He flips from page to page in my Moleskine. He stops on a page and holds it out to me. “You got a melody for this?”

I nod.

“Sing it to me,” he says. “But make sure you sing from your diaphragm, okay?”

He wants me to sing a song I wrote without a guitar? No piano for backup? Just my voice? That’s crazy.

But Jesse put himself out there for me today, telling me about his life. Not judging me when I told him that my family couldn’t afford music lessons. He didn’t laugh when I told him about fainting onstage or when I told him about losing the band I started.

I can put myself out there too. I take a deep breath. I tap out a beat on my leg, then sing the song I wrote after Nate turned me down at the beach last spring. Jesse drags a hand through his floppy brown hair when I sing my favorite line, “I tell you again and again, but only the darkness hears.”

The words aren’t lyrical—some are choppy even—but my chest burns every time I sing this song, because it’s filled with my feelings.

When I’m done, Jesse doesn’t say anything about the song. He just takes the songbook out of my hands and turns the page. He truly is a tough critic. But that only makes me want to work harder. I may not like country, but the guy knows his stuff, and I respect his opinions.

Jesse reading my lyrics makes me nervous, so to distract myself, I stand and wade out a few feet into the fishing hole.

He reads part of another song aloud: “I’m a tiny swatch of quilt, and I want to be sewn into your heart.”

“Ugh, that’s terrible. I don’t even remember writing that. I plead insanity.”

Jesse yodels the line Dolly Parton style. “I want to be sewn into your hearrrrrttttt,” he croons, and it makes me snort.

“Stop making fun of me!”

He sets my songbook on the ground, jumps to his feet, and starts serenading me with a pretend microphone in hand, “I’m a tinnnnnnnnnny swatch of quilllltttt.”

I giggle. “Stop it!” I push his chest as hard as I can, causing him to stumble backward. Realization dawns on his face right before he splashes onto his butt.

Oops.

He pulls himself to his feet, water sloshing around him. His clothes are soaked from neck to ankles. He fumbles for his hat as it floats away from him.

“Are you crazy, Maya? It’s September. It’s freezing!”

“It’s seventy degrees outside, you big baby.”

He wades over, shaking the water from his hair, and I’m thinking God, water makes this boy even sexier when he grabs me by the wrist. I try to escape, but he playfully yanks me toward him. I scream so loud you could hear me on the moon. The water goes up to my waist. My dress billows and I have to hold it down to make sure my underwear stays covered.

“You jerk!” I yell.

“Tell me something I haven’t heard before,” he says, smiling down at me.

“Fine. I think your new spurs are ugly.”

“Oh, you did not.”

“Did.”

“That’s it.” He chases after me, but I quickly wade back onto the banks and throw my arms around a skinny tree trunk so he can’t pull me in.

Breathing hard, he pushes the wet hair out of his face and follows me to the shore. He reaches over his shoulder and pulls his T-shirt off in one movement, and then he removes his jeans, revealing a pair of navy blue boxers.

Confident, much?

As he’s laying his clothes on the grass to dry, I let go of the tree and smooth my wet dress back into place, staring at him. His Celtic tattoo is giving me heart palpitations. “What is it with you and hanging out in your underwear?”

“I told you this is what I do on Fridays.”

“And Thursdays,” I reply.

“And Wednesdays.” With a laugh, he starts to move toward me again. I dart away through the grass. Is this really happening? Is Jesse Scott chasing me in his boxers?

“Marco,” he calls out.

“Polo.”

Soon, my only escape is back into the water. It hits my knees as I splash away from him. “Turn around,” I say.

“Why?”

“I’m gonna ditch my dress—it’s too heavy when it’s wet—and then we can go for a swim.” Did I just ask Jesse Scott to go swimming in our underwear? Yes, I think I did. I reach around to pull my zipper down, and that’s when I see his face fall.

“I told you I don’t swim,” he says.

I slowly take my fingers off my zipper and move closer to him. He grabs the back of his neck, staring down into the water, which barely reaches his shins. Is he scared to come deeper?