“Was he an ass to you?”

“What?” She shakes her head. “No. He was amazing, actually. First guy I loved. We’re still on good terms, and even talk now and then, but there was one thing I couldn’t take to California—Cohen. I couldn’t leave him,” she says softly. “He was going through such a hard time when I was dating Nyatt. He wasn’t with Declan yet, and he was really struggling with his sexuality and being comfortable with who he was, especially since he was working in such a hypermasculine field. I knew that if I left, it wouldn’t be healthy for Cohen, so I stayed in New York.”

“Wow.” I let out a long breath. “You’re . . . fuck, Luna, you’re one hell of a person.”

“I have my moments.” She shrugs and looks toward the door. “Want to get out of here? The grease is starting to really seep into my pores.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, feeling like I might have said something wrong. She really is one hell of a person, and I hope I didn’t startle her by stating that. Maybe too much too soon? I throw some money down on the table—it will easily cover the bill and leave Fay a nice tip—and stand from the booth. I hold my hand out to her, and she takes it with ease.

When we’re out of the diner, she tugs on my hand. “Want to just . . . walk?”

“I’d like that.” I’m still nervous as we take a left out of the diner and slowly walk down a brownstone-lined street toward the riverfront, the green of the trees along the sidewalk richly illuminated above the streetlights. This is New York City to me, holding the hand of a beautiful girl, walking along the old concrete, and soaking in the stillness of the summer air. Our little slice of the Upper West Side is tranquil, and the street is close to deserted, so our voices aren’t drowned out by traffic. “Did I say something wrong back there?”

“What? No, of course not. It’s just . . . you’re different from any other guy I’ve dated. Nyatt was great, but he was a bit immature, which he admitted to me after we broke up. He wasn’t ready for a serious relationship, wasn’t ready to commit to being there for someone else. And a few guys after him turned out to be the same way—always the boy, never the man.”

“I see.”

“But you.” She squeezes my hand. “You admit when you’re wrong, you admit to having faults, and you’re willing to change, to grow.”

“Are you saying I’m a man, Luna?”

“I am. A man who can bake one hell of a cake.”

I pause and tug on her hand so she stops with me, and then spin her into my chest, where her hand falls for balance. Her hair whips across her face, and a few strands stick to her lips. I reach up and remove them, letting my hand stray for a few seconds. We pause beside an old redbrick church that’s under construction, the scaffolding giving us shelter from the lights around us.

“When you admit things like that, it makes me want to kiss you . . . kiss you really fucking hard.”

Her eyes light up, her body leans into mine, and a wicked smile plays across her lips. “Then do it.”

Three tempting words—three words that have my body humming.

What I wouldn’t give for another taste, another chance to hear the softest moan rumble up Luna’s throat as my mouth presses against hers. I reach out, tilting her chin up with my index finger.

Lick my lips.

Stare down at her, letting her know my intentions.

I catch her chest rising and falling rapidly, the quick swipe of her tongue along her lips, the intake of breath as I close a few more inches between us.

I want it . . . bad.

But so does she.

And because she wants it so bad, I say, with an evil grin, “I’ll wait.”

She gasps, mouth falling open, eyes widening.

She nudges my shoulder playfully. I laugh, continuing down the sidewalk, while she tails me, pouting.

“What do you mean you’ve never had pineapple?” Luna asks, her eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. We’re sitting on a bench along the Hudson River Greenway a block from Luna’s building, gelato in hand, the moon hanging over us like a lamp, providing just enough light so I can see the tiniest difference between her irises and her pupils.

“Just never have. Yellow fruit freaks me out.”

“What does that even mean? Have you had bananas?”

“Yeah, bananas are more like a cream color when they’re out of their peel. But pineapple . . .” I shake my head. “What manufacturer is pumping that thing with yellow dye?”

“Uhhh . . . Mother Nature,” Luna says in an affronted tone. “Please tell me this is all a joke.”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“I can’t even with you right now. It’s such a simple fruit.”

“A fruit that used to be a luxury. Even my parents grew up thinking it was an exotic privilege.”

“Hence why you should have taken advantage your whole life. My God, Alec, the years you’ve wasted not knowing what pineapple tastes like. Why do I feel like I’m going to be showing up at your apartment with a pineapple tomorrow?”

“As if it’s a hardship.” I wiggle my eyebrows.

“It is when I’m seeing a guy who’s never had pineapple before.”

“Seeing a guy?” I ask, loving her little slipup. “So does that mean there will be a second date?”

“Ugh, stop it—you know this is going well, despite the whole pineapple thing. Of course there will be a second date.”

“How about making our second date tomorrow morning, or we can just make this date last until tomorrow morning. I have a comfortable bed—want to test it out?”

I lean toward her, but she palms my face, pushing me away. “You’re cute for even thinking that’s an option.”

“It’s not?”

“No.” She puts a spoonful of gelato in her mouth. “It’s not. Farrah would probably murder me. She’s still a little salty that I didn’t tell her about you right away, and she’s not exactly your number one fan yet. If I spent the night—man, would she be mad.”

“I see. So, I have to win over the best friend?”

“Oh, for sure. She keeps texting and asking me when I’m coming home. Asking me if she needs to prepare to kick you in the crotch.”

“She’s a violent one.”

“Only when she needs to be.”

After I finish off my gelato, I stand and hold my hand out. “How about we go solve the problem with Farrah right now?”

“Like, go to my apartment?”

“Yup.” I take her hand in mine and help her up. “Show me the way.”

She shoots me a suspicious glance. “I don’t know if you’re ready for her.”

“Not sure I’ll ever be. But better to get it over now, because I’m not going to let her prolong the inevitable.”

“And what’s the inevitable?”

“A friendly sleepover—of course, one that involves wearing matching pajamas and watching Grease.”

“Uh-huh.” She chuckles and leads the way to her apartment.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

LUNA

“Oh hell no,” Farrah says when we walk into the apartment, hand in hand. “Over my dead, Froot Loops–powered body will you be fornicating with that man, in this apartment, when I’m only a few feet away. Not going to happen. Not when he called you . . . ‘repugnant.’”

She is ripe today. This might be harder than I anticipated.

“We’re not here to fornicate, Farrah.” I shut the door behind us.

“Uh-huh, well, feeling his weenie up in your bedroom isn’t acceptable either.”

Alec chuckles, and I elbow him in the stomach. He’s not helping. “There will be no touching of body parts. We’re here so you can get to know Alec.”

Farrah crosses her arms over her chest, lips curled in a sneer. “Get to know him? What’s there to know? You kissed my best friend, and now she thinks you’re a good guy.”

“Technically,” Alec says, holding up a finger, “I kissed her after she changed her mind about me.”

“Fighting with her is not going to help your case,” I say from the side of my mouth.

“She’s right—fighting with me will not help your case, but it will sure help my rage.” She pretends to roll up her nonexistent sleeves and thrusts her fists into the air. “All right, let’s duke it out.” She bounces around the living room in her bare feet, jabbing at the air.

“Okay,” Alec says, taking his shoes off and putting up his fists as well, approaching without any caution.

“Whoa, hold on,” I say, but Farrah holds up her hand.

“Stay out of this, you repugnant swan.”

“Hey.” My brow furrows.

“I said ‘swan,’” she says just as she’s smacked in the stomach with a throw pillow. She stands up straight. Blinks. “You did not just chuck a pillow at me.”

“Stop stalling,” Alec says, grinning. I blink, hardly believing that he’s facing off against my best friend, proving that he’s not only in this, but that he’s also one hell of a good time as well.

“Why, I oughta . . . ,” Farrah says in an old-timey New York accent, jabbing her fists toward him but not making contact.

He jabs back, feet away, but she ducks anyway.