Such as saving herself for the guy she really likes, even if he happens to be too stupid to realize they are perfect for each other.

So even though Paul’s kiss made me feel like throwing my free arm around his neck and kissing him back—which I may or may not, in the heat of the moment, actually have done—it would have been wrong, wrong, WRONG.

So I tried to pull away.

Only let me tell you, that grip he had on my wrist? It was like iron. Iron.

And even worse, thanks to my having encouraged him by kissing him back a little, half his body ended up over mine, pressing me back onto the bed and probably wrinkling Dr. Slaski’s thesis pretty badly. I know it wasn’t doing any good for my Calvin Klein jean skirt.

So then I had like a hundred and eighty pounds or something of seventeen-year-old guy on top of me, which is not, you know, any picnic, when it isn’t the guy you want to be on top of you. Or even if it is, but you are doing your best to stay true to someone else…someone who, to the best of your knowledge, doesn’t even want you. But whatever.

I managed to wrestle my lips away from Paul’s long enough to say in a sort of strangled voice since he was crushing my lungs, “Get off me.”

“Come on, Suze,” he said in a tone that, I’m sorry to say, sounded as if it were heavy. With passion. Or something, anyway. I’m even more sorry to say that the sound of it thrilled along every nerve in my body. I mean, that passion was for me. Me, Suze Simon, about whom no guy had ever felt all that passionate. At least so far as I knew. “Don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about this all afternoon.”

“Actually,” I said, pleased that I was able to answer this one truthfully. “I really haven’t. Now get off me.”

But Paul just went on kissing me—not on the mouth, because I had fully turned my head away, but on my neck and, at one point, part of one of my ears.

“Is this about the student government thing?” he asked between kisses. “Because I could care less about being vice president of your stupid class. If you’re mad about it, just say the word, and I’ll drop out of the race.”

“No, this has nothing to do with the student government thing,” I said, still trying to wrench my wrist from his fingers and also to keep my neck away from his mouth. His lips seemed to have a curious effect on the skin of my throat. They made it feel like it was on fire.

“Oh, God. It’s not Jesse, is it?” I could feel Paul’s groan reverberate through his entire body. “Give it up, Suze. The guy’s dead.”

“I didn’t say it had anything to do with Jesse.” I sounded defensive, but I didn’t care. “Did you hear me say it had anything to do with Jesse?”

“You didn’t have to,” Paul said. “It’s written all over your face. Suze, think about it. Where’s it going to go with the guy, anyway? I mean, you’re going to get older, and he’s going to stay exactly the age he was when he croaked. And what, he’s going to take you to the prom? How about movies? You guys go to the movies together? Who drives? Who pays?”

Now I was really mad at him. More, of course, because he was right than anything else. Also because he was assuming that Jesse even returned my feelings, which sadly, I knew was not true. Why else would he have stayed away from me so assiduously these past few weeks?

Then Paul plunged the knife deeper.

“Besides, if the two of you were really right for each other, would you even be here? And would you have been kissing me like you were a minute ago?”

That did it. Now I was furious. Because he was right. That was the thing. He was right.

And it was breaking my heart. Worse than Jesse already had.

“If you don’t get off me,” I said, through gritted teeth, “I will jab my thumb into your eye socket.”

Paul chuckled. Although I noticed he stopped chuckling when my thumb did actually meet with the corner of his eye.

“Ow!” he yelled, rolling off me fast. “What the—”

I was up and off that bed faster than you could say paranormal activity. I grabbed my shoes, my bag, and what was left of my dignity, and got the heck out of there.

“Suze!” Paul yelled from his bedroom. “Get back here! Suze!”

I didn’t pay any attention. I just kept on running. I tore past Grandpa Slater’s room—he was still watching an old rerun of Family Feud—then started down the twisting staircase to the front door.

I would have made it, too, if a three-hundred- pound Hell’s Angel hadn’t suddenly materialized between me and the door.

That’s right. One minute my way was clear, and the next it was blocked by Biker Bob. Or should I say, the ghost of Biker Bob.

“Whoa,” I said, as I nearly barreled into him. The guy had a handlebar mustache and heavily tattooed arms, which he had crossed in front of him. He was also, I shouldn’t need to point out, quite, quite dead. “Where’d you come from?”

“Never you mind that, little lady,” he said. “I think Mr. Slater’d still like a word with you.”

I heard footsteps at the top of the stairs and looked up. Paul was there, one hand still over his eye.

“Suze,” he said. “Don’t go.”

“Minions?” I called up to him incredulously. “You have ghostly minions to do your bidding? What are you?”

“I told you,” Paul said. “I’m a shifter. So are you. And you are way overreacting about this whole thing. Can’t we just talk, Suze? I swear I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

“Where have I heard that before?” I asked.

Then, as Biker Bob took a threatening step toward me, I did the only thing that, under the circumstances, I felt that I could. I lifted up one of my Jimmy Choos and smacked him in the head with it.

This is not, I am sure, the purpose for which Mr. Choo designed that particular mule. It did, however, work quite handily. With a very surprised Biker Bob incapacitated, it was only a matter of shoving him out of the way, throwing open the door, and making a run for it. Which I did, with alacrity.

I was tearing down the long cement steps from Paul’s front door to his driveway when I heard him calling after me, “Suze! Suze, come on. I’m sorry for what I said about Jesse. I didn’t mean it.”

I turned in the driveway to face him. I am sorry to say that I responded to his statement by making a rude, single-fingered gesture.