But would it be unrequited? She told me to stop running, but I can’t tell the real from the fake anymore. We kissed at the Caroline Street house. That was real. We fought and I stormed off, but then we talked and worked things out. That was also real. We flirt. On camera. Maybe not real. Well, okay, real for me, but …

She brought my T-shirt to sleep in.

Too fucking real.

No. It’s not unrequited, but things aren’t progressing either, and I’m starting to realize why.

I take a chance and pull Shelby closer. Her scent is nearly my undoing. She smells like lemons and springtime. She wraps her arms around my neck without hesitation, her cheeks rosy and her hair shining gold in the midday sun.

I can’t leave her again.

14

SHELBY

BACK TO YOU

After The Dance (a.k.a. the dance heard round the world or at least in Shelby Springfield’s best Nora Ephron–fueled daydreams), Cameron suggests grabbing soft-serve ice-cream cones before continuing on to the next tent. Not like I have room for more furniture finds, but I haven’t even made it through half the vendors yet, and well, we’re here.

As if I could concentrate, at any rate. I’m basically a puddle of hormones and incoherent reason at this point. Sleeping practically within reach—close enough to hear his breathing. I mean, if I hadn’t taken that Tylenol PM, I’d probably be staggering through my day like, well, like he is, if I’m honest.

Poor guy.

I didn’t mean to pack his T-shirt. Okay. Yes, I definitely meant to pack it. I rarely sleep in anything else because I’m pathetic. But I absolutely meant to take that secret to the grave and I couldn’t very well sleep in my jeans.

But then there’s how he’s oh-so-casually paid for everything so far. Like a date. Like a date weekend. I should probably fight him over it, women’s lib and all, but hell, it’s been so long since anyone tried to pay for me.

Again. I’m tragic. We covered this.

And maybe I’m just a little bit hopeful. As if when added up to a whole, these things could mean something … because at first, we were only dancing, and it was all friendly and cool, and then it was more. Like, more more.

And this time, when our fingers dangle between us as we stroll along the center aisle of the tent, his catch mine, and I swear the clouds clear overhead and an angel chorus breaks into jubilant song.

Halle-fricken-lujah.

I watch as his tongue darts out to capture the chocolate sweetness. “Is this okay?” he asks. Which part? I wonder, sardonically. The strong, calloused man-hand wrapped around mine or the talented tongue flexing?

Because, option C. ALL OF THE ABOVE.