Her face was right there, just inches from mine, with no space left to breathe. She leaned in, her eyes locked on mine, and her lips parted just enough to make my heart race. “You still love me?”

“Don’t ask questions you know the answer to.” I tilted forward, just enough to close the last bit of space between us.

“No kiss,” she said.

I swallowed hard. “No kiss?”

Her eyes lingered on my mouth. “Not even a little one.”

“Not even a little one,” I echoed, my voice wrecked.

And then she pulled back, a smirk playing on her lips. Just like that. She slid off my lap as if she hadn’t just set my blood on fire.

Before I could speak, she stepped back, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and grabbed her bag from the floor.

I blinked, stunned. “Where the hell are you going?”

She grinned over her shoulder, already halfway to the door. “You’re lucky I didn’t charge you for the performance.”

I stood up, dazed, desperate, pulse racing.

She paused in the doorway. “Pick me up tomorrow.”

“What?” I asked breathlessly.

She gestured toward the studio, her hand sweeping across the space. “I’ve got things to dream about tonight. I need to sleep on it. But tomorrow, you pick me up. First thing in the morning. We’re heading back to Los Angeles.”

My mouth parted. “We are?”

She nodded, walking with that same cocky tilt in her step I hadn’t seen since we were teenagers. “To visit Jamal and Tiffany,” she said, pulling the door open. “They deserve to see the fool who bought me a dance studio.”

And with that, she disappeared, leaving me alone in a room I’d bought for her and now couldn’t seem to breathe in without her there. I stared after her, stunned, aroused, and more in love than I had any right to be.

I sat back down on the stool, still catching my breath, every inch of me aching with the weight of not kissing her.

The door shut behind her.

And I just sat there, grinning like an idiot.

God, I was so gone for her.

56

BEVERLY, 2001

19 years old

I woke to the feeling of someone’s hand cradling my head. Not harsh. Not invasive. Gentle—like the person touching me thought I might crack in their palm if they weren’t careful. Then Blake’s voice, low and coaxing, cut through the fog of sleep. “C’mon, B. Time to wake up. Got your favorite—burnt toast and pancakes.”