There is no time to breathe in the scent of him. He’s swept up in the scene, and I’m by his side.

His brothers take off, and as soon as we return to the gymnasium, Miles is rushed by Harley and Trevor, by Jake and Hannah, by jock and by cheerleader, by goth girl and nerdy guy, and hundreds of others.

That was even better than prom.

Thank you so much for coming.

I’ve always loved your music.

You guys were great.

They pour praise on him, and I learn what it’s like to be completely inconsequential. Everyone wants a piece of the pop star, but the more people who come up to him, the closer he tugs me.

He drapes his arm over my shoulder. He slinks his hand down my arm, bringing me tighter. Then his arm slides to my lower back, his hand traveling around my waist.

With each touch, I tingle, and zip, and zing.

I’m like a doll, some sort of experiment. Touch her here, and she purrs. Touch her there, and she murmurs. How about this little spot? It’ll make her hold in a needy whimper.

But the funny thing is, I don’t need to karate chop anyone away from him.

Because his classmates are lovely.

They might be excited to see him, and they might be effusive in their compliments, but they aren’t tactless groupies. They take photos with him, and he happily poses. He insists I join many of the photos too.

As we thread our way through the gymnasium, we stop to chat with Elsie, a preppy brunette in a country club dress. Miles introduces me as “Roxy, his friend,” and that’s my reminder to stuff those make-me-your-blow-up-doll feelings into a box and ship them back to the keep-your-raging-pregnancy-hormones-to-yourself store.

As we exchange pleasantries with Elsie, she takes her turn down memory lane, telling a story about a teacher who fell asleep during a test and didn’t wake until the bell rang. It’s not the most scintillating story, but Miles laughs and smiles then asks her how she’s doing, what she’s up to, and if she likes her job.

That piques my interest so much more than her tale of sleepy high school days. He’s so intently focused on her, listening to her life update, and as I observe him talking to her, I can see another reason his classmates wanted him to make good on his promise to play tonight—he’s not only the local boy made good, he’s the good guy from school.

And that good guy doesn’t forget me either. Even as he chats with Elsie, he keeps his arm wrapped possessively around me, resting his palm on my shoulder.

My shoulder is seriously grateful, too, because his hand feels spectacular, especially as his fingers draw lazy little lines on my skin.

I think my shoulder really likes him.

Silly shoulder. That bit of my anatomy needs to remember that Miles and I are just friends. Heck, he introduced me as a friend. There’s no reason my shoulder should want to get busy with him.

Soon Elsie leaves, and a guy built like a brick wall appears next to a blonde wearing a bubblegum-pink dress.

After the initial round of OMGs and so good to see you, the couple looks at me.

So does Miles, and my heart goes flippity-flop. His eyes. They hold mine for a beat longer than necessary, and his smile is the equivalent of him unzipping my dress. It makes me shiver. Somebody bring me some water.

“Brittany and Chad, this is Roxy. She’s my date,” he says, and make it two buckets, please, since I’ve just been upgraded. I swear I’m trying to keep these ping-ponging sensations at bay, but the four-letter word “date” has sent a new ripple through my body. There’s a battle brewing—my mind is fighting my libido, and my desire is warring with my heart. I draw a deep breath, steeling myself, willing all these wild mustang feelings to slow their galloping pace.

“You guys are so cute together,” the woman says, and when I learn she’s a cheerleader, everything about her makes sense. She has a natural sort of energy and a curiosity too. “How did you two meet?”

I chime in with the story, retelling what we practiced the other day. Surely this will keep all the tingles and swoops in check.

Her green eyes pop with each little detail. “And did you fall for her then?” she asks Miles.

An easy smile lifts his lips. “How could I not?”

My stomach somersaults. Which is a stupid reaction, since he’s spinning a false tale, but hell, does my body ever like his words and the way he’s snug next to me in this warm gymnasium, with pop tunes reverberating as the DJ spins records.

The struggle is real.

Brittany bounces and claps then turns to me. “And what about you, Roxy? Was it instant for you?”

My gaze drifts back to the man by my side, whose hand is on my waist now. Was it instant? What did I feel that night at my brother’s party?

A sensation washes over me as I remember meeting him—warmth, chased by hope. Miles made me feel something that night, but it wasn’t even this gargantuan serving of lust I’m gorging on. It was something deeper, because the genuine affection he displayed for his son touched my heart. It made me think that maybe one day I’d meet a man who’d want the same things I did—love, forever, and a family.

“Well, he showed me pictures of his son. What’s not to like?”

The woman claps. “Oh my God, Ben is so cute. Isn’t he so cute, Chad?”

Chad grunts.

“Ben is adorable,” I say, and after Brittany snaps some photos, she and her husband leave, and Miles slides his hand down my bare arm.

Is he trying to break down all my resistance in a single bound? Is he touching me like this on purpose, or is this simply how Miles is? Dear God, if he’s a toucher, I won’t survive. Because that contact leaves a trail of goose bumps in its wake.

“You thought Ben was adorable?” he asks.

“Of course I did. And of course he is. Why is that a surprise?” I ask, and my chest flips because he’s looking at me with a twinkle in his blue eyes.

“He is adorable. Empirically. I just think it’s funny that’s what you remember.”

“What do you want me to remember?”

He shakes his head. “That’s the perfect thing to remember.”

And the flip shimmies down my body.

Glancing around, Miles sighs. “So far, so good. Want a drink? There’s wine and beer, and I’m sure the fruit punch is spiked.”

“The fruit punch is always spiked in a high school,” I say with a wink.

“And does spiked fruit punch tickle your fancy?”

I shake my head. “Just some water would be great.”

He arches a brow. “Nothing? I can’t even tempt you with a glass of wine?”

I stare down my nose, parking my hands on my hips and giving my best indignant stare. “Hello? I’m working tonight. I can’t drink on the job.”

“Just one drink?”

“You never know when someone is going to try to sink her claws into my client. But water? That sounds delish,” I say, like I need to make my case to the judge and the jury. The doesn’t-it-make-perfect-sense-why-I’m-not-drinking defense.

He takes my hand, linking his fingers through mine. “You are some kind of fierce protector.”

We head together to the bar, hand in hand, and I count to ten so I don’t run my fingers all over him and lick his neck.

Because I’m tempted.

Oh hell, am I tempted.

I bet he’d taste a little salty, a little sweaty, and all man.

After he orders, he turns to me. “What’s on your mind? Your eyes are all hazy like you’re drifting off.”

“You don’t want to know,” I murmur.

“Try me.”

I’m thinking about running my tongue all over your body.

Asking you to take me to the janitor’s closet and do bad things to me.

Alternatively, can I just steal you into the girl’s room for a minute and get my mouth all over you?

“Pedicures,” I answer with the best straight face I can muster. “A new technique I’m learning.”

* * *

After a beer for him and a glass of water for me, we weave our way back into the crowd, his hand on my back. His hand is driving me crazy, sending sparks all over me.

I feel like I’m living in a glass of champagne. All this warmth and noise and music is abuzz, and desire tingles on the edge of my skin.

Maybe it’s true what they say about the second trimester: it’s a time when you’re suddenly more . . . frisky. I can’t be frisky with Miles. Only, his wandering hands aren’t helping my resistance. They’re all over me. When he slides a hand down my spine, I want to blurt out a command: “Grab my ass. Please just grab it and squeeze it and tug me against you.”

I’m not sure where the thought comes from, or why I want his hands on my ass. I’m not a “grab-my-ass” girl. But right now, I wouldn’t mind his hands there.

Or anywhere, for that matter.

But I swallow those thoughts as a guy in a paisley shirt and black hipster glasses strides up to Miles. Another man follows close behind.

“Braden. Not sure if you remember me.”

Miles smiles. “Sure I do.”

“You guys were awesome. Loved hearing you play. My partner and I love your music.” He points to the bearded man at his side, introducing him as Jeff. After intros all around, Braden clears his throat and says, “Thanks again for what you did at prom that year.”

Miles waves as if to say it’s not a big deal. “Happy to come back and play.”

Braden shakes his head. “No, I don’t mean that. I mean when you did the speech during the morning announcements, encouraging everyone to go to prom.”

A flicker of recognition seems to cross Miles’s eyes, but he waits for Braden to say more.

I listen intently as Braden speaks, his voice laced with emotion. “And you said, ‘Everyone should go. Go with a date. Go with a friend. Prom is for everyone whether you go with a guy, a girl, another girl, another guy, or even your mom. Okay, maybe not your mom. But go with whoever you want to go with, and don’t be afraid to ask.’”

I catalog the slow smile that spreads across Miles’s face as the memory seems to be colored in.

Braden clasps the hand of the man next to him. “Anyway, that gave me the guts to take the guy I wanted to take, and that eventually led to me meeting this guy.”

Jeff smiles, squeezing back, and my heart floats away to the clouds. “I guess I owe you some thanks too,” Jeff quips dryly.

“You did that?” I say to Miles.

He shrugs happily. “I guess I did.”

He’s so easy about it, so free and casual it makes me want to leap into his arms and smother him in kisses. I give in to that desire a bit as I lean closer and brush a quick kiss to his cheek.

“That’s amazing.” I understand why he was crowned prom king, and it’s not because of what he can do with that guitar, or how his voice makes women want to throw their panties at the stage. It’s because of what he did with his other gift—the gift of popularity—and how he used it for good.

Braden takes off, and like clockwork, a new face appears.

“I can’t thank you enough,” says a kind-eyed brunette, who’s sporting a big bump. My eyes drop instantly to her belly, and I calculate how far along she is. I’m betting six months, and I can’t wait to look as good as she does then.

“The pleasure was all mine, Natalia,” he says, then hugs the woman who invited him here tonight. After quick intros, Natalia says to me, “You two are so cute. How long have you been together?”

Miles glances at me. “It’s our first date.”

Date? Does he see this as a date?

Wait. It’s not a date, you dummy. It’s an insurance plan. But it seems I hardly need to be here at all. When Natalia leaves, I mention that. “Everyone is great.”

“Yeah, they’re pretty chill, aren’t they?”

“I feel useless. It seems no one is attacking you or mauling you.”

He squeezes my shoulder. “The night is young. There is still time for attacks, maulings, and other dangers that would require you to kiss me for protection.” He winks, and I want to grab his shoulders, shake him, and say do you mean that?

But I don’t because his eyes hook into mine. “Are you having a bad time, Rox? We can leave if you want.”

“I’m having a great time.” It comes out breathy, maybe even vulnerable, but full of truth. I figured tonight would be like Facebook, endless one-upmanship coupled with single women moving in on him and guys trading stories about silly antics, like the time the class clown pretended to jerk off in the CPR dummy’s mouth when the teacher left the room.

But it hasn’t been that way at all. It’s been . . . illuminating.

Miles’s lips curve up. “Me too.” He lifts his hand, brushes his thumb over my jaw. “Thanks for coming.”

The moment slows, and the air between us crackles. For a second, it feels as if something might happen. As if that thumb might sweep across my top lip. As if I could nibble on it, saying yes, do that, do more.

But a voice cuts through. Another hand is on my shoulder. It’s Natalia, who’s returned to tell me, “You need to make sure Miles tells you about that time we learned he liked redheads.”

I snap my gaze back to her, confused.

He drops his hand from my face, looking at her too. “What?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot? It’s a hilarious story.”

My interest is certainly piqued.

“He was doing a presentation in history,” Natalia begins.

His jaw drops, and he laughs. “Oh shit, I remember. It was on the rise of Stalin.”

“Was his rise related to redheads?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No, but my secret was revealed.”

Natalia cuts in. “He had to plug his computer into the monitor to do his presentation, but he hadn’t opened his slideshow yet, so we all saw he had a folder on his desktop labeled . . .” She gestures to him, letting him finish.

“Oh, please. You can do the honors.”

Natalia’s smile is gleefully smug. “The folder was titled ‘Sexy Pics of Redheads.’”

I laugh wildly, but inside I find this more of a turn-on than I expected. Maybe he does too, because he shoots me a half guilty, half I’ll-never-feel-guilty look. “What can I say? At least I’m consistent.”

Natalia says goodbye, and I give Miles a tell-me-more stare. “I hope you aren’t after me for my hair,” I say, flicking some strands off my shoulder.

He lifts his hand, runs his fingers over my hair. “Definitely not after you for your hair, but maybe someday you’ll send me a picture.”

A tremble runs through me. “Do you still have a folder?”

He shakes his head. “No, but I could start one for you.” He taps his temple. “Right now, my sexy redhead pics are all kept here.”

His voice is smoky, rich with heat, and his eyes are too, the irises like the hot blue edge of a flame.

Take my picture, I want to say.

And then I could smack myself for wanting to be in a folder on his desktop.

I try to reroute my desire. “How did the presentation go?”

“I earned an A.”

* * *

A little later, as we stand in the corner of the auditorium, Miles moves his right elbow like he’s the Tin Man and needs to oil the hinge.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. It just gets a little stiff now and then with all the playing.”

“War wounds,” I say. “You’re like an athlete with the guitar.”

“Will you be my masseuse and rub out the pain? You do it for the dogs.”

“You’re such a dog,” I say, and since I like dogs, I greedily dive in, kneading his shoulder. The sounds he makes are carnal, like a man who’s free with his body, who’s comfortable with every touch, who doesn’t hold back. As I rub at his hard muscles, a rush of heat zooms through me, landing between my legs like a pulse.

Beating.

Aching.

I’m turned on from rubbing his shoulder.

Must check on order from Joy Delivered to make sure it’s still coming tomorrow.

I wish the company had same-day shipping. I need that toy tonight. I need to get in bed with it, and roll around with it, and . . . what the hell is wrong with me? I’m like a complete sex Muppet, and all I can think about is riding, riding, riding.

Screw overnight delivery. I need to go to a store tonight and find some fabulous new device, because I ache so deeply, I know my fingers won’t be enough.

Because obviously I’ll be enjoying some one-handed entertainment when I return home.

He says hi to a few more people, and as he does, I practice new answers for when they ask who I am.

I’m Roxy. I’m with him.

I’m Roxy. Miles is with me.

I’m Roxy. He’s mine.

Soon enough, it feels true, which is weird, but thrilling and powerful too. Like all the shitty dates up till now have been wiped off my slate because Miles says the sweetest things. All of it cocoons me in a buzz stronger than champagne.

His arm around my waist.

His possessive touch.

A kiss on my cheek.

We touch so much I’m giddy. I’m dizzy.

The lights dim to silver and blue, and he eyes the dance floor.

“Since you won’t drink with me, will you dance with me?” he asks, offering a hand.

I want to dance with him so badly I could fling myself at him. One wild fling and I’d be in his arms, kissing his face, his cheek, his neck.

I bet he smells delicious. I bet I’d swoon. I bet I’d melt.

I’ve already hit record temperatures.

One dance, and he’ll know I’m lusting for him.

I should tell him, and I swear I will, but this feels like the best date I’ve ever gone on, and I can’t bear to ruin it with my ice bucket of news just yet. I’ll save it for the end of the evening.

We dance and laugh, loose and fluid.

Even though we’re surrounded by crowds, we’re focused on each other, and we’re having a blast. The fast music slows, and a song made for swaying begins. There’s no question. No awkwardness. He simply yanks me closer.

“Hey, sexy bodyguard,” he says.

“Hey, sexy rock star.”

His hands slide around my waist, resting on my lower back, so close to my ass.

Grab it, grab it.

My arms slink around his neck, our bodies inch closer, and I’m ignited, lit from head to toe.

“Let’s start over,” he says in a flirty voice.

“What do you mean?” I ask curiously.

“No bodyguard right now.”

I arch a brow. “No?”

He shakes his head and brushes my hair off my shoulder. “Hey, Roxy.”

And I’m not his shield.

I feel like his date, even though I can’t be. But I give in to the make-believe moment. “Hey, Miles.”

And we slow dance for three minutes that end far too soon and make me want to rewind time so I can live inside that delicious bubble.

But I really need to pee.

Damn bladder.