No, I guess it isn’t.

At some point in the forty-five minute drive, I finish the cone, and a wet wipe appears miraculously in front of me. I snatch it away from Oakley before he can offer to do the wiping for me. When Ty pulls up to the curb, I open the door but can’t get out. It’s not until Oakley reaches over and unbuckles the seat belt that I realize the harness is restraining me. His palm grazes my thigh as he takes his hand back.

I tumble out in a hurry, trying to avoid those long musician’s fingers of his from touching me again. I swear I hear him laugh when the door closes.

“Thanks, Ty,” I mumble and then run inside the house before he can say a word.

I slam the door shut and lean against it, chest heaving as though I’d just run that Griffith trail Paisley likes so much. I don’t understand where those…flutters came from. Up until the other morning, I’d viewed Oakley as a smug, self-absorbed jerk. And then he called me up and sang to me, and suddenly I’m getting all warm and gooey over him like one of his fangirls.

I want the conceited Oakley back. The one who mocks me about how good he is with his tongue and takes me to a club only to snap at me and ignore me. That Oakley I can handle.

But this one? The one who smolders at me and writes me apology songs? I’m so out of my element here.

“Hey.” Paisley wanders in from the kitchen with a mug in her hands. “How’d the ice cream date go?”

“He touched me,” I blurt out.

She stops abruptly and swings toward me. “Like assaulted you?”

“No. No.” I wave my hand. “My ice cream was melting and he caught a drip of it on his thumb and then he stuck his thumb in his mouth.” I recite the act as if detailing some serious act of pornography. It was R-rated, though.

Paisley looks at me with great concern. “Are you okay? Did you get too much sun?”

I don’t know how to explain this to her. I can’t even explain it to myself. All I know is that Oakley’s rough-tipped fingers brushed my hip. Touched my hand. Skimmed my thigh.

And I liked it way too much.

17

HER

Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn Best ice cream ever today. They should make a flavor called Vaughn. I’d order it every day.

Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord Would you get Kale sprinkles on it?

Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn Nah, I want the pure Vaughn, straight up, not shaken or stirred.

Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord Sounds boring.

Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn No way. I had a taste of it today. It was delicious. 1

Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn How about you? Favorite flavor?

Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord Is this where I say Oakley Ford?

@rubyred342 @OakleyFord I want a flavor called OAKLEY!

@jj_warren33 @OakleyFord @VeryVaughn Get a room

Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn Only if you mean it. Otherwise you’ll hurt my feelings.

Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord Are we still talking about ice cream?

“Is dinner ready yet?” Shane yells from the twins’ room. “We’ve got football.”

I brush the last two circles of dough with butter and throw them into the cast-iron pan before yelling back, “Five minutes!”

I check the clock again. The lemon and yogurt chicken will be done in two minutes; the boys will scarf down their dinner in under ten. I’ll have the table cleared by half past the hour with Paisley’s leftovers wrapped and stuck in the fridge. She’s working late tonight on some hush-hush project for Diamond.

If all goes according to plan, I should have an entire hour to get ready for the Oakley Ford live performance at the Valor Club, the venue for the charity benefit he invited me and my friends to attend. I flip the naan over and then pull the perfectly baked chicken from the oven.

“What’re we having?” Shane asks when the twins bounce into the kitchen.

“Homemade grilled naan with lemon chicken served over a bed of grilled spring onions, pea shoots and a side of yogurt jus.”

“So bread, chicken and peas,” Spencer says, sniffing the chicken. “Smells good.” He gives his brother a thumbs-up.

“This isn’t one of your experiments, right?” Shane asks as he pulls out a chair. “Because I’m starved.”

“If you don’t like what I make, then don’t eat it,” I inform the two brats. Expertly, I plate the chicken for the boys, drizzle a little of the yogurt sauce over the meat and then set the food in front of them.

The two inhale the dinner in no time, because despite their complaints about my sometimes overzealous culinary attempts in the kitchen, most of the time their meals are pretty darn good, if I do say so myself. It’s the one thing I really enjoy doing when I have the time, and now that I’m not waiting tables and we have a little more cushion to buy groceries, I’ve been enjoying the heck out of whipping up different meals.

Not all of them have been a success, but I think I’m batting above .500. At the rate at which the twins consume the food, it’s safe to say they agree—even if they wouldn’t admit it.

Soon, the two of them are out the door to go to their practice. One of their teammate’s parents is driving them. Then it’s time for me to get ready.

Kiki okayed my outfit of skinny jeans, oversize black tank with a new teal-colored lace bra that peeks out the sides of my shirt and a pair of low-heeled boots. I stuff my hair into a high ponytail, brush on a couple of coats of mascara and a bit of gloss. Another black SUV is sent to pick me up, but I don’t recognize the driver, and his mirrored sunglasses and frozen expression don’t invite any chitchat.

“No limo?” Carrie says when we swing by her place to pick her up, and she’s only kidding a little. She’s dressed in a tiny black dress with waist cutouts. Her hair is flat-ironed and looks like a shiny, blond curtain.

“I’ve never seen Oakley in a limo,” I admit.

“Too bad. Maybe he saves them for awards shows?”

I raise my hands up in a display of ignorance. “Maybe?”

We both look at the driver, who pretends neither of us is there. He just pulls into traffic, heading for our next destination.

“By the way? Those Tweets you guys were sending each other this week totally turned me on,” Carrie announces.

“Ew. TMI.”

“I’m TMI’ing? Um, you and Oakley were sex-Tweeting about ice cream!”

Actually, me and Amy were sex-Tweeting about ice cream, but I don’t tell Carrie that. Besides, if I’m being honest, a part of me totally forgot about Amy this week. At times it felt like I was talking directly to Oakley, and some of his—Amy’s—responses sounded like stuff he’d say in real life.

I guess Claudia’s team knows him very well.

“Stop Twitter-stalking me,” I tell Carrie, grinning.

She grins back. “Stop Tweeting, then.”

“Touché.”

Kiki is next on the pickup list, and the first thing out of her mouth when she gets in the car is, “No limo?”

“That’s what I said!” Carrie exclaims. “Apparently Oakley doesn’t use limos except for awards shows.”

“Ah, that makes sense.”

My eyebrows shoot up at that declaration, which Kiki takes as gospel.

“God, you look gorgeous,” Carrie tells her. “Doesn’t she, Vaughn?”

Kiki is beautiful. Her hair is curled and blown out in a perfect beach wave. She’s wearing black satin shorts and a sheer black top over a red bra. On her feet are four-inch platform heels.

“Those shoes are badass,” I remark.

“I borrowed them from my mom’s closet,” Kiki informs us.

Tracy’s last on our list. I hop out and climb into the passenger seat while she squishes into the back next to Kiki and Carrie.

Tracy bounces up and down a few times. “I can’t believe I’m riding in Oakley Ford’s SUV!”

“Belt,” the driver says.

We don’t move.

“Belt,” he repeats.

“Oh!” I twist around. “You need to put on your seat belt,” I tell Tracy.

She complies quickly and then claps her hands. “Sorry! I was so excited I forgot about that. This is so sick! Aren’t you excited? I’m going to die tonight! How many celebrities will be there? Do you think Dylan O’Brien will be there? I heart him so much!”