So. She thinks I’m cute.

Obviously, or she wouldn’t be with me right now, though I’m far, far from it. I haven’t been cute since…well, probably never. I was nine pounds when I was born and wearing one-year-old clothes by the time I was six months.

Not a single soul has ever called me cute before.

A big baby, now a big boy.

I’m more lummox than male model, but Charlie seems to have her rose-colored glasses on. Huge. Stubborn. Ruthless.

Handsome? Rarely.

Cute? Never.

“You think so?” I ask, just to be sure. Or to hear her say it again. Whichever.

She bites her lip, back still pressed against the counter, chin still tilted up in the most fetching way. “Yes.”

“I think you’re cute.” God, what the hell am I doing? Listen to me—I sound ridiculous.

I don’t know what’s possessing me, but I want to boop her on her adorable, perky little nose; instead, I kiss it. Keep my head bent so I can kiss the small indentation in the corner of her lips.

“Jackson.” She sighs as she says it.

She purses them in a slight pucker; they’re so fucking soft. So, so soft—I can’t for the life of me think of a better word than soft. Stop it right now, Jackson. And full. Pouty and pink.

They part slightly, like lips that know they’re about to be kissed, and I take a few seconds to appreciate them before bringing my head all the way down.

Finally—finalfuckingly—our mouths meet.

Gentle and tentative and a little unsure.

Once my tongue is in her mouth, there won’t be any going back; I’ll be fully committed to seeing this thing through with her.

The thought doesn’t make me want to vomit or scare me shitless like it has in the past. Doesn’t have me pulling back or pushing her away.

How could it when her pumpkin-gut-covered hands are sliding around my waist and lowering to my ass? How could it when her tongue tastes like sour apple and caramel? How could it when she moans my name?

Moans my name.

No one has ever done that, either, and the sound has me pulling her in tight, with no room between our bodies for negotiation.

I’ll have the insides of our jack-o-lantern all over my clothes and in my hair by the time we’re done kissing and I. Don’t. Fucking. Care.

Since I’m out of practice, I feel myself fumbling, our lips not quite in sync.

It’s distracting; I don’t want Charlie to think I’m freaking terrible at it when I’m good at everything else. And I don’t want her talking shit about me either. I can hear it now: “You know Jackson Jennings? He’s the worst kisser. His tongue was everywhere and he had no clue what he was doing. It was disgusting.”

I pull back and give my head a shake.

Charlie’s hand goes to her mouth, fingers pressing against her lips. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m so fuckin’ bad at this. I’m sorry.”

“Bad at what?”

“Kissin’.” I hesitate, feeling like the biggest sort of asshole. “I don’t… It’s been a while.”

Try never.

The virgin footballer who’d never been kissed—wouldn’t that make a great headline in the school newspaper?

“Is this the worst kiss you’ve ever had?” I blurt out the question, embarrassed I even have to ask.

She laughs quietly, her hand now on the front of my shirt, pressing on my pec muscle. “No. It’s not the worst kiss I’ve ever had. That honor goes to Benny Mayer.”

“And when was this?” I sound like I’m pouting because I am.

“Eighth grade.”

Great. My kisses are shit-tastic but not worse than thirteen-year-old Benny Mayer.

“When’s the last time you kissed anyone?” Charlie wants to know.

“Never.”

Her eyes go wide. “Never?”

My wide shoulders shrug. “Can we not talk about this? The virgin talk was hard enough.”

“That’s right—I’d forgotten about that.”

Fuck. I just had to open my damn mouth to remind her, didn’t I?

“Keep this between us, please.” Suddenly, I’m agitated and paranoid about it—my private business being gossiped about by a girl I really don’t know, one I’m not dating and whom I don’t know if I can trust.

“I would never.” Charlie brings her hand up, cups my chin, and turns my face, bringing it down so I’m looking her in the eyes. “I would never say anything to anyone about your business.”

Technically it’s her business too now that I’ve had my tongue in her mouth.

“Do you believe me?” She searches my eyes.

I don’t know. I honestly don’t know if I can trust her, mostly because I haven’t let my thoughts go to that place. Trusting her would mean making her a part of my life.

You can only trust someone you know and have a relationship with—and I don’t have that with her…yet.

“Jackson.” Her shoulders fall a bit and she releases my jaw just as the front door opens. Three overgrown toddlers come bashing through, each of them carrying at least two pumpkins and a shopping bag.

I step away from Charlie and go back to the chair at the table, go back to wielding the carving knife, its tiny orange handle like a child’s toy in my hand. Small and damn near impossible to grip.

“What the hell is all that shit,” I complain curiously. Seriously, what the hell do they have in all those bags?

“All the shit for the Pumpkin,” McMillan tells me, setting his two pumpkins on the counter then the paper bag he was holding by the handle.

“We’re not having a party,” I grumble.

“Calm your tits, old man—we’re the party.” Rodrigo is already digging through his bag, pulling out a bag of Cheetos, cheese wiz, and miniature oranges. “These are the little kind of oranges with no seeds that kids go crazy for. The theme is orange, so we got orange snacks.”

Far be it from me to point out the obvious, but, “That shit is going to taste terrible together.”

I get an eye roll—like I’m the moron here. “Duh,” Rodrigo draws out. “That’s why we bought sherbet. It’s orange and it’s a palate cleanser.”

If they say the word orange one more time, I will lose my damn mind.

“How do you know that?”

“I used to bus tables at a fancy-ass restaurant in high school for a hot minute. They served these tiny cones in between courses.”

That does sound fancy as fuck.

“You’re going to eat all this? Tonight?”

Rodrigo stares me down like I’ve done lost my mind. “It’s a pumpkin party.”

Jesus Christ with these guys.

At the counter, back to arranging the seeds on the cookie sheet, Charlie laughs, her back shaking with every idiotic word coming out of my friends’ mouths. She moves to preheat the oven, setting it at three-fifty, then opens the cabinet next to the stove.

“Whatcha looking for?” McMillan asks.

“Salt?”

He shoots me a sly look before easing up behind her and pulling open a different door—the one directly above the stove and about six feet off the ground—high up for most people, but not for us.