Page 32 of From Air

“But you did?”

I smile at the guy next to me who grabs a mango. When he turns and heads back to his cart, I lower my voice. “It’s not like I had a choice. He didn’t ask me. One minute, my head was on his chest, and the next, my face was in his hands, and his lips were on mine.”

“Wait. Why was your head on his chest?”

“Just ... it’s not what you think. The point is, I didn’t let him do anything.”

“Was it good?”

“What?” I stroll toward the bulk aisle for trail mix.

“Was the kiss good?”

“It was quick and unexpected. It was ... weird and awkward.”

“But you think he’s hot.”

“I think this conversation has gone off the rails.”

“You’re saying he’snotsexy?”

“You’re not listening to me.”

“I am. But you’re not making sense. Just answer the question.”

“I’m not answering the question.” I fill a bag with trail mix.

“Why?”

“Because it’s irrelevant. We’re roommates. It’s a hard rule—no sleeping with your roommate. We’d get booted out. And I like my setup. I’d rather not have to leave before I move on to my next job.”

“Yada yada. Is he hot?”

“Stop.” I set the bag in my basket.

“Have you had a sex dream about Calvin Fitzgerald?”

I giggle. This is absurd. I shouldn’t have told her about the kiss.

“It’s okay if you have. That makes you normal. Who am I going to tell?”

“I have to go.”

“No. You’re not ending this call until you just tell me. Have you had a sex dream about Calvin Fitzgerald? Huh? Huh? Huh—”

“Yes. I’ve had a sex dream about Calvin Fitzgerald. Are you happy now?” I huff and turn the corner. “Oof!” And I run right intoCalvin Fitzgerald. “Shit. Sorry. I ... I have to go.” I pluck out my earbuds and toss them in my bag.

He didn’t hear me.Please, God, say he didn’t hear me.

“Watch where you’re going,” he warns with a taut voice, a jar of mustard in one hand and something wrapped in butcher paper in the other.

It’s the most we’ve said to each other since the kiss. I can’t think of Fitz or look at him without thinking about the kiss. Who am I kidding? I can’t do anything without thinking about the stupid kiss.

“Hey. How was your day?” I ask in singsong, clinging to small talk like Rose clung to the door after theTitanicsank.

He doesn’t speak. And I can’t decipher his expression. This sucks. Did he hear me?

Fitz’s gaze makes its usual inspection of me. Nothing to see. I’m in my not-so-sexy purple scrubs, and I’m already flushed. Why must he toy with me?

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