Page 72 of Prince of the Palisades

“Should I go as James Bond?” I tease. “Ken fromBarbie? A Victorian aristocrat? You could help me with my wig—”

“How about,” Reiss interrupts, “a pretentious, entitled king?”

I make a face. “A bit basic.”

“We’ll get you a robe, a crown, and a big scept—” He stops abruptly, swallowing. His dark eyes trace down my chest, lower. “Um, never mind.”

“No, no.” I grin. “Please continue. Something about a big—”

Before I can get the word out, he blurts, “All done! Er, hit the lights for me?”

I let it go. For now. Because, with one flick, the entire Hopper is transformed.

I’m standing in a meadow made of stars. A freshly shaken snow globe, glitter falling from the ceiling. LEDs throw soft purples against the walls. Orange icicles wink in and out above the bar, the café’s perimeter made of glowing candy corns—yellow at the base, tangerine at the tip. Strands of mini-jack-o’-lanterns outline the menu.

As Reiss climbs down, I steady him. One of his hands slipsaround my neck, while the other grips my shoulder. I squeeze his waist. Fight a shiver when his fingers tease along the short hairs on the back of my head. We pause, frozen, his feet still not touching the ground.

“You’re, uh.” His Adam’s apple dances. “Kind of strong.”

I smirk. “It’s all the waving I do. Hard work being a royal.”

“I bet.”

When I finally lower him, he doesn’t speak. Instead, he tugs me through the swinging employee door. Into the half-dark back room. He nudges me against a supply shelf. Reiss plants his hands on either side of my head, leaning in, but never all the way.

I watch him hover, biting his lip. “Is this some form of new employee initiation?”

“You don’t work here.”

“Not yet.” I drag my fingers up his sides. “Was considering it. You know, to prove myself.”

He edges even closer. “Prove what?”

I shrug one shoulder. “That I’m more than just dimples and a great kisser.”

“Who said you were a—”

I seal my lips over his. I wait until his muffled words turn into a soft exhale, then cup his cheek. Guide him. We’re still new to this.He’sstill new. On campus, we hide in darkened classrooms or empty bathrooms for practice, for ten-second spurts of mouths fumbling and hands searching and things stopping way too soon.

Afterward, he always stares at me, breathing hard. Like hewants more. Like he can’t get the words out to tell me.

But I need him to say it. I don’t want to get it wrong.

“Hey.” I rest the back of my head against the shelf to look at him. “Before we continue—andplease, continue—is this…are you…do youwantsomething else?”

“Something else?”

I lift the hem of his T-shirt. Tap the waistband of his joggers. We’re so close, he undoubtedly feels how hard I am.

“Oh.”

That one word—sound, really—bubbles a laugh from deep in my chest.

He grins too, red-faced. “Yes, but…thing is. I’m sort of, like, a virgin.”

Oh, I think this time. I don’t know why I didn’t consider that. Why I thought he was like me. Why, suddenly, this means a lot more.

“I’m not. Léon and I, well.”

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