I can’t imagine Mal as a farmer. Clearly, he can’t imagine himself one, either, because he prefers to perform on the street for a living. He leads me to a patch of grass and tells me to stall the ball. He disappears into his house and comes back with blankets, a bottle of whiskey, and an orange pack of something called Hobnobs. We lie on the grass next to each other, staring at the stars as they fade into the clouds.

“Do you believe in God?” I munch on a chocolate-covered cookie. It’s so much easier to ask weird questions when darkness engulfs you. I can see a glorious Mal-smile cracking in my periphery.

“When it suits me.”

“When does it suit you?”

“When I need to have a word with Him or when Ireland needs a prayer during the World Cup games. My turn to ask a question.”

I already roll my eyes, psychic that I am.

“Why don’t you like your scar?”

Birthmark, I itch to correct. “How do you know I don’t like it?”

“You didn’t want to talk about it,” he says.

I sigh. “There’s nothing to like about it. It’s ugly. It stands out.”

“It’s the most beautiful thing about you. It makes you more than a generically beautiful face,” he says.

I shake my head. I don’t want to think about it. “My turn. Do you sometimes feel like we’re all just burning alone?”

“All the time,” he croaks. “Less so when I’m with you, though. My turn—have you ever climaxed with a guy?”

I choke on crumbs from my cookie, twisting my head to him with a frown. He still stares at the stars, completely serene.

“What the hell, Mal?”

“I’m sorry, is that more intimate than asking if I believe in God? ‘Sides, you’re never going to see me again, remember? Who will I tell? My arsehole sheep?”

He’s right. Our little world has an expiration date.

“No. I mean, I’m not a virgin. I just…anyway, no. I think I’m too inside my head when I’m intimate with a dude. My turn,” I say quickly.

I hate that he’s smiling. I hate that his smile makes every inch of my flesh tingle. But most of all, I hate that he illuminates all my senses, like a drug, and soon, I’ll have to quit him.

“Do you really hate money?” I ask.

“Loathe it,” he confirms. “I’ll never make large sums of it. Knowingly, anyway.”

“So, Kathleen was right? You can sell your songs and don’t?”

He tilts his head toward me, cupping my cheek. Fire licks at the inside of my belly. “Not needing money makes you rich in another way, Rory. A better way. The less you depend on it, the less it limits you. My turn—do you think you’ll marry a rich, boiled-balled man when you’re older?”

“Boiled-balled?” I laugh.

He takes a swig from the whiskey, but still stares at me, dead serious. “Yeah. Rich men like taking flying classes. It boils their balls, and then they blame their wives for not being able to conceive when actually their sperm count is in the shitter. I’ve read about it at the dentist’s while I was waiting to get my teeth cleaned.”

“Thanks for the anecdote.” I try to stifle a giggle. “No, I’ve no plans to marry a rich guy. Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to, and you have that something that drives men crazy.”

“What’s that?” I eyeball him.

He shrugs, taking my hand in his and kissing my open palm. “You’re cool.”

“Have you ever been in love?” I lick my lips.

“Ask me that question tomorrow before you go. My turn. Ever had an orgasm from a kiss?”

“Excuse me?” My eyebrows shoot up to my forehead.

His face cracks with a mischievous grin that lights up the entire backyard. It shines right into me, keeping me warm. “You heard me.”

“No,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes at him. Is he for real? I just told him I hadn’t orgasmed with a guy.

Mal leans down and thumbs my cheek, the rest of his fingers curling around the back of my neck. He feathers his lips against mine. I let him, my eyes still open, guarded and waiting. He darts his tongue out and licks the tip of my nose unexpectedly.

I snort out a laugh, letting my guard down. “That’s not gonna do anythi—”

Mal slams his mouth against mine, and before I know what’s happening, he’s on top of me, pinning my wrists above my head in the damp, cold grass. I groan into his mouth as I feel his body cover mine completely in all the places that matter, because he is hard and hot everywhere, the opposite of my cold, soft self. It’s like we aren’t even made out of the same material.

His tongue finds mine, and somehow—somehow—they dance together sensually and in perfect unison, like we’ve practiced it before. He is an excellent kisser, pulling me into a swirl of passion that makes me blind with need. I feel my panties becoming damp and sticking to my body. This kiss, this kiss is everywhere, down to my curled toes, and just when I’m starting to believe in his orgasm-from-a-kiss silent promise, he lets go of my wrists and pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You didn’t make me come,” I rasp through swollen, numb lips. It’s more of an accusation than a taunt. Almost a whine.

“Are we going to sleep together tonight, Rory?” he asks seriously, looking away.

“It…it’s not your turn to ask a question,” I stutter.

He is the most direct person I’ve ever met, and I don’t know what to make of it.

“I’ll owe you one. Now answer.”

This time, he turns to look at me, and our eyes meet in the dark. The grass is crisp and dewy, even under the blanket. It’s chilly, but for once, that’s not the reason goosebumps blossom all over my skin. My breath catches in my throat. Jesus.

“I want to,” I confess.

The muscles of his neck move when he swallows.

“But we shouldn’t, should we?” I whisper. “Not when we already like each other so much.”

“I don’t know,” he rasps. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering what you feel like.”

His hand drags down to my neck, wrapping around it, and he leans forward, kissing me so softly, I shudder from the delicacy of his touch. His tongue slides into my mouth, and he rolls on top of me, his hands caressing every inch of my body—my arms, my shoulders, my waist, my stomach…my breasts. He bunches my jacket and hoodie up and flicks a puckered nipple through my shirt. I’m wearing a sports bra, but the chill and the moment make everything in my body impossibly tense and erect and needy.

We groan at the same time, so he flicks it again. Then he moves back up to kiss me, and we smile into each other’s mouths. I don’t know how it happens, but all my upper layers—jacket, hoodie, top—find themselves thrown beside us. He unclasps my bra with one hand, while shoving the other into my corduroys.

“Anyone ever touched you there?” he asks, brushing his middle finger along my slit. I jolt in pleasure, clenching everywhere.

“Yeah.” My mouth waters.

“And like this?” He dips his finger into me, and we can hear how wet I am. I turn maroon between his arms.