Yardley, age 16

Two Months Later

His handwriting is adorable; neat and tiny yet masculine. I can tell he took his time writing this. I trace my fingertips over his inky blue letters before folding the lined sheet of paper I found in my locker. He must have slipped it through the slats between classes last period.

The three o’clock bell rang two minutes ago and the halls are filled with students bustling about, trying to get to practice or art club or the parking lot, but I stand in the midst of all the chaos, waiting for the boy I love more than anything in this world.

I spot him immediately as he strides through the sea of backpacks and water bottles and letterman jackets with his signature confident stride and dimpled smirk.

Our eyes lock as he makes his way toward me, and my stomach somersaults the way it did the first time he kissed me—which was a bold move on his part the night of our very first date.

I pretended to be shocked. He claimed he couldn’t resist.

“You ready, Dove?” he asks, calling me by my middle name before leaning down to steal a kiss in front of dozens of fellow students. One hand holds the strap of his backpack over his shoulder while his other rests on the small of my back. Lately he’s been picking me up for school in the morning and taking me home, but today is different. The basketball season is officially over, and his entire afternoon is free.

“You know I hate when you call me that,” I say.

“Why?” he asks. “It’s sweet and pretty. Like you. You’re my dove.”

Fine. I exhale, deciding I’ll allow it. But only because it’s him.

“What do you want to do?” I ask as he leads me to the parking lot where his rusted pickup waits in the back row. It’s unapologetically worn and covered in dents and dings and it idles louder than a freight train, but Nev doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks.

He never has.

It’s one of the things I love most about him.

Nev shrugs, squeezing my hand. “Don’t really care what we do. I just want to spend time with you.”

We climb into his truck and Nevada fusses with the radio. He loves classic rock and I’ve learned to love classic rock.

Watching him sing along to Led Zeppelin at the top of his lungs, his fingers tapping the steering wheel, always puts a smile on my face, and long after we’ve said our goodbyes for the night, I tend to find myself humming Kashmir or Heartbreaker.

The songs, much like him, refuse to leave my head.

I scoot to the center of the bench seat and take his hand, resting my cheek against his shoulder as he sings along to Going to California. The faint scent of his drugstore cologne wafts from his t-shirt, and I love how soft his hands are against mine.

Anytime we’re together, I can’t stop touching him. It’s like I can’t get close enough no matter how hard I try, and I know he feels the same.

We’re inseparable.

Two hopeless, lost causes.

We’ve fallen harder and faster than either one of us expected in a way that neither one of us could possibly begin to explain.

Everything about us just … fits. As different as we are, somehow, we’re eerily in sync. It’s easy to be with him. And there’s no one else I’d rather smother in kisses or daydream about in the most inappropriate of ways.

Nevada Kane is sheer perfection.

I’ll never love anyone else half as much as I love him right now—I swear on my life.

He pulls into my driveway a few minutes later, and he doesn’t have his seatbelt unfastened for two seconds before I jump into his lap and press my mouth against his in an impatient fervor.

“Yardley …” he says, and I know he’s trying to stop me.

He’s always like that anytime we’re here, like he’s afraid my parents are going to banish him from our house for so much as thinking about touching me, but Dad’s at work and Mom’s picking up Bryony from the junior high, so we’re safe.

“Shut up and kiss me.” I drag my fingers through his thick, dark hair, my hips grinding against his and my heart going a million miles an hour. But he remains tempered and restrained despite the fact that I can tell he’s already starting to get hard. Sitting up to catch my breath, I look him in the eyes. “Fine. Let’s go to our spot.”

“Right now?” His brows rise, and immediately I know what he’s thinking. Our “spot” is the middle of some farmer’s cornfield about eleven miles outside of town. Typically, we go there at night when we can’t be seen, and we spend our time making out, slow dancing in front of his headlights, and pretending like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

But it’s broad daylight.

“I want to … you know,” I say, biting my bottom lip. “I think I’m ready.”

Nevada exhales. “You think? Or you know?”

“I know.” I kiss him. Hard. My fingers interlace behind his neck as I drag his soapy, masculine scent into my lungs. “I want you to be my first.”

His mouth curls against mine. “Only if I can be your last.”