The thing is, we’re adults—with homes and beds and Egyptian cotton sheets. And I don’t understand why we aren’t spending every (any) night together. I suspect it has something to do with Cameron’s sweet, if misguided, sense of honor. He keeps saying he wants to take me on a proper date first, to differentiate between before and now and the kids we were versus the adults we are.

This is all well and good and really very charming, and when I’m eighty, I’ll probably look back at his insistence with fondness or whatever. But right now, I really need the man to press me into his mattress and make me forget my own name. Repeatedly.

We have a lot of ground to cover. Years and years of ground. And his thighs are, like, right there, taunting me.

Cameron squats, bending to pick up one end of a slab of countertop, and from my perch on the bottom step, I greedily take in every line and clenching muscle. I’m technically on break, waiting on literal paint to dry. My dad directs the crew to drop the countertop against the recently smoothed drywall, and Cam places his end with careful precision, his biceps bulging and his full lips pressed together. I swallow hard, sweat trickling between my breasts, before a flying napkin smacks me across the forehead.

“Lunch!”

I take the Panera bag from my best friend, and she passes me a large iced green tea with a knowing smirk. “Looks like you could use something cold.”

“Thanks. It’s a hundred degrees in here.”

“Yeah,” she snarks in a low voice, settling next to me on the stair and cracking open her salad container. “That’s what I meant. Still waiting, I see.”

I nod, pouring some goopy green dressing over my chopped salad. “Ten years of unrequited lust will do that to a person.”

Cameron maneuvers to lift another slab, this time angling himself so that I have a perfect view of his perfect ass.

“I feel a little guilty,” I murmur distractedly. “I’m obviously objectifying him. He’s more than his body.”

Lorelai snorts, stabbing at a chunk of avocado.

“But I can’t help it. He keeps wearing those jeans.” My voice slips into a stage whisper. “It’s like he knows.”

Just then, Cam, his back to us, clenches his glutes, making his low-slung carpenter belt hop. My stomach flips reflexively, and I probably drool a little. Then he does it again. And again.

Cameron looks over his shoulder, catches my eye, and winks.

My fingers press to my lips, but it’s too late to hide my giggle before he turns, giving my dad his full attention.