We talked on that porch under the moonlight for a long time before he even acknowledged that I’d been crying when he found me. As I walk home through the crisp autumn air, the memory consumes my thoughts.

* * *

Four Years Before . . .

“So, who’s the asshole who broke your heart?” Connor asks me.

“The asshole is trying to be a nice guy,” I say. We’ve been sitting on the back deck of the house for half an hour, making casual chitchat about nothing. Me, trying to shake the sick weight of rejection, Connor pretending I hadn’t been crying when he found me. “I’m just a stupid girl who thought being with me might be more appealing than being a good guy.”

“I see. So, he has a girlfriend?”

I shake my head. “I’m friends with his little sister. And since he sees her as a little girl . . .”

He drew in a sharp breath. “Ouch.”

I’m covered in goose bumps, but I’m grateful for his company. Before Connor found me out here, I was feeling sorry for myself, wishing I were one of my sisters—anyone but myself. All my life, I’ve been the fun one, the wild one. The stupid one. No one takes me seriously. I wanted Sam to be the exception. “I think my age is just an excuse,” I say. “A good one, I guess, but even good excuses are just excuses.”

“You’re gorgeous, Liz. If this guy doesn’t see that, he’s blind. Hell, the thirty minutes sitting here with you have been the best of my day.”

“Thanks,” I whisper. But looks have never been my problem. My insecurities are about what’s on the inside.

Connor and I talk more. Laugh a little. He’s good at making me laugh, and I like that he doesn’t seem to take himself too seriously.

“Tell me what would fix this night for you,” he says.

I look up to Sam’s window. The light’s on and I see him standing there, looking down on us. When I turn back to Connor, I say, “Kiss me?” I know it’s wrong to ask for this just to make Sam jealous, but I can’t help it. I’m hurt and embarrassed, and I want Sam to see that I’m worth wanting.

Connor smiles slowly and releases an exaggerated sigh. “If I have to.” He winks, then slips one of those big hands around my neck and slowly lowers his mouth to mine.

The kiss isn’t long or especially heated, but it’s nice. When he pulls away, he leans forward, settling his elbows back on his knees. “If you ever want me to kiss you when he isn’t watching, give me a call.”

Guilt stabs my gut. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “Tonight, I got to kiss the most beautiful girl at the party. Don’t apologize. Whatever your reasons, it was still the highlight of my day.”

The back door squeaks open and thumps closed again. “Come inside, Liz. It’s late. Nothing good happens at this hour.” Sam shifts his gaze to Connor as if to support his point.

“I’m good. Connor and I are just going to hang out for a while.”

“She’s seventeen,” Sam tells Connor, a warning in his voice.

Connor nods. “Noted.”

The door rattles as it slams behind Sam, and I look at my hands, embarrassed.

“Seventeen?” Connor says.

“Afraid so. Not for long, though.”

Then he kisses me again. His lips warm my cold skin, but the heat doesn’t spread any further. He isn’t Sam and he doesn’t light me on fire, but it’s a nice kiss.

When he pulls back, I frown at him.

“What’s that look for?” he asks.

“I guess I thought you’d run the other way when you found out how young I am.”

He smiles. “Being with you is way more appealing than being the good guy.”

Chapter Five

Liz

Knocking. Someone’s knocking at my front door. Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.

I texted Sam as soon as I got home. One sentence. Seven words. An invitation.

I have the house to myself tonight.

I’ve sat here for nearly half an hour, waiting, staring at my too-silent phone and wondering if I’d be better off drawing myself a bath and sinking into it with a dirty book and a large glass of wine.

Grinning, I peek through the peephole and see Sam on the stoop. The top buttons of his dress shirt are undone and his tie is loose around his neck. In one hand, he’s holding a bottle of wine.

As casually as I can, I open the door to greet him, but deep down inside, I’m like an ill-trained dog that wants to jump on him, lick his face, and hump his leg.

“Hey,” I say softly, leaning against the doorjamb.

His gaze skims over me, and my nerve endings fire to life in the wake of his appraisal. “You left.”

“You stole my underwear.”

His lips quirk into a grin. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Listen, there’s no shame in wearing women’s panties. Gender identity is really fluid these days, and if you prefer lace to cotton under your trousers, who am I to judge?”

He cocks a brow, apparently unfazed by my attempts to emasculate him. “Are you going to invite me in, Rowdy?”

Stepping back, I swallow and motion inside the house. “Come on in.” He offers the bottle of wine, and I take it. “Thanks. I’ll go get a couple of glasses.”

“Just”—I’m two steps toward the kitchen when he grabs my wrist and spins me around—“stop for a minute.”

“Wha—”