“The first thing Abe said to me was ‘Don’t hang up,’ real hurried like, which was a weird thing to say because I had no idea who was calling at that point.” Hannah rolls her eyes. “And obviously the first thing I wanted to do was hang up. Haha. But…I didn’t.”

Confession: I am hanging on her every word and she damn well knows it.

“The second thing he said after I agreed to hear him out was ‘The second I saw Skylar, it was like a punch to the gut. I knew I wasn’t going to make it out the other side without some collateral damage.’”

I hold in a bated breath.

Exhale. “What’s the third thing he said?”

Hannah pretends to think on it. “The third thing wassss…the third thing…hmmm.” That index finger with the bright blue nail taps the end of her chin.

What. A. Freaking. Brat. “Hannah. I’m going to kill you.”

“All right, all right. Calm down. I’m thinking.” She pauses a few moments. “Oh, now I remember. The third thing he said was something like, ‘I know you both probably hate me, and I’m not expecting you to help me—but I’m hoping you will. All I want is to talk to her. In person would be great, but I’ll settle for anything at this point.’” I get another cursory glance. “He’s desperate.”

I bet he is.

“He’s desperate for you.”

“Now you’re just trying to butter me up.”

“I don’t know, Sky—this one might be worth a little headache over. He sounded miserable.”

“He doesn’t even know me.”

“Maybe not yet, but he wants to. And any guy who fights for a little bit of your time? They don’t come around often—not in this lifetime, and not on a college campus.”

She’s right. How many men in their twenties, in this day and age, care about someone other than themselves? On a college campus, where Abe Davis could date anyone? Sleep with a different girl every night of the week?

And he wants me.

He even put himself at the mercy of Hannah Stark, the biggest female sasshole in Iowa, and lived to tell the tale.

“What does he want?”

“He wants to see you.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow at eight o’clock.”

Friday? “Where?”

“Aisle four at the used bookstore downtown.”

“He wants to meet me at the used bookstore?”

Hannah nods. “I think it’s cute! And quiet. And it’s Friday, so you’re hardly likely to bump into anyone you know.”

“Right. ’Cause no one goes to the bookstore on a Friday!”

“Skylar, you need a place where you can talk. It’s perfect—don’t be a brat.”

As I’m quietly debating my options, Hannah’s voice breaks in, low but firm. A tone meant to push me out of my comfort zone for my own good. “I think he’s one of the good ones, Sky.”

I trust Hannah. She looks out for me; always has, always will. I’m putting my faith in her and trusting her now.

I can’t get my heart broken by Abe Davis twice.

I won’t allow it.

But I know she won’t allow it, either.

“Okay. Tell him I’ll go.”

“Perfect. Meet him in aisle four.”

Skylar

Aisle four, aisle four… where on earth is aisle four?

I walk slowly through Nebbles Secondhand Book Bazaar, counting steps much like I would if I was walking to my death. Or to a date I was dreading because I was looking forward to it so much.

I took special pains to get ready, Hannah doing my hair and makeup so it looks as if no one did my hair and makeup, the jeans and blouse casual but pretty. Flat shoes. Two bracelets. Hoop earrings.

The bracelets jingle, clanking together as I walk, peering my head around each corner, knowing when I finally reach aisle four and spot Abe, I’ll be taken aback—just like a jack-in-the-box. You know it’s coming, but you’re never quite prepared.

I pass the self-help section, then architecture. Books are piled on the floor at every end cap, some as high as the low ceiling.

The place is mostly empty, except for two guys thumbing through records near the entrance and an older gentleman in the history section.

Non-fiction.

Fiction.

Aisle four.

Romance.

He has his back to me, fingers pushing in a thick paperback novel so it’s lined up with the rest, and I watch as he levels out a few more with the side of his palm so they’re even.

Anal much?

“Hey.” I don’t know what else to say, or how to greet him.

Abe spins around, surprised.

I’m fifteen minutes early, but then again—so is he.

“Hi.” He’s shocked I actually showed up; it’s there, written on his face. His hungry eyes are drinking me in, head to toe, expression schooled but communicative.

He’s relieved. Excited.

Blushing.

“You look gorgeous.” I’m not sure if he meant to blurt that out, but the words warm my insides a little, and I immediately thaw.

Dammit, that’s not good. I am a fortress of steel! Here to hear him out and nothing more.

Lies, lies, everyone tells them…

“I know.” I sound so bratty, but I’m glad he thinks I look gorgeous. I wanted him to—I want him to know what he’ll miss out on if he ever lies to me again.

If I’m being honest, I might be missing out, too. Abe gets a perusal of his own as I skim over his jeans and the blue plaid, flannel shirt he has tucked into them. Tan leather belt. Sleeves rolled to the elbows.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, I’m a sucker for arm porn, and Abe does it well—too well. Those forearms of his are tan and toned and making my mouth water, just a lil bit.

I can smell him from here; the aftershave and shampoo are fresh and masculine, his hair finger-combed and slightly damp. Dark. Thick.

“Want to sit?”

“Where? The floor?”

Abe looks chagrined, but it passes quickly. “I know it’s the floor, but…it’s clean.”

“No, this is fine. The floor works.”

I lower myself to sit, legs stretched out across the aisle, and we’re facing one another—my back to one shelf of paperback romance novels, his back to the one directly across from me.

Abe grabs a paper bag that is lying nearby, folding over its top, setting it aside so it’s almost behind his back.

“What’s that?”

“Apple slices and crackers. And…two protein bars.”

I can feel my brows shoot up. “You brought snacks?”

“I know it’s eight, and we both probably ate, but I thought, what the hell. Just in case.”

It’s almost like a picnic, on a much smaller scale. Thoughtful. Definitely something a sweet boyfriend would do if I had a boyfriend who did sweet things.

Which I don’t.

“Thanks for showing up.”

I hesitate, pondering the level of brutal honesty I want to dish out then deciding he can take it. He deserves it. “I wasn’t going to come. I wanted to stand you up.”

“Why didn’t you?” His question is measured, tone careful.