In my peripheral I eyeball him while he talks to the server at the door. He came out of his room in jeans and a long-sleeved green shirt that might have exactly matched his eyes. Pfft. He took one look at me, because I hadn’t moved since he’d left, and stopped in his tracks.

“Why aren’t you dressed?” He argued with me when I told him I wasn’t going.

He told me he was hungry—after all those cookies—and tossed a hoodie at me. I came because I liked the way he wanted me with him, that little thrill, so I stuck my feet into flip-flops and went.

I think he wants out of the heat of what’s between us, but I can’t figure out why he needs me to come with him. Isn’t that just the opposite of what he should want? Men. And they say women are mercurial? Please. I tuck my hands in the front pockets of the hoodie, sniffing the smell of him in the dark fabric, swooning—nope. No swooning. Focus. The smell of waffles and butter and syrup teases me, and I sigh and look around the place.

Maybe food is the right thing. Can’t have sex? Try eating. And now, I’m back to man logic. Is this how all men shore up their sexual urges? I picture Devon with a mound of pancakes in front of him, stuffing them in his mouth.

“Why are you smiling?” he asks as the server leads us through a myriad of tables to one in the back.

“Random thoughts.” I slide into the red booth, and he takes the seat across from me. After grabbing the menu from behind the napkin dispenser, I place it in front of my face. He leans over and thumps it, and I lower it. “What?” I ask rather crossly.

He studies me, eyes ghosting over my hoodie. A small smile tugs at his lips. “Cindy.”

I huff out a laugh. We had a tiff, but the effects of it seem distant now. He was honest with me, gave me a choice, and now it’s done. Okay, moving on.

“She’s somewhere celebrating by eating other insects. Familial bliss.”

After pulling out my phone, I show him the image of him sprawled out on my bed, the spider resting on his bicep.

“Happy birthday, Giselle.”

My breath whooshes out of me. “Oh, I didn’t even realize . . . wow . . . I guess it is.” It was my birthday when he and I cornered Cindy and took her to the basement. When I said those words.

I straighten my messy bun, which is all over the place after our antics, so I tug out the rubber band, slip it on my wrist, and rub my scalp. He’s still watching me, and I’m twitchy and push my glasses up my nose.

He takes my hand on the table, his thumb brushing over mine, almost idly, as if he doesn’t realize it. “Giselle, I freaked out—”

“What can I get you to drink?” the waitress says, and we both blink and look at her.

Relief washes over me. I don’t want him apologizing for how he feels! I don’t want him worried about me. I am fine. Totally. We are friends. Who must not, under any circumstance, fuck.

I order a Coke and Devon water.

Even with the baseball hat and long sleeves covering his arms, she catches on quick. “Wait. Devon Walsh?” Her eyes dart over the long hair sticking out of his hat, and her voice goes girlie, her body vibrating. She’s about my age, dressed in a short red skirt, a black top, and a ponytail. Pretty.

Without an ounce of shame, she melts into the seat next to him. Devon sends me an annoyed glance and shrugs, then signs an autograph on a napkin. He pushes it back to her. She insists on a photo, and I wince for him as she ignores his attempts to get away and puts her head next to his and takes a pic with her phone. Unlike Jack, who hates attention, Devon isn’t rude. No, he has a smooth finesse that he’s gotten down to an art over his years in the spotlight. He takes her elbow and motions for her to get up, all with a fake smile on his face, telling her to please not tell anyone else and promising her a huge tip to make it worthwhile.

She dances away, a dopey grin on her face.

“At least she didn’t kiss your neck,” I say.

“Some are easier to handle.”

“Hmm.” I stare down at the menu. I’m going to eat everything on here if it helps me not want to chase after that sweet waitress and pluck out her eyeballs.

“Jealous?”

“You’re a superstar,” I deflect with a shrug, glad I squashed my urge to say hell yes.

“And you’re a scientist who’s writing a book. Yeah, you’re just a little nobody.” He grins and throws a napkin at me, and everything feels back to normal.

A few minutes later, we’re both devouring chicken and waffles, until he pushes his plate away. We talked nonstop for most of the meal, him about his dad and how he took care of him growing up. He told me how he and Jack became best friends during summer camp freshman year.

“What’s the best birthday present you’ve ever gotten?” he asks me.

“You’ll think it’s silly.”

“No, I won’t.”

After wiping my mouth, I push the plate to the side and lean in closer, resting my chin on my hands. I push my glasses up. “What?” I ask, noting his weird expression.

He laughs under his breath. “You. When you get lost in thought, you get a wrinkle, right there . . .” He reaches over and rubs his finger over my forehead.

I smile. The man does watch me.

“The best present I got was on my fifteenth birthday—before all that curse business—”

“Which isn’t real.”

I wave him off. “Stop interrupting me.”

He grins.

“Anyway, I’d been on this reading binge, had read almost every book in the school library. I was hounding Mama for something to read, and Aunt Clara had slipped me some racy books from the public library. She preread them to check for sex, but some weren’t appropriate.” I laugh at the memory of Aunt Clara bringing me Harlequins that just had some light kissing. “So on my fifteenth birthday, Mama gave me a bundle of letters from my dad, copies actually, written to her.” A soft sigh comes from me, and I can only imagine the hearts in my eyes. “He got his medical degree through the army and was stationed overseas and didn’t see her for nine months. Every day, he wrote her a beautiful letter, and it was in his handwriting and just breathtaking to think he wrote for her—he poured out his heart.” Emotion clogs up my throat, and I push it down. “I got to witness how they met—at a bonfire on Halloween—and how he fell in love with her immediately; I read the little spats they had when she was dating other guys while he was gone, his heartbreak, and then I saw how she finally told him she couldn’t live without him.” A laugh comes from me. “Some were missing, of course, and those were the sexy ones. She denies it, but whenever I tease her, she blushes. I saw a glimpse of love, real love, and it . . . it . . . it was so sweet and perfect, but it also set the standard so high for me. And then, he died the next year, so I treasure those letters. I grabbed my copies when I went back for the pearls.” I pause, watching his face. “What about you?”

“Your butterfly is in my pocket now.”

Pleasure courses over me. “Really?”

He grabs my hand. “Really. And I’ve got a gift for you.”

My eyes dart all over him, and he laughs. “Not on me. Soon.”

“Giselle?” comes from the table behind Devon, from a couple just taking their seats.