His entire body blushes and he covers his face with his hands so that I can barely see him. “She throws romance parties.” “Wait.” I try so hard not to laugh. “I’m sorry. What did you say?” He throws his head back against the bed. “Romance parties.” “Like, um, sex toys?”

“Willowdean.” I turn. He moves toward me so quickly that I feel like I’m moving, too. Our noses brush and his lips stop short of mine. My mind’s eye has yet to catch up and process that he is here, in my bubble, redefining everything I thought I knew of myself. My discretion. My pride. They’re both gone and it’s like I’ve got horse blinders on. I am kissing Bo Larson. I am thinking of Bo Larson. For the first time in my life, I feel tiny. I feel small. And not in the shrinking flower kind of way. This feeling: it empowers me. “I want to kiss you,” he says, and with each word, his lips brush against mine I lose all words and, instead, lace my fingers through his hair and pull his lips to meet mine.

You come prepared,” he says, pointing to my fist. I hold my self-defense hand up. “Um, you led me to an abandoned elementary school. That has ‘I want to kill you and play dress up with your dead body’ written all over it.” His laughter subsides for a moment, and he says, “Okay. That’s fair. Good on you.”