Page 70 of The Breakup Artists

“I swear,” I reply with a laugh, “you’re basically impossible.”

He lightly touches my hand on my thigh, running his fingers along the curve of my palm, and just that feather of a touch sends heat coursing through my body. “What can I say? I know what I want.”

And great, I’m flustered. “Right... but that changes every two weeks. Sooo.” I don’t even know why I’m fighting him on this. But something about his closeness and the way his damp, sun-bleached hair falls on his forehead scrambles my thoughts. It’s taking all my restraint not to tackle him into my bed.

“Does that bother you?” he asks like it’s a concern.

But I don’t know the answer.Doesit bother me? It’s the summer before college. If we were anything, it wouldn’t be serious. Besides, I’ve been known to fall hard and fast, too. Can I really fault him without it being a double standard? I shrug.

“What if I told you, hand to heart, that this isn’t a two-week thing for me?” he says, and the overindulgent, romantic part of my brain leaps on the sentiment, even though I know it’s neither true nor realistic.

I smile. “I’d say that you’re wicked good at this. Talented.”

“How about this,” he replies, lifting my palm to his mouth and kissing it. A small gasp escapes my lips before I can pull it back, and he looks far too pleased by my reaction. “We make a deal right now that we’ll be one hundred percent honest with each other.”

I lean back on my bed, propping myself up on my elbows. “No one is ever one hundred percent honest. What happens if I ask you something you don’t want to answer or something that makes you super uncomfortable?”

He follows my lead and lies on his side next to me, his head supported by his hand. “I’ll get over it and tell you anyway.”

I eye him, hooked by curiosity. “I’m weirdly tempted to take you up on this, even just as a social experiment.”

“Then do it... unless you’re scared?”

I lift a challenging eyebrow. “Never. I’m in.”

“Good,” he says, brushing back the hair that once again fell onto his forehead, and I have a compulsion to reach over and help him with it. “Ask me a question.”

I turn on my side to face him. “Hmmm. Let’s see,” I say, going straight for a question he won’t want to answer. “What’s the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you?”

He grunts. “Oh man. Seriously?”

I smile, feeling a little gloaty. “Hey, this was your idea.”

He laughs. “Yeah, but if I tell you, you’ll never want to kiss me again.”

“If you’rescared,” I say, more than a little pleased that I managed to prove my point on the first question, “we can call off the deal now, no hard feelings.”

He puts his hand out. “Hang on now, I didn’t say no.”

But he doesn’t respond right away. It takes him a couple of beats and a disbelieving headshake before he says, “Well, here goes nothing.” He rubs his hand over his face, clearly trying to psych himself up. “I shit my pants.”

I half laugh, half choke. “You did not.”

“I did. Bad food combo before football practice. Rookie mistake. I felt the rumble and I ran for the locker room, but just as I was pulling my pants down... bam. I took a shower and split. Coach was pissed I disappeared, but it’s basically a universal rule that if you shit your pants in public, you just go home and hide.”

I’m having a hard time controlling my laughter; it’s spilling out of me in a goofy way. “Wow. That’s a reputation killer right there.”

“You’re telling me. This is serious trust, Valentine. Serious. Trust.”

In a way I’m actually impressed he put himself on the line like that. His dude friends would never let him live that down if they knew.

“Okay, my turn,” he says, and my stomach drops in a bright pang of anticipation. He searches my eyes with his gaze. “Did you feel something when we kissed yesterday?”

And that’s all it takes for my heart to start hammering. “Feel something like what?” I stall.

“You know what,” he says, more sure of himself than anyone who just told a pants-shitting story has any right to be.

My phone buzzes on the bed next to me, but I’m too consumed with his question to look at it. “Well... I mean, yeah. It was nice.”