When that new girl band we signed plays on the sound system, I point to the speaker. “One of your favorites,” I say. “The Violet Rays rock.”

  Her smile ignites instantly. “I love their music. Not only because I love violets, but their lyrics hit me in the heart every time.”

  “Yeah, why’s that?” I’m soaking up every detail, learning the inside story of Savannah for the first time, it seems.

  “Because they’re so honest. They talk about love and heartache, about being broken but then overcoming it.”

  I raise my bottle, toasting again. “To overcoming heartbreak.”

  “I will definitely drink to that.”

  The conversation rolls from one topic to the next as we catch up on stories in the news, places we dig in the neighborhood, and whether Glass Slipper should institute a bring-your-dog-to-work-every-day rule. We decide dogs in the office would be dope.

  We’ve had convos like this before, but everything feels different now. I can’t believe I didn’t see her as more than a friend before Denise, but I definitely see her that way now.

  Soon, my mom joins us. “So great to see you two. You’re adorable, Savannah,” she says, squeezing my fake date’s arm.

  Savannah smiles back. “You too, Mrs. Clements.”

  “Aww, but you can call me Rose,” Mom says.

  “You were destined to run a flower shop,” Savannah says.

  Mom beams. “I think I was. And I love you already,” she says to my fake date, and that’s Mom for you. Getting along with everyone. “And how long have you two been together?”

  “Three months,” Savannah says, sounding a little giddy, a blush spreading on her cheeks. Is that from lying or something else?

  My mom grins. “You sound happy.”

  “It’s been a great three months,” I add, and even though we haven’t been together whatsoever, I feel confident that our fake three months have been amazing.

  “And you two met at work?” Mom continues.

  Savannah nods. “It’s hard working with such a sweet, cute guy. But I manage,” she says playfully.

  Mom practically squeals. Wow, this is going better than I imagined. Savannah is on point, and I am . . . turned on.

  Wow.

  That’s new . . . or maybe not.

  “You are such a delightful couple,” my mother declares, beaming between us with the hope that can only stir up that quickly in a mom. “So what’s next for you two?”

  Savannah clasps a hand around my arm. “Gavin and I like to have fun together. That’s all we’re thinking about for now.”

  That effectively shuts off the questions from my mom, which is exactly what I wanted for tonight.

  But it’s also exactly what I no longer want.

  Now that I’m seeing this woman in a new light, I’m seeing us moving out of the friend zone and into a zone I didn’t think I was ready to enter.

  When I walk Savannah home, I clear my throat and say, “Thank you for being my fake date. But I have a confession to make.”

  She stops, tilts her head, and meets my gaze. “What is it?”

  I jump into the deep end. No point doing anything else. “Not a thing about it felt fake.”

  There’s a hint of nerves when she asks, “What do you mean, Gavin?”

  For the last two years, I’ve been missing what’s right in front of me. Missing it because we were just friends, then missing it because I was involved, and lately, missing it because it simply didn’t occur to me.

  But now, Savannah has occurred to me, and I don’t want to waste any more time.

  “What I mean is, if I kissed you right now, I’d like it to be a real kiss,” I say, and her eyes seem to dance with starlight. “What do you think about that, Savannah?”

  The smile that crosses her face is magnetic. “I think you should really kiss me.”

  It’s the best response in the history of questions and answers.

  6

  Gavin

  I slide a hand along her jaw, and she trembles as my thumb strokes her cheek.

  A small rush of air escapes her lips, as if she’s sighing into the possibility of a touch. I move closer and press a soft kiss to her mouth, figuring soft and subtle is the way to start.

  She seems to like it that way, and so do I. It works for a little bit, this gentle exploration, as I experience the flavor of her kiss.

  But soon, I find myself wanting more of her, and the kiss darts up to another level. It’s hotter and hungrier as my hand loops into her hair, those lush strands wrapping around my fingers.

  Savannah kisses me back with fierceness and determination. I respond in kind, raising the stakes—more roughness, more heat.

  Then I’m not sure if I’m kissing her or if she’s kissing me. All I know is her back is up against the brick wall of her building. My hands are in her hair, and hers are sliding down my body, grabbing my ass, yanking me closer. She seals her body against mine, letting me know she wants all the same things I do. My mind takes many, many steps ahead to where this could go, to what we could be.

  In a heartbeat, her hands are on my chest, and she pushes me away.

  I look at her, dazed. “Is everything okay?”

  She nods, a little breathless. “I’m okay.”

  “Are you sure? Because you just shoved me away. Generally speaking, that means you don’t want to kiss me anymore.”

  She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “I do want to. But I’m going to be totally honest. I don’t think you’re ready for it. And I also don’t want to ruin what we have.” She takes a deep breath like she’s prepping herself for something hard. “I think we need to focus on being friends.”

  I try to reroute thoughts already racing ahead to what we could be next. But maybe she’s onto something. Maybe this is the way to demonstrate I’m not rushing into anything post-breakup. “So if we focus on being friends, would that prove to you how I really feel?”

  She tilts her face. Her lips are soft; her eyes are vulnerable. “I don’t know. How do you really feel?”

  I drag my thumb along her jawline, and she closes her eyes as if it’s almost too much. And then I speak the complete and utter truth. “I’m just beginning to figure it out tonight.”

  She opens her eyes. There’s a certainty in her gaze. “That’s exactly why we need to continue being friends.”

  Later, when I’m alone, I wonder if I’ve been friend-zoned. And then I decide I shouldn’t be asking myself. I should ask her. I send her a text.

  Gavin: Was that a friend-zoning?

  * * *

  Savannah: Did it feel like a friend-zoning?

  * * *

  Gavin: I have no idea.

  * * *

  Savannah: Do you want to be friend-zoned?

  * * *

  Gavin: I think I made it clear that I don’t want that.

  * * *

  Savannah: Let’s consider it a temporary measure.

  * * *

  Gavin: So I can eventually get a zoning change?

  * * *

  Savannah: Maybe. :) What zone are you trying to get into?

  * * *

  Gavin: I thought that was abundantly clear tonight. I want to get into the end zone with you.

  * * *

  Savannah: And I thought you were the music guy. All of a sudden, you can’t stop with the sports analogies. :)

  * * *

  Gavin: Sports analogies seem to work well in this case.

  * * *

  Savannah: Yes, so let me be as clear as a fifty-yard touchdown pass into the end zone—I don’t just want to sleep with you.

  * * *

  Gavin: Allow me to be as clear as a game-winning home run—I don’t just want to sleep with you either.

  I reread the text, and it feels like one of the truest things I’ve ever written. To anyone.

  But I also know that I need to prove myself to her. That’s why I send one more text.

  * * *

  Gavin: How about a game of bocce ball this weekend?

  * * *

  Savannah: I thought you’d never ask.

  7

  Gavin

  As I toss the ball along the lawn, I ask her more questions, diving into all the things I don’t know about her. I know a lot already, but there’s so much uncharted territory too. I ask about her family, her mother, her aunt Ellen.

  “This may shock you, since I’m not a traditional gal, but Aunt Ellen is—very much so—and I adore her. She’s this sweet, darling old lady, and she loves to crochet,” Savannah says, a lightness in her tone as she talks about her family.

  “Is that why you know how to crochet?” I ask after she throws the ball.

  The look she gives me brims with curiosity. “How did you know I know how to crochet?”

  “Was it a secret?”

  She shrugs, a little impishly. “I don’t go out and advertise it.” She whispers, “It’s not very music-business cool.”

  I pat her shoulder, taking advantage of any chance I get to touch her. “Aw. Don’t worry. Your music cred is still good with me. Crocheting is super retro.” I loop an arm around her waist and pull her close.

  She arches a brow. “Is that friendly?”

  I hold up my free hand in surrender. “Seems completely friendly to me.”

  “It’s not making me think friendly thoughts,” she whispers.

  I grin. “Excellent.”

  “You’re being bad,” she says, but her tone is playful. “But let’s get back to the topic. How did you know I like to crochet?”

  I grab another ball and send it down the grass. Then I turn to her, admitting, “I spotted crochet hooks in your bag once. Thought it was kind of adorable.”

  She acts shocked. “You little spy. And you knew they were crochet hooks instead of knitting needles or something else?”

  “Um. Confession: I did. I was raised by the latest in a long line of crafty women.”

  “Excellent. Crafty women are forces of good in the world.”

  “I’d have to agree,” I say, as she defeats me for the twentieth time, it seems. “Also, I was not thinking friendly thoughts as I watched you throw that ball.”

  She rolls her eyes, but that feels like a good sign.

  At the end of the friendly date, I walk her home again. I’m tempted to kiss her on the front steps of her apartment building, but I’m also keenly aware I’m on a mission to show her I listened. That we can be friends first.

  The next weekend we see a new band, but I can’t say we stay completely in the friend zone at the club. There might be more touches than usual as the music thrums. She might put her arm around me as the band slides into a guitar riff that radiates in my bones. And when they’re done and we head to a nearby bar, I take her hand.

  I glance down at our hands as we walk. “So how about this? Is this friendly?”

  She chuckles. “I hold hands with my friends all the time.”

  “You better not hold hands with any guy friends.”

  Her expression shifts to serious. “Gavin, do you really think we’re acting like friends?”

  I nod, maintaining a straight face. “I do. We’re acting like such good friends that I’ll let you buy me a beer.”

  She nudges me with her elbow. “I’m not buying you a beer.”

  “Hey! That’s what friends do. I’m just saying.”

  “No, friends would go dutch.”

  “Fine. We’ll go dutch.”

  At the bar, the touchy, flirty vibe continues over beers, until she leans in close, a little breathy, a little frisky, and says, “If I have another one, I will probably grab your face and kiss you like crazy.”

  A groan rumbles up my chest. I raise a hand as if talking to the bartender. “One more for the lady.”

  She shakes her head, stands, and parks a hand on my shoulder. “I need to go or I’m going to do something I’ll regret.”

  I want her to kiss me like crazy, but I don’t want her to regret a damn thing.

  Once more, I walk her home. This time it’s even tougher to resist kissing her. To resist asking to go up. Instead, I ask a question. “Why would you regret what you might do?”

  A deep sigh crosses her lips and her eyes flash with vulnerability. “I don’t want to be a rebound girl.”

  Softly, I ask, “What do you want to be, Savannah?”

  “I want to be more than a rebound.” She points her thumb at the door. “And on that note, I really need to go inside.”

  As she heads inside and I go home, all I can think is she doesn’t feel like a rebound girl.

  She feels like the complete opposite. The one that stays.

  8

  Savannah

  One month later, Emerson’s back in town, so we meet up in Manhattan at Gin Joint. She orders Moscow mules for both of us, then gives me a pointed look when the server walks away. “Details. Now,” she demands.

  I settle into the plush blue couch, feeling happy but nervous too. I was so adamant nothing would happen with Gavin, but we’ve been friending it hard. Getting to know each other. Talking, exploring, going out.

  “Well, we’re hanging out,” I say diplomatically.

  She growls. “Explain. And leave no detail unsaid.”

  I laugh, and when the server returns with our drinks, I dive in. It feels a bit like a confessional as I tell my cousin everything. Maybe I needed to share. To sort out what’s going on in this “let’s kiss, then stop kissing, then get to know each other” phase.

  “It’s not like any type of dating I’ve ever had. It’s sort of . . . un-dating,” I say.

  Emerson lifts her glass, like she’s toasting to the word. “To being undateable.”

  I clink back, take a drink, then gather up my courage. “I really like him.”

  She smiles slyly. “I know you do, hon. And I’m not even going to tell you to be careful.”

  Good. Because I’m not sure I can.

  A few weeks later, Gavin and I are out testing some new burgers at a place that offers fifty different flavors of sauces, including at least a dozen in the “fiery” category. Translation: my kind of place.

  We opt for a sampler of burger bites, showing off our “I can hold my spice better than you” chops. I bite into one with red-hot jalapeño and smile as I eat the inferno.

  He takes a chance with a ghost pepper burger, and even as a bead of sweat breaks out on his forehead, he remains stoic.

  It’s adorable.

  I love how tough he is about something so pointless but so damn fun.

  I opt for the spiciest possible burger—a red chili style—and take a bite.

  Oh, holy mother of fiery food.

  Smoke forms inside my head. My tongue goes up in five-alarm flames.

  I wave my hand in front of my face. I cough, and Gavin thrusts me a glass of water. I down it quickly. “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “I think I’ve hit my limit,” I choke.

  “Will you live though?”

  Another cough bursts from my throat. “It’s debatable.”

  A few glasses of water and slices of bread later, I’m alive and mostly well.

  He straightens his shoulders and wiggles his brows. “So it’s safe to say I win?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Grrr. Yes. That’s the spiciest thing I’ve ever eaten.”

  He raises his hands in victory. “Behold the Spicinator.”

  “You won, but I am not getting you a T-shirt,” I protest. “And I’m not crocheting you a blanket either.”

  “That’s cool. I have bragging rights, and that’s what I wanted.” He inches a little closer to me in the booth. “Hey, do you know what the best way is to get rid of that spicy sensation?”

  Curious, I answer, “I don’t. What is the best way to get rid of an intensely spicy sensation?”

  “You need to be kissed.”

  A little shiver of pleasure spreads across my skin. “So you want to kiss away the residual red chili in my mouth?”

  “I’m totally open to that.”

  I laugh. But then I stop laughing. Because it’s two months later and we’re still doing this. We’re still being friends, doing all the things we’ve done before, working together, hanging out, and having fun.

  When we leave the restaurant, I take his hand, something we’ve done a lot lately.

  But this time, it feels vastly different.

  He looks down at our hands, then back at me, his eyes flashing with promise. “Is that what friends do?”

  I shake my head. “No, and friends don’t invite friends to spend the night.”

  9

  Gavin

  I walk her up the steps, my hands on her hips. It takes a very long time to get to my apartment. The stairs creak and groan, especially because we stop every third or fourth one for a kiss. I kiss her behind her ear, and she shivers. I file that away, knowing I’ll want to kiss her there again and find out if it elicits the same reaction.

  She stops, turns, and plants a kiss on my lips. I nearly tumble backward because it’s that powerful, and it goes to my head.

  I steady myself. “I almost fell.”

  “You better not fall down the steps,” she says.

  “Get your ass up to my floor then, and stop distracting me from . . . walking.” I smack her ass.