“Hope so.” I’ve made it my mission to change their minds about me, and my first step has been watching how Ryan treats them. Not like a boss, more like a friend or a mentor.

“Some of the boys looked like they were developing a crush,” he says in a teasing voice.

“And some of those girls were pretty impressed with your height.” I’d overheard whispers as they pointed at him and grinned at each other.

He rolls his eyes—playfully, but there’s a hint of discomfort.

“You really don’t like being tall?”

“I like being able to reach things,” he says, easily setting a stack of books back on top of a bookcase. “I don’t like not being able to fit comfortably in things.”

“Things?”

“Cars. Shoes. Booths. Airplane seats. Clothes.” His eyes slide over to meet mine. “Beds.”

And just like that, I’m imagining Ryan in my bed, crawling over me, his head brushing my headboard, his feet dangling off the end. My fantasies about him haven’t subsided; if anything, they’ve gotten more vivid. The vibrator isn’t cutting it anymore. I’m a horny mess. I keep trying to tell myself that I’m horny in general, but that’s a damn lie. I’m horny specifically. For the guy I’ve been spending twelve hours a day with.

“I can see how that would be hard,” I say, swallowing.

Hard. Oh my god. I’m a freak.

“I don’t like being constantly asked if I played basketball,” Ryan goes on, “and when I say no, people act almost offended, like I’m a waste of inches.” He pauses. “I was seeing this woman once, and she sent me this meme. ‘Is he hot, or is he just tall?’ I’m pretty sure she was telling me that I’m ‘just tall.’ ”

I’m offended on his behalf. “That’s ridiculous—”

“Is it?” There’s a wry smile on his face. “Be honest. If I was a foot shorter, would you have made out with me after my parents’ party?”

My cheeks flush. “A foot shorter…” I mull that over. “You’re what, six-four?”

“Six-seven. And a half.”

I gasp. “Fucking hell. Really? And you didn’t play basketball?”

He rolls his eyes as we both make our way over to his register to close out.

“Very funny. But answer the question: What if I was five-seven and a half?” He nudges me with his shoulder. “Would you have?”

I have that tipsy feeling I get around Ryan, bubbly and a little flirty. So as I start counting out the bills in the register, I say, “Would I have what?”

When I sneak a look at him, his cheeks are deliciously flushed. “Would you have made out with me. On the beach.”

“Definitely.”

His eyebrows lift. “Yeah, right.”