Emily told me stories about how she initiates sex. How she practically pounces on guys when she gets horny and does what she needs to do to get off. You have to have a huge amount of confidence to do this, and she has it in spades. I couldn’t even pretend to do what she does. God, I wish I could. Just now, in this very moment, as Ozzie and I stand outside my dorm room door. But around guys, I’m the girl from high school who had an awful photograph of herself posted on her locker with pig ears drawn on her head. When will that feeling ever go away?

Awkwardly, I stand with my hand on my door, him saying nothing, me saying exactly the same.

Only when people start coming home from the game do I start to panic and want to either get him in my room or ask him to leave. Sam lives down the hall, and I don’t want to feel her laser eyes on my face.

Too late.

She turns the corner and stops dead in her tracks. Piper slams into her, almost mowing her over.

“What the hell?” Piper says, until her eyes lock first onto mine and then wash over the length of Ozzie.

Sam’s face heats, and she folds her arms across her chest before going into her room and slamming her door shut. Piper scowls at me before going after her, closing the door with as much, if not more, force, than Sam.

Shit.

I hang my head. “I knew this was a bad idea.” One I will hear about tomorrow because Sam doesn’t let things go. Although she’s not a good friend—or really a friend at all—she’ll claim I betrayed her. The floor will take her side. All the girls except for one—Emily.

Ozzie touches my arm and squeezes it lightly, just enough to give me comfort, and I’m sucked back into his orbit again. “Don’t worry about her,” he says.

“That’s easy for you to say. She doesn’t live down the hall from you.”

“You want me to talk to her?” He takes a step back and points over his shoulder.

Nothing good will come from this so I grab him and pull him back, perhaps a little too close. He stares down at me and licks his lips before offering a small smile. Then his hand reaches up, and he hesitates before tucking my hair behind one of my ears.

“Should I go?” he whispers.

Yes, he definitely should. But I have a story to write. At least, that’s what I try to convince myself of. I want him to stay for the story. If I’m honest, my story doesn’t feel quite so important right now.

“No,” I say. I swallow a building lump in my throat. My voice comes out a little husky; I barely recognize it.

I fiddle with the handle, not bothering to look where my hand is. I manage to get it open and walk inside, Ozzie close at my back. I can feel the heat of him, his scent still surrounding me. I need space from him. To think. I make for my desk and pull out the chair, sitting on it with one leg tucked under me. He closes the door. The single-bulb reading lamp on my desk is on and gives us just enough golden light to see in the dark. He searches the wall and flicks on the light. His eyes roam the room, and I cringe at the laundry that Emily still hasn’t washed. The pile has gotten larger since this morning, which makes no sense. She’s worn one thing all day except for the clothes she changed into tonight. But then I realize all the clothes she tried on to go out tonight are now piled in a heap on top of it. A couple of bras sit on the floor so I jump up and throw them in the closet, earning me a quiet chuckle.

The room is small, enough for him to walk a half-dozen steps around the furniture so he can take in the space. He fingers the row of National Geographic’s on my desk, taking one out and flipping through it before putting it back. I could tell him that my dad has an article in that issue, and it’s on page twenty-four. Or that his picture is at the end of the article on page twenty-six. But I don’t. I don’t often bring him up. I’m not even sure why. Clayton’s eyes roam the walls. My side of the room is mostly bare. The only thing I have on the walls are a few posters of superheroes and my whiteboard calendar with my schedule written on it: blue marker for classes, red for labs, and green for extracurricular, which for me means personal appointments. There is a single pink mark on the board for my step-sister’s engagement party next weekend.

He studies the calendar, smiling as he shakes his head. “Color coded?”

I shrug, the heat in my cheeks returning, but now I feel heat in my neck and along my collar bone. He points to the bed. It’s neatly made, hospital corners and all, the top folded over to the same measurement in the middle and the sides. He waits for permission to sit.

“Sure. Of course,” I say.

He keeps looking. “Wonder Woman?”

I grin at him. “She’s strong and beautiful and she can kick any man’s ass. Even Superman’s. I’m sure of it.”

He laughs out loud. “I’ll bet.” He turns his attention to Emily’s half of the room. “Big difference between this side of the room and the other.”

“My roommate, Emily, and I have a rule. She can keep her side however she wants as long as it doesn’t spill over to my side. But she can’t keep food in here to rot. She has to change the garbage. I throw all my garbage out in the bathroom except for paper and stuff.”

He’s smiling. Laughing at me?

“Okay, I’m a freak.”

He laughs. “Not at all. You’re everything I expected.”

“And that’s not bad?”

He shakes his head. “I like…quirky. And you’ve got it in spades.”

“I’ve got it in spades, all right. And it drives my roommate crazy,” I say.

“She can’t hate it that much, or she would’ve moved out.” He unzips his jacket and slides the sleeves down over his muscular arms. The black shirt he has on is a little tight, just enough to fit him like a second skin, and the curve of his chest is pronounced. Earlier, when I touched his chest, it was firm but soft enough to be comfortable against. What would it feel like to touch him when it was bare? To run my hands over his chiseled body. The sensitive spot between my legs tingles, and I shift in my seat, thanking God he can’t read my thoughts.

“We’ve been friends since kindergarten,” I say, trying to keep my mind on anything other than his body, “so she’s basically family.”

“Where’d you grow up?”

“Hebbville. It’s about an hour away from here. Small town. We don’t even have street lights. Do you know it?”

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t.”

“I met Emily at the park. She’d just moved to the area. Her father got a job at a window manufacturing plant there.”

“What about your dad? Did he work there, too?”

“God, no! I can just imagine my father working in a factory. It’s laughable. No, my real dad is a photojournalist. He travels to all these cool locations and comes home with amazing stories and photos. He’s not the kind of guy that would work a nine-to-five, Monday to Friday job, and live in the same town and the same house for more than a year at a time.”

“He sounds interesting.”

“There’s no one else like him.” I beam at the thought of him, although I’m also struck with sadness. He still hasn’t called me. Sometimes I worry if I mean anything to him at all. “I don’t get to see him a lot, not since he and my mom divorced. But Mom remarried and I have a great step-dad—he’s a lawyer.”

He scratches his nose and leans back to rest his upper body weight on his hands. “Big family?”

It’s not lost on me that right now I seem to be more the subject than the interviewer—not that he has any idea our roles are reversed. But I let him ask as many questions as he wants in the hope that being honest will help him be honest with me, too. My head isn’t in the game right now, but I’m committed to getting my story. At least, I think I am. I guess I’ll figure out how committed I am when he tells me everything—which I’m determined to get him to do. No matter how he makes me feel. Everyone feels like this in the beginning, right? It’s just hormones. And these feelings fade or die out. This is what I tell myself.

“Big? If you count my extended family, sure. And they’re always around. More than I would have liked growing up.” I stifle my laughter. “I have a step-sister, but no blood siblings. Oh, and I have a crazy grandma that likes to curse.”

“You get along with your step-dad and sister?”

I make a face. “Henry is awesome. He’s been married to my mom since I was fourteen. Amanda...well...Amanda is Amanda.”

“What does that mean?”

I don’t like to talk badly about Amanda. As a teenager, I thought she purposely went after the guys I crushed on. It seemed like she took too much pleasure in hurting me sometimes. Like she had to get back at me for things I didn’t even know I did.

“We’re just really different.”

“How?”

I sigh. Maybe he should write an article on me instead. Not that I really mind his questions. I’d just like to get to know him as well as he’s getting to know me. “She’s pretty, thin, tall—was very popular in high school and I guess she still is, though most kids I know from high school have moved away—and she’s…normal.”

“Normal,” he chuckles. “What’s normal, anyway?”

“I don’t know. But I’m told it’s not me.”

“Then I’m a sucker for abnormal.”

I tip my head forward, feeling myself blush again. He makes this happen so easily. Like he practices it as much as I’m sure he practices hockey.

“Pink’s a pretty color on you.”

“Ahh,” I say, letting out an abrupt chuckle. I’m smiling. I can’t seem to stop with him, and he enjoys making me squirm. “You could make any girl fall for you, couldn’t you?”

He hitches a shoulder. “I do okay.” He winks at me.

And I’m blushing again.

“How many girlfriends have you had? Honestly? Can you count that high?”

He laughs. “Less than you’d think. I don’t really have girlfriends. I mean, I date a lot. I couldn’t count how many girls I’ve been out with, but girlfriends? Three? Maybe four?”

“Hmm.”

He nudges my sneaker with his foot. “What?”

“Nothing. I just don’t get the interest in me. Is it sex? Because I’m not exactly skilled in that department.”

He conceals a laugh with a cough. “I guess I’m not the only one who’s direct.”

I change the topic. Mostly because I don’t want to know if I’m a conquest. Though my gut tells me I’m not. If anyone is the asshole here, trying to take from the other, it’s me. I can’t judge him for doing the same thing—if he is.

“What about you? Where are you from?”

His face slowly drops. His shoulders stiffen, like the other time I tried to ask him personal questions. Why does he respond like this? What is he hiding?

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

He pats the bed beside him, his eyes never leaving my face. “Why don’t you come over here?”

“You can’t distract me this time. You want to get to know me, but I want to get to know you, too. How do I do that when you dodge the easiest questions? I don’t know who you are. I mean, I like what I know, but…can you at least tell me why you won’t talk about things that matter?”

He leans forward now. He wrings his hands as he looks to the window. The sky is pitch black and the light on the sidewalk below my window is burned out. With equally dark clouds in the sky hiding the moon, looking out the window is like looking at a blank television screen.

“Were you happy growing up?” he asks.

I tense at the difficult memories. “No. It was awful.”

“Why?”

I frown at him. We’re back to talking about me. “Because I was…different. And unpopular and…” Fat. I was teased and tortured and my sister never came to my rescue. In fact, sometimes she egged it on.

“You were unpopular?” He says it like it’s a complete surprise to him.

“Kids are cruel, and they often aimed their stupid comments and anger at me.”

“I’m really sorry you went through that. But I’m not talking about that kind of thing,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“What were you talking about?”

“Nothing. I just…my childhood was fucked up. And I don’t talk about it with anyone. Never have. I’m not saying I won’t ever talk about that with you, but I can’t talk about it now. I need you to be okay with that if you want something to start between us.”

The reporter in me is screaming, No. Push him a little more. He’ll break if you ask a few more questions, but every other part of me tells the reporter to shut up. I don’t want to hurt him. And I especially don’t want to treat this guy—who’s been super nice to me—like he doesn’t matter. It’s one of the worst feelings in the world. Ignoring how hard it is for him to open up would tell him just that. Still, I feel like he needs to give me something. If only to show he’s willing to get real with me.

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay?” he repeats, clearly not convinced.

Maybe he knows me better than I think. “Can you at least tell me where you’re from?” I say quickly, trying not to sound frustrated.

He frowns. “All right. Meadowville.”

“Digby?”

He nods. “Right outside of Digby.”

“Thank you.”

He ignores me, and without missing a beat, he pats the striped comforter again to gesture for me to sit beside him. His crooked grin has my stomach tap-dancing.

“I…I want to…but…”

“But?”

“But I…don’t trust myself.”

“Don’t trust yourself, or don’t trust me?”

I sigh and grab my hair, pulling it over my shoulder and running my hand down the length of it, feeling snarls at the ends. “I barely know you, so I guess it’s a little bit of both.”

“I like you, Charlie. I’m not going to fuck that up by pushing you into anything. I just want to kiss those pouty lips of yours again.”

He’s such a flirt, and it makes me feel so good. About myself. He makes every insecurity I have fade away. Like the weight of the world gets a little lighter and a little easier to bear. If only I’d felt this earlier on in life, I might not have developed such a fear of guys and relationships. It makes me angry...at my dad for rejecting me first and all the boys that followed in high school, reminding me of the million and one ways I didn’t measure up. Each guy’s rejection taking something from me that I can’t ever get back.

I grip the arm of the chair and push myself up. I take a deep breath and hold it as I sit down beside him. But I’m rigid, sitting straight up with my hands folded in my lap and my eyes straight ahead, laser focused on Emily’s Thin Thieves poster. After letting go of an exaggerated yawn, he stretches one arm around me. My shoulders ease up and I let go of a breath while I shake my head at his cheesiness.

“Can we just talk?” I ask.

“Whatever you want.”

He shifts his weight and leans back to lie down. I frown at him. Like that, we’ve gone from sitting to laying down. I’ve never actually laid down with a guy before. I mean, I had sex with a guy once and he laid down on top of me and did his thing before rolling off me a few minutes later to get dressed. But there was no pillow talk, no intense, meaningful conversation...so I worry my lip between my teeth, fearful this is how this will also go. That one experience was bad enough to make me cautious of what’s coming.

Does he want to have sex? Of course, he does. He’s a guy. I’m not an idiot. But I believe him when he says he won’t make me do anything I don’t want to.

“Look”—he puts his hands behind his head and grins—“my hands will stay here. No pressure.”

Slowly, I lay down on my side, facing him, and he turns his head to face me. I don’t think of sex. Though I want it with him, if only to show myself that it’s not always awful. Maybe it could be…nice, too. I stare into his sincere eyes and notice a small scar on his chin I didn’t see before. I reach up slowly and touch it, running my fingers slowly across the dimpled flesh.

“What happened here?”

“Oh, that’s nothing. It’s from my helmet. I’ve cut it open a few times from the chin strap.”

“Did it hurt?”

He shrugs. “No.” His voice drops, taking on a deeper tone. A sexier tone that makes my stomach stir again.

I point to another scar above his right eyebrow. “And this one?”

“A fight. On the ice. Last year. Guy almost knocked me out with an uppercut.”

“Why’d you fight?”

He heaves a sigh. “I don’t even remember. I get into a lot of fights on the ice.”

“Do you like to fight?”

Regardless of what he said, he moves one of his hands from behind his head and slowly touches his palm to my upper arm before trailing his fingers down my flesh to reach my hand. Our fingers don’t interlock; he just kind of holds my fingers in his—lightly, like he might break them.

“Sometimes.” His voice is like a whisper. “But I’d never hurt you.”

“I believe you.”

“I was never a fighter in hockey. I always walked—or skated, I guess—away. Didn’t see the point in it. Sure, it gets the crowd excited, but that never mattered to me. I always played for the game and for my team, never the crowds.”

“Do some guys play for the crowds?”

“Absolutely.”

“So, what changed? Do you play for the crowds now?”

The hand behind his head moves. He stretches out his arm and offers it to me as a pillow. Awkwardly, I don’t move and his arm lingers in the air.

“Here, lift your head.”

I do as he asks and he lays his arm down. I move a little closer, resting my head in the crook of his shoulder. His arm curls around me, his fingers slowly drawing circles on my opposite shoulder. I close my eyes, enjoy it, almost forgetting what I asked him. I drift away to a world where nothing but right now exists. There is no article. I’m not going to betray him or his confidence. In this moment, I understand how girls fall. How a girl could lose her head and throw her senses to the side. And how easy it is to give into these butterflies and focus on nothing but a guy. It’s peaceful and safe and it fills voids you never knew existed.

“I still don’t play for the crowds,” he says, “but I guess somewhere along the line, a switch got flipped inside of me and I’m not sure how to turn it off.”

“Count to ten?” I say innocently, earning me a laugh.

He continues to stroke my arm. If he doesn’t stop soon, he’ll put me to sleep.

“Tried that.” He clears his throat, shifting his body a little closer so his side rests against my front. I lay a hand on his stomach and am surprised to feel how firm his abs are. I shouldn’t be. He’s an athlete, dedicated to keeping his body in shape.

I want to ask him what happened. Whatever happened changed him and made him who he is now. It had to be big, something worthy of a front-page story, and yet, the thought makes me hate my myself. I tense up and feel the urge to pull away, but he won’t let me go. As if sensing my urge, he pulls me closer, holds my fingers a little tighter.

“Can I trust you?” he asks.

The simple question breaks my heart. I give him the only answer I can.

“No.” I bury my head in his armpit, and he shifts again so he’s on his side, facing me. He takes a single finger and pulls my head up so I have no choice but to look into his ocean blue eyes. I want to cry. I want to tell him the truth, but the second I do all these feelings bubbling inside of me will explode. And I’ll hurt because he’ll never speak to me again.

His gaze moves from my eyes to my lips. He wets his own, and he leans in a few inches. His breath washes over me, and I close my eyes.

“I’m a horrible person,” I confess.

I hear his quiet laughter right before his lips brush against mine. Then he pulls his lips away but leans his head forward to rest against mine. He nuzzles my nose, and my breath hitches. Expectantly, I wait for another kiss, but he gives me something better. Something I could never have predicted. “I could fall for you, Charlotte,” he whispers. “And I’ve never fallen for anyone before.”

I melt against him and lose complete awareness of everything and everyone around me. All I can see, feel and hear is him: his beautiful sincere face and sexy dimples, his rhythmic heavy breathing and the taste of his sweet mouth that still lingers on my lips.

“I feel the same,” I say. And I do. Which means I have some serious decisions to make.