“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Ever.” I drop my hand from his face, realizing that it’s not cool to randomly grope strangers. “Everlynne.”

“Thank you for saving me, Everlynne.”

“I didn’t save you . . . ?” I say.

“Yet.” His smile is slow and teasing and screams trouble. “But now you owe me one. And I always collect.”

“I’m glad we’ve met again,” I say, before I forget. “I’ve got an important question, and it’s been bugging me ever since I saw you.”

He blinks at me, waiting for more. I take a deep breath. “Guns N’ Roses or Nirvana?”

He tips his head back and laughs. “What kind of question is that?”

“Not a tricky one if you have good taste.” I grin.

“Nirvana had ‘Lithium’ and ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ and basically nothing else. Guns N’ Roses are living legends.”

I stare at him blankly. This is exactly how I feel. How can we be thinking the same things?

“How did I do?” Joe wiggles his eyebrows.

“Disturbingly good,” I admit. “I’m sure we’ll find some things to disagree about musically, but so far we’re on the same wavelength.”

There’s a brief silence. We’re just basking in the pleasure of staring at one another. We breathe in the same rhythm, huddled closely together.

“What were you doing out there, Everlynne? Besides the obvious, which is giving me a heart attack at age nineteen.” Joe brushes wet hair away from my face gently.

He is a year older than me. My heart twirls like a belle getting ready for her first soiree. It doesn’t care that my body is going through an adrenaline crash. It’s happy and hopeful and dumb.

“I wanted to look at the statue up close.” And then, realizing something is amiss, I add, “I’m still wearing nothing but my bra and panties, aren’t I?”

“And the panties are see-through,” he confirms, biting down on his lips to catch his smile.

Closing my eyes, I whisper, “When I imagined being in your arms naked, it looked pretty different.”

My ears feel hot. I don’t know where this honesty is coming from. I never say what’s on my mind. Especially to strangers. Especially boy strangers. But Joe feels familiar.

“You imagined being in my arms, naked?” He raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Hmm, maybe once or twice.”

“And you thought a good way of indicating that to me was by running for the hills the first time we met?”

I don’t miss the irritation in his voice. Cinders of what must have been anger.

“I thought you and Pippa were hitting it off. I couldn’t stand the idea of watching you two . . . I don’t know, flirting. Because I liked you. And I never like anyone. I came back to look for you a few minutes later.”

I’m still in his arms as we’re having this conversation, wrapped in a fuzzy plaid orange-and-purple blanket.

“You thought I was hitting it off with Mainstream?” He sounds surprised . . . and a little smug.