“Where we puttin’ this?” Jackson stands up and goes to a drawer, rummaging around and returning to the table with a black marker. “You wanna do the honors?”

“Sure.” I take it from his fingers, brushing mine against his on purpose. When he repositions the pumpkin so it’s in front of me, I carefully write the phrase in block letters on the slippery skin, large enough so it will be easy to carve.

Z E R O

F U X (I change the spelling so it’s not as offensive.)

G I V E N

There. I sit back and study my handiwork, spinning the base so Jackson can see it, too.

“How does it look?”

“Fine.”

Fy-ne. The word makes me smile. They all have today—I don’t know what’s gotten into me.

He smells good, too; when he stood up and sat back down, I caught a whiff of him. Masculine and clean, like a man should smell. Like a shot of testosterone. Like I suddenly want to sit in his lap and run my nose up the column of his strong, thick neck.

Our eyes meet again, and this time he doesn’t ask what my problem is.

Jackson doesn’t say anything—he just reaches forward and pulls the pumpkin toward him, positions it just so on the table in front of him, and takes hold of the knife.

“Here goes nothin’.”

I nod dumbly, and this time, he does say something, talking toward the pumpkin as he makes the first cut.

“Sure you’re all right, Charlotte? You’re lookin’ a little red.”

He and I both know why my cheeks are flushed, but he’s going to be an ass and tease me about it. A gentleman wouldn’t do that; then again, no one has—or will ever—accuse Jackson Jennings Junior of being one.

“It’s a little hot in here.”

“Try takin’ off your jacket.” He grins, pulling the knife from the pumpkin’s ribs with a grunt. Stabs it back in. Yanks it out.

In. Out. In. Out.

Forming the small notches comprising the words I wrote.

His concentration makes me wonder if he’s got laser focus for everything he does, or if it’s just football and small tasks. I have nothing to do but wonder and stare, so I do while he whittles away.

Jackson Jennings is a virgin.

The thought randomly pops into my mind on its own, with no prompting.

I look at his hands…his big, mammoth hands. Long fingers that can easily grasp an entire football. His nails are clean and blunt—he doesn’t bite them. There’s a smattering of light-colored hair on his knuckles that I find oddly attractive, and my mind wanders to his chest.

My eyes follow.

His polo shirt is buttoned almost to the top, and I struggle to find signs of hair lingering at the open button, doing my best to be coy about it.

Hmm.

Is he hairless or does he shave? Does he groom himself or let it grow wild?

My mind strays farther down, down to what’s tucked into the fly of his jeans, not giving a crap that my thoughts are in the gutter since he’s not paying me one bit of attention.

Jackson Jennings is a virgin.

How can that even be possible? What does a girl do with that information? Better question: what does a girl do with a guy who has never had sex before—especially one like this?

Well. I’m not likely to find out, am I? It seems like he has his shit locked down pretty tight and isn’t giving it away any time soon.

If he doesn’t want to see me after tonight, that’s on him. I wonder if he only asked me out because he knew it would be a challenge, knowing full well guys like Jackson Jennings Junior thrive on competition. They live for the pursuit. The hunt.

But I sure hope I’m wrong and still doesn’t answer the question: What does he want from me?

Companionship? Friendship?

It’s entirely possible.

Friends with benefits would require getting handsy, since that’s literally what it means. So, he can’t possibly want to bang me…

…although I wouldn’t mind his hands on my body.

What’s it like having sex with a male virgin? Would he know where to stick it? He must watch porn—a guy his age has to get the lead out somehow, right? So he has to know which hole his dick goes into…right?

I lean back in my chair, really diving into the subject, alone in my mind.

Nature must take course, instinctively. It has to.

Even I knew what to do when I slept with Aaron Fletcher, my boyfriend of eight months as a senior in high school. I might never have had sex, but my body knew it was going to hurt when he pushed in for the first time and how to move my hips once it no longer did.

I smile, remembering how I did a slight crabwalk backward, scooting along the mattress when Aaron tried to jam his junk into my lady business—I have no pain tolerance, and it pinched. Plus, I’m a huge baby. My body rebelled, naturally.

But. I wanted to get the deed done; just shy of my eighteenth birthday, I hadn’t wanted to leave for college a virgin.

How dumb I was. Sex with Aaron meant nothing, wasn’t the greatest, and made me not want to have it again since. This time, I’m in no rush.

I’m going to be crazy for my next boyfriend; he’s going to give me butterflies and send my life into a tailspin. I want to be the first thing he thinks about when he wakes up and the last thing he thinks about before falling asleep—if I’m not sleeping beside him.

Jackson hacks away with the knife, seemingly lost in his own little world, tongue peeking out between his lips, not paying attention to me.

Not until a low hmm escapes from the back of my throat.

“I know you said it was nothin’, but I can hear you thinkin’ without even lookin’ up.” His arm pauses, knife still, stuck inside the letter F.

Zero fux given.

“I was just wondering what we’re doing.”

It’s too soon to have a relationship talk; I know this, but it doesn’t stop me from being confused, and my mind isn’t going to let this go. I have to know what Jackson wants from me or it’s going to drive me insane.

“We stuffed a scarecrow, then we ate caramel apples, now we’re tryin’ to carve this pumpkin before them idiots get back with theirs.”

Ugh, he’s deliberately being obtuse. He knows damn well what I’m asking.

“No, I mean what are we doing.” I can’t make my lips say the words I’m thinking: What do you want with me, Jackson? If you don’t want to date me then we shouldn’t be spending time together.

“Hanging out.”

Oh god. It’s worse than I thought. Hanging out?

Hanging.

Out.

That’s what guys say when they’re stringing along someone they most definitely don’t have any intention of dating. I’ve seen it a million times before; they won’t use the word date, and they won’t say “just fucking,” so they tag the status as “hanging out” so they never have to explain the situation. Or their feelings.

I know he’s not stringing me along; he’s already told me he isn’t going to date me.

But this is a date. He said it was.

I just want to know what comes next. Tomorrow. Next week.

I want to prepare myself to forget all about Jackson Jennings Junior after tonight and move on to someone who wants me to be somethin’—not a nothin’.

I won’t stalk him on social media. I won’t go to his football games. I won’t see him if he wants to hang out again.