I open.

  He feeds me.

  I close my eyes. I chew.

  We've unofficially called a truce over chocolate.

  At last, there is peace in Navy-Carrick land.

  At least for now.

  I blink my eyes and his gunmetal blue eyes lay down their weapons. They're oceans of calm and kindness. Maybe I could forgive him. Then I snap to. I'm not that easy. I'm the girl who stands up in a topless restaurant and tells a guy he's a creep. I'm a girl who's all but locked up her heart and thrown away the key. I'm never forgiving him or myself.

  I straighten in the vinyl booth, sitting up taller. All he's given me is a bite of pie.

  Yet, I feel a softening. An opening, from that strange place, deep within that warmed to Katya's dare all those weeks ago.

  I smile and take another bite. It's a superb slice of pie.

  In short order, I've outlined the sordid tale of what's likely to go down in the history books as the worst date ever, at least for me. "I don't recommend going to Chester's, unless you're into that kind of thing. The burger wasn't even very good. Though I didn’t try a shake."

  "I told you already, I like things to be a little more organic." He clears his throat. There's a smolder behind his eyes, but it disappears when he takes a sip of coffee.

  "The worst part is he stole one of your books."

  "One of my books?"

  I explain about my bag of books and the receipt.

  "What exactly made you go out with him?" Carrick asks, holding out the last bite of pie for me.

  I capture it in my mouth, relishing the perfect balance of crust, cream, and chocolate.

  Carrick leans over, dabbing the edge of my lip. "You had something there," he says, wiping it away.

  The strange and bold urge to lick his finger pops into my mind. I would never, but a smile blooms on my face nonetheless.

  "What?" he asks.

  I shake my head because not only would I never do that, I'd never tell him I had the thought. I tuck it away to find many more like it, most of them recorded between the ages of fourteen and seventeen and three-quarters.

  As if reading my mind he says, "Remember that night it was raining and everyone planned to go to the movies, then a few people canceled—I think Marshall was sick—so we decided to meet up at Sal's for bowling, but I don't know what happened—you and I ended up in my driveway."

  "We sat in your car and listened to music for hours." It was basically the night of my dreams, being left alone with Carrick in a storm, with music playing low and neither one of us wanting to brave the pelting rain to run in the house where Claire and her boyfriend were waiting for us. We talked for hours and hours.

  Carrick hides a grin. "Damn the gearshift."

  "Huh?"

  "Inconvenient placement." His lips quirk.

  Our eyes meet. Endless summer sky. I recall the gearshift between the two seats.

  "I wanted to. I always wanted to," he whispers, flexing his fingers and then examining his palms.

  "Then why didn't you…?" I ask the question I already know the answer to.

  "I didn't want to mess things up. And Zach and Claire and our parents and—"

  "Everything got messed up anyway," I say.

  "It did," he agrees. "Yet here we are." He turns his hands over and slaps his palms on the table, gripping an invisible regret. I fight the urge to take them in mine.

  "Yeah." I stutter an exhale.

  "So tell me how we got here?" he asks.

  I explain about Katya's dare, leaving out the website and details that involve cookie dough and drug dealers.

  I'm not sure if his expression is partly sunny or partly cloudy. There's a difference, you know. His eyes sparkle, but there's definitely a shadow there too. I keep a watchful eye on my shield and sword.

  The server refills our coffees. A comfortable silence breathes between us. For so long I wanted to stun him with laser beam eyes, shoot him the death stare, and watch him writhe in pain, but I'm out of ammunition. There's no fuse to light. But there is a spark when I look into his blue eyes, reviving a feeling in me that was nothing but embers.

  I don’t mind staying a little longer, even if it means being up all night. It's time Carrick and I really do talk, despite how much it might hurt because the fight is leaving me with little more than the aching heart I started with.

  "So do you mean you haven't been with someone since—" He clears his throat and takes a sip of coffee.

  "Don't flatter yourself. There have been a few."

  "I won't ask."

  "I won't tell." It's the moment of reckoning. Or at least a moment. "I'm ruined, Carrick."

  He flinches. I wasn't shooting to wound. "That's not true."

  I can no longer swallow back the truth. All my recent UBoss work, keeping myself from living more, Kat's dare, my insulated life consisting mostly of work, chocolate, and books bottlenecks and then pours out of me. "You hurt me, but it's nothing to the pain my deceit caused. I can't live with myself. I don't deserve to love or be loved. I'll pay for my transgressions until my last breath."

  Carrick's eyes darken and he gets to his feet. He throws a twenty-dollar bill on the table, grabs my hand and coat, and pulls me outside.

  I struggle getting my mittens on as he rushes us a few doors past the diner. Snow pricks holes in the night sky, but there's no chance to admire it because Carrick thrusts me against a brick wall. He grips my shoulders, his blue eyes probing the depths of mine.

  I can't help but inhale his smell, strongly masculine and the ocean-swept boy I remember, intermingling with the fresh scent of snow. There's a pang in my chest.

  He leans in.

  Our noses brush.

  My breath catches.

  "This doesn't make sense," I whisper.

  "It doesn't have to."

  Once more, his lips brush against mine. I lift my chin, moving closer until there's firm contact. His kiss is slow at first, a brief inquiry.

  My upper lip gains the attention of his lower. Then we switch. He takes a delicate nibble and then there's the soft introduction of tongue. I respond with my own. They flirt, they dance, and they find a rhythm. His hand tangles in my hair, protecting me from the brick. We speak a wordless, all but forgotten language, but as the kissing continues under a snowy skyscape, we find we're fluent in this language—the one of love, not war, not hate, but of tender affection, a pulsing connection.

  He picks up momentum and demand.

  I kiss him with all the energy I've kept inside these years: the love, the hate, the confusion, the pain, and the longing channels through my lips.

  He emits a low sound like a sexy beast.

  I shiver.

  He pauses and leans back, wearing a wolfish grin. "Are you cold? Do you want me to stop?"

  "No," I whisper, tugging him closer. "No, I don't want to stop."

  I spiral away from the street in New York City, two brave souls in the midst of a storm, and back to where it all started.

  I try to rush past the gatekeeper that is my mind and into the muscle memory of my heart.

  My mind, the traitor, gives into my heart that's wanted Carrick so badly. It steps away from the battle waged for so many years with an offering, a declaration of armistice. His mouth and mine smooth over the rough edges of my wounds, healing at last.

  The army in my brain, intent on protecting me, insists this can't be. It's wrong.

  My heart throbs out a steady beat: want, need, love.

  Our kiss continues, stretching beyond the past, into the future, and wrapping us in infinity.

  Carrick pulls away, no apology in his face, and in its place a deep and relentless want, need, love. His voice is low, husky, almost a growl. "I've wanted to do that for a very, very long time."

  "I want you to do it again."

  He went from someone I couldn't have, to something I didn't want, to something else: yet to be defined. Possibility? He's a manmade vision of muscle, strength, and confidence, with a poetic tongue, and a persistent desire for me, at least right now. I push away the later.

  We kiss for a few more minutes before he walks me home in the falling snow.

  Chapter 29

  Blizzard Bob

  The next morning I'm floating on clouds and not because fluffy white snow fills the window frame. What has me dreamy and warm like I'm inside a snow globe is Carrick's kiss. Those lips on mine could sustain me for the rest of my life and yet I'm hungry for more. I feel fierce and vulnerable, a fighter and a lover, a rebel and loyal to the insistent beating in my chest.

  Despite several refills of coffee accompanying the pie and conversation, I flopped into bed last night too tired to think about how a bad night veered into something else.

  Maybe Carrick and I could have something else. I don't know what and maybe we don't need to define it just yet, but perhaps…

  I wander out to the kitchen with a swoony hangover. For once, I'm thankful for a lazy snow day.

  Kat sits at the counter with her head in her hands as though she has a hangover, of the alcoholic variety.

  "Rough night?" I ask.

  She smiles, the whites of her eyes more of a rosé pink—her preferred beverage. Her lips lift into a sly smile with the residue of matching lipstick.

  "Something like that. You?"

  "I see dimples," she says when I answer with a smile.

  "How about a green smoothie? Would that cure what ails you?"

  She nods and then groans.

  I work in silence, my mind several blocks away, craving chocolate cream pie on a fork held by a hand belonging to a very handsome and romantic Marine. I mechanically dump produce in the high-speed blender, listening for the growl I heard when we kissed above the buzz of the motor. I heat the frying pan and then crack a few eggs, preparing Kat a nourishing beverage and a greasy breakfast. The melted buttery scent transports me back to the diner.

  "How was your date with the Book Boyfriend, what was his name? Tristen?" she mumbles when I set her meal on the counter.

  "Have you ever heard of Chester's Buns and Shakes?" I go on to tell her about the unfortunate role I played in Tristen's ill-conceived quest to get back his girlfriend or make her jealous, I'm not really sure.

  "Are you kidding me?" Her fork clatters onto the plate.

  "And he smokes. I think. Though that could have been a lie too." I explain how I owe the bookstore about a hundred dollars with no thanks to him.

  "I'm not sure who was worse, him or Bash."

  "Just proves my theory about men," I bark.

  "Not all men," she purrs.

  No, I suppose not. Forget dogs. Carrick is like a lion. And I'm a kitten in his paws. "Meow."

  "What was that?" she asks.

  "Nothing." Didn't mean for that to slip out.

  Kat hides a private smile. I'm sure I'll get the dirt about her "rough night" as soon as her head clears.

  "I have good news about Omar," she says, perking up after slurping down the green concoction. "It's not you it's him."

  "That's what they always say." Not that it matters at this point.

  "Not only is Omar a gym stud, basically the total package, the guy of every girl's dreams…"

  I nod. "A gentle giant, strong, kissable lips, generous, kind… Shall I go on?" I ask, listing his many attributes. "He is an exception to my theory. But he just wasn't into me."

  "And he's gay."

  "What?"

  "Tyrell confided in me. He said Omar felt so bad about your date, but wasn't really ready to talk about it."

  "That's so, strangely, complicatedly sweet."

  "But this doesn't help the matter of your Valentine's Day date."

  "Nope, they were all duds one way or another."

  "Spencer?" she asks her voice raising an octave.

  "No, but he's not really dating material. He's like you."

  Her eyes fall to her plate and I wonder if the smoothie was too much too soon.

  "Kat, they all have turn offs: serial booty-caller, drug addict and dealer—"

  "But a great cook and you liked his dog, Dude Taco."

  "I like tacos as much as the next gal, but that should have been a sign. Who names their dog Dude Taco?" I ask.

  "Who names their kid Bash?"

  We laugh.

  "Now it turns out Omar's gay, which is great, for him. I'm sure he's making the homosexual world very happy with his good looks and extremely wonderful everything. It's too bad my potential bookish boyfriend turned out to be a toad, not the kind that when kissed will turn into a prince."

  "None of them gave you the look, huh."

  "The sexy-smolder?" I ask pointedly. "The stare that should make my knees weak? That hot I've got my eyes on you and only you lazy gaze? The one that reaches his lips with a suggestive lick or bite?" My breath catches when Carrick's image pops into my mind and like usual, I look away.

  Kat smirks. "I see you get it now."

  "I've been reading and nope. Still oh for zero on the look," I say, gazing out the window.

  Katya lifts her eyes to mine, studying me, or perhaps trying desperately not to be sick. I bolt from my stool at the center island to retrieve a barf bowl when she grabs me by the sleeve.

  "Wait a minute," she taps her chin. "There's something else."

  There sure is. I hesitate.

  She gets to her feet, circling me, looking me up and down. "Hold on…" She pauses so we're face to face again, her eyes flitting from mine to my cheeks, and then to my lips. "Navy Catherine Carrington, you have been kissed."

  My fingers fly to my lips. Are they swollen? Is there a scarlet brand? Did I mouth the words without realizing it? I swallow.

  "Where did you go after you left Shakes and Buns?"

  "Buns and Shakes."

  "Whatever. Where?"

  "A diner."

  "What did you have?" she asks. Her expression is accusatory like a lawyer questioning the defendant.

  "Pie."

  "What else?"

  "Coffee."

  "And?"

  "Carrick." I clap my hand over my mouth, concealing my dimpled smile.

  Her eyes widen.

  "That's not what I meant. We met up. We had pie. We had coffee. We talked."

  "What else?"

  I hide me eyes behind my hands. "We kissed."

  She lets out a sound I'm not sure how to describe and could certainly never replicate: a yelp mixed with a whoop, combined with shock, joy, and curiosity.

  I cover my ears.

  "I knew it. I knew," she says, parading through the kitchen.

  "That was a quick recovery," I say.

  "And yours was slow, but you did it, Navy. You healed." She grips my arms and sort of hugs and shakes me.

  "I don't know about that," I hedge.

  "You redeemed the night with Carrick and you restored your faith in men. Well, one man, two if you count Omar, even though he's gay."

  "Spencer wasn't bad."

  "No, Spencer was good." Her cheeks flame.

  This time I give her the interrogative stare. "Spill."

  Her lips remain sealed shut.

  "Cat got your tongue? Usually you're so forthcoming with tales of your trysts," I tease.

  "Trysts?" she asks with a giggle.

  I shrug. "It works in fiction."

  "Well, in real life it was just a hook up." Her slow turn with sleepy eyes toward the door suggests otherwise.

  "Well…" I ask, waiting for her to explode with details because that's what she does.

  "Well, what?" she asks.

  "Katya, what happened?" I ask.

  "You're not mad? I mean, I figured there had to be a statute of limitations on that kind of thing."

  "No, Spencer was fun, but you know me, hopeless romantic over here," I say, thumbing myself. "Swan, pigeon, whatever."

  She exhales. "I don't know how you stay in and hang out, just reading for hours… I was bored last night and thought maybe we could, you know," she twirls a piece of hair, "amuse each other. And I had to find out if he was the total package."

  "I thought we decided Omar was."

  "He's gay!" she exclaims.

  "Right. So, was he the—?"

  "First, let's talk about his package…"

  I'm only half listening because it's strange and slightly uncomfortable to hear her talking about someone I've been with. My mind flits to Carrick. The way his warm fingers grazed my chilly skin. The way his lips dipped against mine as gentle as a whisper. The way my heart pounded in answer. How a kiss turned into hunger, into us breathing each other instead of oxygen, into the simple movement of two mouths providing all of our bodily needs.

  "Earth to Navy?" She clucks her tongue. "No one is perfect, but Spencer is deliciously close. He makes me feel a little drunk. And not because I was drinking wine."

  "You're okay with booty calls?" I ask.

  Her hesitation is long enough for me to wonder, but then she says, "What about Carrick. He's pretty perfect. And pretty, in a masculine, Marine-like, all-man kind of way."

  Beyond the window, the snow continues to fall, blanketing the world in winter white.

  "He has flaws." He definitely has flaws.

  "But you can overlook them. There's no such thing as prince charming. He's a myth. You're finding something wrong with all of the guys. You're scared."

  I brush a few crumbs from breakfast into my hand. "I am. It's true, but even though there might not be the perfect guy, there has to be the perfect guy for me."

  Kat takes my hand. "You're right, you're definitely right. And it's best not to settle, but," she inhales, "it's also good to forgive."

  The silence that follows isn't awkward, but thoughtful, with me thinking about Carrick. And maybe, just maybe Kat's thinking about the possibility of a relationship of her own, at least someday.

  "So what are we going to do all day, shut up with Blizzard Bob raging outside?"

  I look longingly at the stack of books on the counter.

  She tugs at her hair and gazes at the ceiling in desperation.

  "Blizzard Bob?" I ask.

  "That's what Spencer said the meteorologists are calling it."

  "Hmm. Spencer, huh?" I say, glancing pointedly toward the door.

  She ignores me. "You're going to read?" she asks. "Maybe he and I can watch a movie and chill." She bites her lip.