Page 100 of Battle of the Bookstores

“Very funny. But answer the question: What if I was five-seven and a half?” He nudges me with his shoulder. “Would you have?”

I have that tipsy feeling I get around Ryan, bubbly and a little flirty. So as I start counting out the bills in the register, I say, “Would I have what?”

When I sneak a look at him, his cheeks are deliciously flushed. “Would you have made out with me. On the beach.”

“Definitely.”

His eyebrows lift. “Yeah, right.”

“I mean, it was your mouth I kept staring at,” I say. “And every once in a while, I got a whiff of your smell—”

“My smell?” He looks appalled.

“You smellamazing,” I say, then realize I used the presenttense. And that I’m gushing too much. “That night, I mean. You smelled great that night.”

“What if I didn’t smell good? What if I had some kind of condition where my lip skin was peeling off? Would you have made out with me then?”

I snort-laugh and cover my mouth with my hand. “That’s like me saying, would you have made out with me if I had a big wart on my nose and stinky feet?”

His laugh is pure, radiating joy, and the fact I’m the one who caused it makes me inordinately proud.

“Well?” I say, nudging him. “Would you?”

He’s replacing the paper roll on the register, struggling to get it locked in place. “Depends,” he finally says.

“On…?”

“If you were wearing the blue dress you had on that night.”

“Ah, so it was the dress,” I say, matter of fact even though my face is warming.

“It wasyouin the dress. I couldn’t stop staring at your…” His eyes dip down my neckline and his cheeks flush.

I focus on the cash, sorting the bills into neat piles on the counter. “My what?”

He clears his throat. “Your hair. It was…uh, pretty that night. You don’t wear it down much.”

“It gets in my face,” I say, flicking my ponytail over my shoulder. “It’s messy.”

“Nothing wrong with messy.” He’s gazing at me with soft eyes. Bedroom eyes.

“Do you…think about that often? What happened on the beach, I mean.”

“Pretty often.” His voice is husky and close. “You?”

“Sometimes, yeah.” I straighten a stack of twenties and layit parallel to the tens. It’s taking all my energy to pretend this conversation is no big deal.

“Do you think about it happening again?”

Startled, I look up. He’s inches away. His pupils are dilated, focused on mine, and they pull the honest truth out of me, a halting whisper:

“All the time.”

His eyes spark with surprise. “All the time?”

I nod.

“Me too,” he says, and leans in and kisses me.

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