And here we are.

And for the first time in months, I’m wearing a skirt and a sexy blouse. I have my hair curled and a face full of makeup, compliments of Hannah and Bethany. Also, I’m wearing heels.

High. Heels.

What?!

Everything about this evening feels right.

Perfect.

I resist the urge to touch my hair and push it aside. I’m nervous, and the tension between us could be cut with a butter knife.

Sexual tension.

God, I want to sit in his lap.

Crawl right in it and kiss the side of his neck. Smell him. Run my nose along the smooth, freshly shaved skin there.

I shiver at the thought.

“Are you cold?”

“Me? Um, no.” Quite the opposite, in fact.

“If you are, I have a sweatshirt in the back seat of my car.”

The back seat of his car…

I haven’t made out in one of those in ages. It used to be a favorite pastime of mine and Hannah’s in high school, letting boys make out with us in their cars but never letting their hands stray above the belly button or below the equator.

God, what teases we were.

I smile into my wine glass, recalling the many hickeys I received summer before senior year.

If he plays his cards right, maybe I’ll let Abe give me one later.

Oh who am I kidding? I’m definitely going to let him touch me in all the places later.

I smile again, directing it at him, blushing prettily to see what he does with it, how he reacts to my attention.

Abe lays his arm on the table, his large hand laying limply upon the white linen tablecloth, and I stare at that open palm. Is it an invitation to put my hand in his? Or is he just resting it there?

Shoot.

This one is hard to read.

Regardless, before I can think twice, my hand slowly finds its way to the tabletop, too, fingers gracefully drumming the wood. My other hand cups my chin as I lean forward, elbow resting on the edge.

Abe flips his hand over.

Our fingers are inches apart.

One inch.

Millimeters.

Brushing, touching as we smile stupidly at one another.

The pads of his fingers singe my skin and I flip my hand over so he can trace across my palm, my heart racing. The tip of his forefinger runs along my thumb—up, then down. Along my index finger. Middle. Pinky.

It tickles, but I hold still, not daring to move an inch.

His finger feels like heaven. It’s just one, but the sensation is heated, and it warms me from the inside out. That one single touch.

Tingles zip through my body, one at a time. Slowly and lightning fast—it’s hard to decide which it is because I can barely catch my breath.

I hope he can’t hear it in my voice—I sound like I’ve just jogged a mile in these high heels.

“Thank you, but I’m fine.”

“Let me know if you change your mind.” His voice is raspy too.

Thank God I’m not the only one.

I want to leave here and go somewhere private, somewhere I can stroke his handsome face. Kiss his nose and each corner of his mouth. It’s a gorgeous pout, the stuff dreams are made of, and I’m not likely to get it out of my mind any time soon.

My appetite is gone; I don’t even want dessert.

Couldn’t eat it if it was stuffed down my throat—too much nervous energy, anticipation thrumming through my veins.

My eyes connect with our hands; mine are shaking slightly. It’s minimal, but I notice it with every stroke of his finger against the tender skin of my palm.

It’s one of the sexiest sensations I’ve ever experienced.

“Do you have any brothers and sisters?” he asks.

“Yes. One of each. Younger sister, older brother.”

His head bobs up and down. “Oh yeah, that’s right.”

Did we talk about this already? “Sorry?”

“I mean—you must have mentioned it when we had that double date.”

I didn’t think so, but I must have. “What about you?”

“I have one of each—brother and a sister, both younger.”

“Awww. I bet they look up to you.”

“My brother does, yeah. Hero worship. He wants to be a wrestler, too. It’s a lot to live up to.”

“That’s cute. I don’t remember ever worshiping my brother—he was such an ass when we were younger,” I laugh, remembering some of the stupid shit Derek has pulled over the years. Pranks and jokes.

Dumbass.

“But you get along?”

“We do now. Sort of.” Our fingers entwine as I speak. “During Christmas when we were both home, he put clear tape across my bathroom door, so in the middle of the night when I got up to pee, obviously I walked right into it and my hair got all tangled.”

This makes Abe laugh. “How old is he?”

“Old enough not to pull crap like that!”

Abe is not on my side. “That’s hilarious though.”

“It wasn’t hilarious at two in the morning.”

“Did you get him back?”

I scoff, squeezing his fingers. “Of course.”

He waits for the story.

“I’m patient, kind of like a viper waiting to strike.” Abe’s eyes widen at the metaphor. “Relax, I’m not going to murder you or anything, but I do have mad waiting skills.” I play hide-and-seek like no one’s business and win every time. “Anyway, the goal is always to scare the shit out of the other person—except my parents. They get really mad when we do it to them.” Especially my mother, who rants about us giving her a stroke. “So my brother keeps a bunch of pillows on his bed. He has his own place, but during the holidays he sleeps in his old room at my parents’ house. My mom kept it the same. Anyway, if I crawl in under the pillows and flatten out, you can’t even tell I’m there.”

“Oh Jesus, I can see where this is headed.”

My grin is wide. “Exactly. I crawl in, and it’s dark, and he’s just getting in from being out with his idiot friends. I lie there quietly, for. ever. It takes him forever to come into his room because he lingers down in the kitchen stuffing his drunk face. Comes up, gets his pajamas on, goes to the bathroom. I’m lying there, listening to the whole thing, dying from heat stroke. I bet it took him a good twenty minutes of screwing around before he gets in bed. I’m still as a tomb, and his head is resting on me.”

I remember it like it was yesterday.

“But then it gets to be too much, and the giggles start. I can’t hold it in any longer, and I start to laugh. And he shoots off the bed yelling ‘What the fuck Skylar!’ and my parents bust in because we’re being so loud.” I’m laughing now as I recount the story. “Moral of the story: I made him wet the bed.”

“He pissed the bed?” I’ve never seen a person’s eyes go so round as I’ve told a story.

I’ve never been so proud of my prank. I preen like a peacock. “He did piss the bed.”

“Speaking of which”—Abe pulls his hand back—“I should hit the bathroom real quick. Give me a second, I’ll be right back.”

I watch as he retreats, my eyes lingering on the straining muscles in his back as he walks. The wide, defined latissimus dorsi. His spine, visible through the thin fabric of his dressy polo.