

Focus, girl.

“As a matter of fact, you can help me pick art,” he says.

I was not expecting that. But it makes sense. We’re at a gallery after all.

“You want me to help you choose something?” On the one hand I’m grateful for the chance to repay the favor, but on the other hand…I gesture to my get-up. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m wearing a T-shirt and slippers. They did want to bar me from entry for all eternity.”

“And they failed. So, wanna help?”

I don’t really want to wander around a gallery halfdressed after walking a mile like this already and feeling like the biggest fool. But the man swooped in and saved the day, so I owe it to him to help, even with my free-range boobs. “I hope you’re ready for my exquisite taste,” I say.

“I’m always ready,” he says with a conﬁdence that sends a zing down my naked chest, “for anything.”

And the zing spreads farther.

Ready for what, the too curious side of me wants to ask. But I keep that to myself. With my slippers slapping against the polished blond wood of the ﬂoor, we check out paintings hanging on stark white walls.

And wow.

I don’t want to be rude. I’m a librarian not an art historian.

But these paintings look like my nightmares. They’re all apocalyptic. Like that one of ﬁsh with wings ﬂying over a desolate cityscape.

Wesley gestures to it. “Would this look good on my walls?” It’s asked seriously.

I study his handsome face, trying to read him as he crosses his arms and stares at the huge canvas taking up way too much space. “It depends where you live,” I say diplomatically.

“An underground bunker,” he deadpans.

I smile. “Perhaps then.”

But I don’t entirely want to insult his taste in case I’m reading him wrong, so I’m careful as we head to the next one—a black painting with a skeleton horse riding across a desert landscape toward an alien, whose face is melting oﬀ.

Wesley studies it intently, tilting his head one way, then the other. Oh god, does he really like that monstrosity?

“What do you think?” I ask enthusiastically, trying to be nice.

He hums for a beat, then leans closer to me, his shoulder bumping mine. A charge rushes through me. From his shoulder. I’ve never been a shoulder girl, but I’m reconsidering that stance tonight. Nope. I’m revising it. I’m oﬃcially a shoulder woman.

“I feel like this painting is telling me to shop at another gallery,” he whispers.

I breathe out, relieved. “Thank god you said that.”

He tilts his head. “Did you think I liked it?”

“I was hoping you didn’t,” I whisper.

“Josie.” He tsks, his clever eyes holding my gaze in a way that makes my chest ﬂip and reminds me of item number one on my list, which makes no sense, because item number one is not my style, not at all, not one bit. “Don’t you know me better by now, sweetie?”

No, but I kind of want to—want to know him as more than just my spur-of-the-moment fake date. “You’re right. This is totally not your style, honey.”

“Exactly.” He pauses, looks around. “But what about that one?”

I furrow my brow. He’s not gesturing to a painting. “Which one?” I ask, confused.

He lifts his ﬁnger higher, his lips tilting up, his irises gleaming with mischief. He’s pointing to the exit sign.

I grin. I can get behind that plan. “That’s a sign…to sneak out the back door,” I say in a low voice.

He glances around, looking for Frieda perhaps, then pushes open the door by the exit. “I’ll cover for you.”

Without giving it a second thought, because he’s too fun, too handsome, too helpful, I slip past him, my arm brushing against his ﬁrm chest. He’s right behind me, and we’re pushing out another door that opens into the alley while we’re laughing like we’ve made our great escape.

When I catch my breath, the thrill of our swift exit seems to vanish, and I feel empty already. Because it’s probably time to say goodbye. I have my code, and surely he’s ready to move on with his night.

With a resigned sigh, I stick out my free hand, the one that’s not holding the napkin. “Thank you again, Wesley. I seriously needed this. All of this.”

He takes my hand, shaking it. “Happy to help.”

“I should head home,” I say, tipping my forehead in the direction of Maeve’s place. “It’s a mile in slippers.”

He doesn’t let go of my hand. He’s silent, but his eyes seem to ﬂicker with ideas. “Can I walk you?”

Brieﬂy, I weigh the risks. He’s a stranger, but he’s a stranger who saved me. Plus, I’m walking anyway. And the streets are full of people.

“Sure,” I say. He lets go of my hand. As we leave the alley and turn onto Hayes Street, we walk a few blocks and chat about the city. But a question nags at me. “Did you really want to buy art tonight?”

“Not from there. I’d rather hang a poster from a concert I’ve gone to, or pics of my sister’s dog, or just something funny. But I kind of had to show up. My dad

wanted me to check it out,” he says, but his light tone disappears, telling me he doesn’t want to talk about his father. “Do you hang fancy art like that? Or terrifying art?”

“I haven’t really done it before. I’m more of a photos girl—of the people I love,” I reply, ignoring the slight pang in my chest when I think of one person I love who was taken from my life too soon.

We pass an ice cream shop and he glances at the window—a little longingly—before turning his gaze back to me. I ﬁle that information away in my mind under Things Extremely Built Men Want But Can’t Have. I shift gears. “And do you usually save women trying to inﬁltrate art events?”

“That was definitely a first. Do you usually infiltrate art events in your…” He lifts a curious brow, checking out my absurd clothes.

“My getting ready outﬁt?”

“Yes, that.”

I pluck at the oversized shirt, then wince. “No. It’s sort of ﬁtting, the art was nightmarish. Walking around halfnaked is kind of a nightmare.”

Instantly, his mirth vanishes. His brown eyes are serious as he scans the block with assessing eyes. “There’s a shop a couple blocks away. I saw it when I was driving. Let me get you something to wear.”

My lips part. My brain stutters. Is he for real? Who is this generous? “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

It’s said like the simplest answer ever. And it’s no longer just a ﬂeeting thought. This sexy stranger is deﬁnitely making me rethink item number one on my list.

Wesley

VERY SINGLE

“I’ll pay you back,” she says, as I hold open the door to Better With Pockets.

Hell no. I shake my head vehemently. “Nope.”

“Seriously. You don’t have to buy clothes for me,” she says as she walks past me into the boutique.

“I know. But I want to,” I say ﬁrmly, letting the door fall closed.

“You really want to shop for me?” The question resonates in the sweetly scented air of the shop—the smell is feminine, berries maybe. It’s a contrast, or really, a complement to Josie’s scent, which is a little like cinnamon. Pop music pumps through the speakers, Sabrina Carpenter’s tune matching the colorful array of trendy clothes that line the racks.

A woman from behind the counter nods our way. “Let me know if I can help you with anything,” she says in a warm, husky voice.

“We will,” Josie says, then turns back to me, still studying my face like she needs to make sure I meant the oﬀer.

“Are you worried that I don’t like shopping?” I ask, trying to understand her.

She seems to give that some thought for a few seconds. “No. Well, maybe. But mostly, it’s so generous of you. But you totally don’t have to. I’ll be ﬁne. My friend’s place isn’t that far.”

She says it all upbeat and cheery, like she needs to exonerate me from the oﬀer.

Maybe she’s not used to people doing nice things for her. But is helping her out of a jam that nice? It just seems like the right thing to do. Besides, it’s rare when you can truly help someone. When you can give them what they need when they need it. Usually, help is like the old toolbox you ﬁnd in your grandfather’s attic. It has a ﬂathead screwdriver when you really need the Phillips-head.

In my case though, I have the right tools for Josie. A wallet and a willingness. I pin her with a serious stare, so she knows I mean every word. “Let me help you, Josie.”

“Let me pay you back, Wesley,” she says, staying strong.

“One, you’re not paying me back. It’s a gift that I want to give. Two.” I glance around the shop, gesturing to the racks and shelves bursting with clothes that women her age usually like. I mean, it’s not like I picked a Dress Barn. “What’s it going to be? Pants, shorts, shirt, or dress?”

She laughs. “You’re bossy.”

I resist the urge to make a naughty joke. Mostly. I mostly resist it. “I am.”

She breathes out in a sort of relaxing sigh, like she’s relenting. “Thank you. And shockingly, I’m not picky right

now. I’m at the I’ll take anything stage of dressing.” Her pretty lips curve up in a curious grin. “But tell me, Mister Bossy, what would you pick for me?”

I seize the opportunity to get to know her. “I’ll pick, but on one condition.”

“What’s that?” It’s asked with a little challenge, one that says she likes to hold her own.

I wiggle my ﬁngers in a serve-it-up gesture. “I need a clue or two.”

“A fashion clue?”

“Exactly. I’m a good shopper but…” I take a beat, so my next words land right where I want them to. “I don’t want to pick an orange sundress when it turns out your… boyfriend hates orange.”

Her eyes sparkle. “Wesley, was that your way of asking if I have a boyfriend?”

I scoﬀ. “Please. I’d never be that obvious,” I say, then give her a look like I’m waiting.

She straightens her shoulders. “My boyfriend, who’s the head of the San Francisco mafia, would probably like to personally thank you for making sure I don’t roam the streets half-naked while he’s off working at the docks.”

I shoot her an I’m impressed smile. “Making concrete shoes, I’m sure.”

“Of course. It keeps him quite busy.” She pauses, then asks, “And will your girlfriend who speaks ﬁve languages, looks beautiful without makeup, and saves endangered animals like to give you any fashion tips over FaceTime for me?”

Fuck me. She’s perfect. “Actually, she’s going to come join us. That work for you?”

“It works perfectly,” Josie says, and if I was looking for

a distraction from my father tonight, the universe delivered.

But even though we were both clearly messing with each other, I don’t want there to be any questions about my status. I set a hand on her bare arm, brieﬂy savoring the feel of her soft skin as I say, “Josie, I’m single.” And because she’s so damn pretty and so ﬂirty and so quick on her feet and because we haven’t talked once about hockey or calories or exercise, I add for emphasis, “Very single.”

She doesn’t ﬁght oﬀ a smile. “I’m very single too.”

“Good.” I roam my eyes over her in her makeshift dress. “And while I suspect you look good in anything, I’m picking pants.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m betting you want to feel diﬀerent than the way you feel right now. Pants would be the fastest way to that.”

Her smile is sexy and smart at the same time. “Get me some pants, please,” she says, and hell if I don’t hear get into my pants. Or really, I want to.

I nod toward the rack near us and ﬂick through some options. “So, what’s your favorite color?”

“Guess.”

“Fine.” I stop hunting and take a beat, traveling up and down her frame, adding up clues, then give it my best shot. “Black.”

She blinks, clearly surprised. “Um, close.”

“Gray?” I ask with a laugh.

“It’s black and white actually,” she says. I crack up. “Dude, you picked two colors.”

She squares her shoulders. “Maybe I’m an overachiever.”

“Maybe?” I arch a brow. “Sounds like you are.”

“So how did you know?”

I lift a hand, pointing in the direction of her glasses. “There’s a little black and white checked pattern on the arms.”

“Oh,” she says, then touches them gently, like she’s reminding herself. She tucks a strand of chestnut hair over her ear. “You’re right.”

“Yeah. I noticed them earlier,” I say, and it’s an admission that I’ve paid close attention to her.

Her cheeks pinken in the most alluring blush ever. She swallows, then looks around, getting her bearings maybe. For a few seconds, a sense of déjà vu slams into me. Have I seen her before? She feels vaguely familiar, but I see a lot of people at hockey games. It’s possible I’ve seen her or someone like her once. Besides, I’m pretty sure I’d remember her if we’d met.

I’m deﬁnitely sure I don’t want to talk about hockey though, so I don’t go ﬁshing in the do we know each other waters. Instead, I return to the clothing hunt and wait for her to go next.

“So what’s yours?” she asks. “Your favorite color?”

“Do people still have favorite colors?”

“You just asked me mine! Are boys not allowed to have a favorite color?”

I smile, shaking my head as I ﬁnd a cute pair of pants and lift the hanger from the rack. “I don’t really have one.”

“Everyone has one. Some people are just more aware of it. For others it’s subconscious. So what’s yours?”

I consider her heart-shaped face, her pink lips, her bright-eyed attitude. Her mouth that hasn’t met a question she doesn’t have a comeback for. Then, her eyes. They caught my attention from the second I saw her outside the gallery. “Blue.”

She freezes for a second, like my answer’s sinking in,

then maybe it hits her, because she rolls her lips together, then says crisply, “Noted.”

Jerking her gaze away from me, she turns to the black pants I’ve grabbed, taking them from me.

Hold the fuck on. Did I read her all wrong? Maybe the blush was because I embarrassed her? Maybe she legit needs help, the very single convo aside. I home in on that and give her the Phillips-head screwdriver she needs. “Let’s get you a white top to go with that, and some new shoes.”

Quickly, I choose some options and hand them to her. She heads to the dressing room, the door clicking shut. I wander around the store, getting a little distance as I chew on the best way to ﬁgure out where her mind’s at when the door swings open again.

I spin around.

She’s standing in front of it in a pair of pants that flare at the bottom and a white sweatshirt that slopes off the shoulder and shows off a sliver of pale flesh. And a sparkly belly button ring I want to lick.

My mouth goes dry. My mind goes haywire.

She juts out a hip. “What do you think, honey?”

Like she said to me back at the gallery when we were role-playing. Maybe I didn’t read her wrong. “It’s very, very you…sweetie,” I say.

“Good.” She takes a deep breath, then her voice pitches up as she adds, “Because I would love to wear it to take you out for an ice cream right now. To say thank you.”

That is so very speciﬁc. It’s not the typical let’s have a drink. Not that I’d say no to a drink with her. “Ice cream?” I ask, my improv skills ﬂying out the window, because it’s a little surreal, her question, given where my mind was earlier.

She swallows, then nods. “Do you hate ice cream?”

“No. God no.” My brow creases. “Who hates ice cream?”

“Ice cream haters?” She sounds nervous.

“Not me. Deﬁnitely not me. I’m just a little freaked out that you’re reading my mind.”

She breathes out a sigh of relief. “I had a feeling since you were kind of into the ice cream porn earlier. When we walked past The Scoop a while ago, you stared at it like it was the source of all your fantasies.”

Pretty sure she is my fantasy right now. “Let’s get ice cream. But on one condition.”

“Okay,” she says, a little tentative.

I step closer and set a hand on her arm once again, watching as her breath hitches her chest. “It’s a date.”

Her smile sends a shiver down my spine. “It’s a date.”

I set a hand on her back and walk her to the register, making a mental note to text the guys and let them know I’m bailing. When we leave, with her old clothes in a bag and her new ones on, I barely give a second thought to my car, several blocks away. I can get a parking ticket for all I care. I’m not doing a damn thing to throw a wrench in the ﬁrst date I’ve looked forward to in more than a year.

That’s the real surreal part of tonight.

Josie

BIRDS DO IT

Just because I haven’t been on a lot of ﬁrst dates doesn’t mean I don’t know the basics. Research queen here. And a queen needs her phone, especially since I’m going to put my location tracker on for Maeve.

I soldier on for another half mile of free-range boobing as we walk till we reach my friend’s yellow building. “I’ll just grab my phone and be right back.”

“Take your time,” Wesley says, then pops in earbuds and leans against the railing as I unlock the door.

Buzzing with excitement, I rush inside, then wrap my arm around my chest as I hurtle up the three flights of stairs in my new flip-flops till I reach B4. I uncrinkle the napkin I’ve been clutching all night, then punch in the long code lightning fast, and hallelujah!

I’ve never been so happy a door opened in my life.

I set down the bag with my T-shirt, slippers, and scarf, then grab my phone. I clutch it tight. “You naughty thing,”

I say, admonishing it, but really…me. Even though it wasn’t my fault. I was a hero earlier, saving that kid from sliding down a wobbly step. And look where it got me. A date with a hottie. I slide open my phone, ﬁnding a text from my mom, then one from my brother, responding to my I’m here message. I open his ﬁrst as I hustle to my suitcase to grab a bra.

Christian: Hey, J! Glad you made it safely, and welcome to San Francisco. Sorry it took me a while to reply. Liv was having contractions but they turned out to be Braxton Hicks.

Josie: OMG. Did you go to the hospital?

Christian: No, but she was swearing and cursing at me while I dialed the nurse on call

Josie: Aww, I feel so bad for you getting yelled at.

Christian: Funny thing—she has no sympathy for me either. Anyway, do you need anything? I can send over groceries if you want. Or some takeout. You name it. But be careful when you’re walking around the city, K? Stay alert. Or better yet, I could get you a bodyguard?

I roll my eyes at my overprotective brother as I tug oﬀ the sleeves of my white top.

Josie: Do you have a bodyguard for Liv? If not, I don’t need one

Christian: I’ll send over some mace and a pocketknife. Like she carries.

Josie: Stop worrying about me! Worry about Liv! How is she doing now?

I slide on my bra at the speed of sound as I read his reply.

Christian: Let me check. Hold on.

Christian: She says she’s the size of Alaska and to get the F away from her.

Josie: Yep, she’s deﬁnitely in the “don’t do this to me again” phase of pregnancy. Good luck!

Christian: Mace is on its way.

I stick one arm back in the sleeve as I spot my mom’s note.

Mom: Did you hear Liv had Braxton Hicks? Is she OK? Should you go see her?

To do what? Help her give birth to babies that aren’t ready to come? But that’s typical of Mom to focus on Christian. As I pull my sweatshirt down, I dictate a response.

Josie: If she needs someone to read to the babies, I’ll be right there!

Next, I send a quick text to Maeve as I rush through the living room.

Josie: I’m getting an ice cream with the hottie who saved me. But I can still meet you later!

I yank the door open, then stop, spinning around to grab my scarf from the bag. For good luck. I toss it around my neck jauntily since that’s the only way you should toss a scarf, then take off down the steps. I slow at the ground floor when my phone pings with her reply.

Maeve: I’m sorry, ma’am. But did you say you’re getting banged by the NOT UNATTRACTIVE hottie who saved you?

Josie: Ice cream, Maeve. We’re getting ice cream.

Maeve: New slang, obviously. Also, I was right, I was right, I was so, so right

Josie: It’s just ice cream. Also, I’m turning my location tracker on for you.

As I’m nearing the door, her reply lands.

Maeve: I can’t wait till it shows you’re on the couch in my place having fun.

Josie: Maeve!

Maeve: Also, I can entertain myself tonight. Don’t worry about me walking in on you. I’ll go to that 24-hour bookstore while you’re busy. Just watch out for the spring on my couch. It’s loose and might stab you in the ass. Solution? Have him bend you over the back of the sofa. Sex is just better like that anyway. And that’s your sex tip from your girl, Maeve.

I exit the building and when I look up from the phone, I’m grinning as I shake my head. Wesley’s on the stoop where I left him, checking me out with curious eyes. He pops out the earbuds and stuﬀs them into his jeans pockets. “Something good?”

I am deﬁnitely not telling him what No-Filter Maeve said. But I can give him a little something. “I was telling my friend about you.”

His smile feels like it’s the same vintage as mine. A

robust I want you too wine from this year. No, from today. Harvested this evening. “So she knows your whereabouts?”

“Yes, but also…” I pause. Am I really doing this? Yes, I am. “But also because she likes to be right.”

“About what?”

“I’ll tell you if it happens,” I say, teasing him.

“Can’t wait,” he says, and his voice is dripping with undertones.

We head down the steps, but we don’t go to The Scoop. Instead, I tell him there’s an ice cream shop a couple blocks away. “I just looked it up. There’s one called The Hand Dipper nearby,” I say, then…it hits me. “That sounds vaguely dirty.”

“Just vaguely?”

“Okay, completely.”

“Perfect then,” he says, and along the way we pass the record shop I spotted earlier, where he tells me he bought the new Ben Rogers album. I have no idea who that is, but I say “cool” and make a mental note to look them up later.

We reach The Hand Dipper quickly. The name is etched into the glass along with a tongue darting past a pair of lips, licking a cone.

“Deﬁnitely not vague at all,” he says, holding open the door for me like he did at the clothing shop earlier.

As we walk to the counter he sets a hand on my back. A possessive one that covers the fabric of my sweatshirt and my exposed skin. That makes me shiver too. When we reach the case and check out the tubs of mouthwatering desserts, he murmurs, “Yup. Ice cream porn all right.”

“You should be happy then.”

“Very happy,” he says, in the same conﬁdent, raspy way he said very single earlier.

We check out the ﬂavors—balsamic strawberry, lavender honey, cinnamon and champagne. I’m deﬁnitely not in Kansas anymore. He turns to me. “Want to try a bunch?”

I want to try him. But ﬁrst, I need ice cream courage. “What do you think is good for a ﬁrst night in town? I just moved here.”

He gives me a quick once-over. Something he’s been doing a lot tonight. “You deﬁnitely need the cinnamon and champagne then.”

“Perfect. I’ll have a single scoop in a cup.” I shouldn’t be licking a cone in front of him like it’s a sweet, icy dick.

“You don’t want to try it ﬁrst?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m taking a leap.”

“A woman who knows her mind. I like it.”

He catches the attention of the man behind the counter with a “Hey there.” The guy is wearing a Renegades cap for one of the city’s football teams.

“Hey,” he says to Wesley, furrowing his brow, like he’s studying him. “Are you…on the football team?”

Wesley laughs politely but shakes his head. “No, man. I don’t play football.”

“Sorry,” he says. “You just looked familiar.”

“No worries. It’s all good,” Wesley says. “I’m in the sports business though. On the assets side.”

The server’s brow pinches like that doesn’t compute. “Ah,” the guy says, then satisfied, perhaps, with Wesley being in finance rather than on the field, he returns to rinsing a steel scoop.

And Wesley resumes looking my way. This is probably where I should say what I do for a living. But all the dating

research I’ve done says focusing on someone’s job—theirs or yours—is a red ﬂag that you’re boring, or just into money, or that your question might remind them of an annoying co-worker.

I follow his lead and keep it simple with, “I’m in the book business.”

There. It’s true, and we can move on.

“Cool,” he says, then does exactly that by asking, “Have you spent time in San Francisco before?”

I could tell him my brother lives here. That I’ve been to a couple Sea Dogs hockey games over the last few years, though not that many since I’ve been so busy with my master’s in library and information science. But I’ve spent most of my life in my big brother’s big shadow. I don’t need to spend tonight talking about my semi-famous sibling. We might wind up in a convo about asset management in the sports business, and that might put me to sleep. Besides, knowing those details might compromise the integrity of item number one on the list—which is starting to look more and more like a possibility. The less we know about the other, the more faithful I’ll be to Aunt Greta’s list. Best to just be fun, talk about hobbies, and the moment. “I have. But I was usually fully dressed before.”

Wesley laughs, and I pat myself on the back for a perfect deﬂection. “I’m glad to hear that. Not that you don’t look great in slippers.”

“I rock a pair, don’t I?”

“You do. But wait till you see mine,” he says, and that feels promising too since his slippers are—just a guess— at his home.

In his bedroom.

If I get another couple signs he’s game for more, I’ll go for it. I’ll jump even though it’s been a while since I’ve

been on the horse, and I’ve only ever ridden in one saddle. But I’ve seen a lot of saddles on screen. And read about them in books. My imagination is not lacking.

The server finishes scooping and sets down a strawberry balsamic cup for Wesley, then the cinnamon and champagne for me. I reach for my phone to pay, but Wesley covers my hand with his. My breath stutters. His skin is warm. His hand is strong. How would it feel on my back as he bends me over the couch? Damn that Maeve.

“I lied when I said yes to your oﬀer. I lied because I’m buying,” Wesley says.

“But you’ve already been so generous,” I say, though I know it’s a feeble protest.

Especially when he lifts a brow playfully but says nothing, like he’s letting me imagine other ways he might be giving.

Oh I’m imagining, universe. I’m deﬁnitely imagining.

With an uncommon speed, he whips out his phone and taps it on the screen to pay, then gives a tip that doubles the amount.

“Thanks, man,” the Renegades fan says.

“You’re welcome.”

The sports asset management business must be a good one.

Wesley picks up both our cups, then heads toward the counter by the window, pulling out a white metal stool for me. We both sit and he lifts his cup like he’s oﬀering it to toast. “To your friend being right.”

Tell me you know what she said without telling me you know what she said.

“I’ll…lick to that.”

“Me too,” he says with a smirk, then holds my gaze

with so much conﬁdence that my stomach ﬂips. A blast of heat rushes through my body.

We “clink” paper cups, then he takes a spoonful of his ice cream and I do the same. He watches me the whole time with those warm brown eyes, ﬂecked with gold. More speciﬁcally, he watches my mouth, and I like it.

When I set down the spoon, he says, “Your scar is fucking hot.”

He’s fucking hot. And blunt. I run a finger across the indentation on my chin. No one has complimented it before. Certainly not John, my longtime college boyfriend who became my post-college boyfriend since inertia kept us together till we finally petered out. “Thank you. I fell off a bike,” I say.

“When you were learning to ride?”

“Yes.” I don’t tell him I was chasing Christian as a kid. That I was trying to keep up with my big brother. That I felt like I’d tried to be like him for so long in everything. That I even tried to play hockey to be like him. But I’m not athletic. Besides, books were, and are, better companions than athletic gear. “I’m not particularly sporty, but I did end up learning how to ride.”

“So you got back on,” he says, his deep, steady voice thrumming through me, turning me on.

“I did,” I say, then take another spoonful. He does the same, then oﬀers me his.

“Wanna try?”

“Sure,” I say, then hand him mine. I take a lick of the balsamic strawberry. “It’s sweet, and a little tart.”

He licks the cinnamon and champagne oﬀ my spoon with an approving hum. “A little like you, I suspect, since you smell like cinnamon.”

Warmth blooms in my chest. “You noticed,” I say, but he’s a noticer, so this shouldn’t be a surprise. It’s nice though. “It’s my lotion.”

“It’s got a little kick to it,” he says. Do I have a kick to me? In some ways, I probably do. In other ways, I don’t entirely know. But tonight is for boldness, so I add, “Like me.”

That earns me a heated grin. He takes one more bite, like he’s savoring every ounce of the treat. “And yours tastes…a little forbidden,” he says, and arousal builds in my belly. I don’t know why ice cream is forbidden to him. I don’t even really care. I just like the way he talks to me and looks at me. Like he wants to know me and eat me up.

He gives me back my forbidden cup, then says in that same heated voice, “What do you think of San Francisco so far?”

The air between us crackles. “I’m liking it,” I say, my skin tingling. We’re not talking about the city.

“Yeah, me too,” he says. “And your ﬁrst night here? Is it what you imagined?”

“Nothing has been like I imagined,” I say playfully, ﬂashing back to Big Bird and Ms. Peck. “Even the pigeon sex.”

But for the ﬁrst time in a while Wesley looks thrown oﬀ. “Okaaaaay.”

Shoot. I’m pretty sure pigeon sex is not on a list of acceptable date topics. I shake my head quickly. “It’s not like that.” But what do I even mean by it’s not like that? I scramble to explain myself better. “I meant I took a video of two pigeons banging…” Nope, that’s not better.

No wonder I haven’t attempted the ﬁrst item on my list before. I am a hot mess when it comes to ﬂirting.

But Wesley doesn’t let my comment go. “You recorded the bird portion of the birds and the bees?”

“I did,” I say with a wince since it’s too late to take it back. “Do you want to say goodnight right now?”

His hand comes down on mine again, covering it, squeezing it. “No. I want you to tell me how they do it.”

With a smile and a fresh surge of adrenaline, I give him a quick overview of pigeon copulation, and soon he’s laughing. When the laughter subsides, he says, “I’m not sure how to top that. I was going to say we could check out the Golden Gate Bridge or the Palace of Fine Arts. But once you’ve seen pigeons fornicating, everything else is downhill.”

Except…

I can’t believe I’m about to do this. I can’t believe I’m using my pornithography as my lubricant. But what do I have to lose?

I take a deep breath…

But he goes ﬁrst, speaking in a quieter, bedroom voice. “You’re blushing again, Josie. You did that in the store.”

I know what moment he means. I know what I was thinking about then too—item number one. I was weighing if I was going to do it or not. “I did?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty when you blush. Just like your blue eyes.”

That’s why he said blue’s his favorite color.

No time like the present. No night like tonight. Get out of your comfort zone. I already did that when I walked halfnaked around the city. This next step should be easy. I take one more bite of my ice cream for courage, then set it down.

But Wesley is faster once again, asking, “Can I try your ice cream a second time?”

He really does like the dessert. I hand him the cup, and he takes it with a quick thanks, but then sets it down on the counter.

I frown, confused. “You didn’t taste…”

He rises from his stool, closes the short distance between us then leans in, dipping his face close to mine.

The air whooshes from my chest. A shiver runs down my spine. For a long, delicious second—or several—he waits. Like he’s letting the moment ripen. His gaze drops to my mouth, then he lifts his hand. I expect him to cup my cheek or thread it through my hair.

Instead, he presses his palm against my collarbone, under the scarf, spreading his fingers wide against the exposed flesh. I go hot everywhere. It’s possible my panties are on fire.

He drops his mouth to mine, our lips connecting at last. His kiss is soft, heady, a little on the sweet side. Then it’s tart, from his ice cream.

He kisses the corner of my mouth, then slides his hand up the side of my neck. His thumb glides over the hinge of my jaw as he deepens the kiss. I part my lips for him, my mind popping, my skin tingling. As he kisses me, his scruﬀ rubs lightly against my skin, the sandpaper scratch of it making my knees weak. I feel like my bones are melting right along with the ice cream as he kisses me more—the kind of kiss that’s so much more than a taste.

I part my legs slightly.

I’m keenly aware we’re in an ice cream shop. But I’m pretty sure I’ve stopped caring since I invite him a little closer. He moves in, nudging my knees a little wider so he can stand between my thighs. Good thing I’m sitting because the move turns my legs to jelly.

Our tongues skate together. He presses more ﬁrmly on

my jaw, tipping my head back the slightest bit. The move makes me shudder.

And that seems to turn him on more, judging from the passion in the kiss, the wrap of his arm around my back.

He murmurs as he kisses me, a desperate kind of growl that sends me spinning. I lift a hand and grab at the open neckline of his dress shirt. He kicks up the kiss a few notches. Then, like it costs him every ounce of control, he ends it and yanks himself away. His eyes are dark. His breathing is staggered.

“How did it taste?” I ask.

“I might need to try it again…and again…and again.”

Same here. This is it. This is absolutely it. He’s item number one. “There’s something I’ve always wanted to do but never have,” I say, and nothing is going to stop me now.

His irises say go the fuck on. “Yeah?”

I pause, then ﬁnd my courage as I tackle the ﬁrst item on my list. “Have a one-night stand with a sexy stranger.”

9781405989671

penguin books

THE BOYFRIEND GOAL

THE BOYFRIEND GOAL

LAUREN BLAKELY

PENGUIN BOOKS

DID

DID YOU KNOW?

WHEN A SCARF’S NO LONGER A SCARF

MY PLUS-ONE

WHEN THE ART SPEAKS

Wesley

VERY SINGLE

BIRDS DO IT