I don’t know how to feel about this.

Before I know it, I’m the one making conversation.

“Reading for school?”

Her eyes stay on the page, but she lifts the book enough for me to see she’s definitely not doing a summer reading assignment, unless she goes to an extremely liberal school that assigns graphic novels instead of classics by dead white guys. Which she might, since she’s outclassing me on everything else.

“Cool. I read for fun too.” Did I actually say that? Please tell me I did not say that. Next thing I’m going to be pouring my heart out about my five hundred deleted attempts at writing a romance novel. “I didn’t even know your dad had kids,” I continue, hating myself for babbling while Jasmine makes it clear she’s not interested in conversation.

“Kid.” She tilts her face up at the sun, glare reflecting off the shades of her designer sunglasses. “Just me. I live with my mom in Asheville. You did know he was divorced, didn’t you? Or did you think your mom was banging a married man?”

Lordy, she is a Type. But I am used to Types. I can handle Types. “I did know, and they’re not banging. But if you’re looking for a partner in crime for a Parent Trap–style summer, you’re out of luck.”

Her perfect white teeth flash in a smile. “God, I can’t imagine anything worse.” She sits up and I think she’s looking at me, but it’s impossible to tell through her mirrored aviators. “I’ll take a designated driver for a party tonight, though. It’ll be a good one. I promise.”

Inviting me to the pool and a party in the first hour we meet? Either Jasmine is way more of a people person than she lets on, or she’s really lonely. It doesn’t really matter. I know nobody here and have no choice but to accept the invitation.

But here’s the thing I learned about Jasmine that day: her promises are always, always for real.

Chapter Two

NOW

I’d extricated myself from my conversation with Shannon and Chase with mumbled excuses earlier, but by the time I slide into my seat behind him in my second period calculus class after fruitlessly spending first period history scouring every corner of social media for clues as to what the hell Jasmine is doing here, I’m determined to shove her out of my mind and get my shameless flirt on.

Apparently, so is he.

“Yo, you coming to my game Friday night?” His face is turned just enough for me to be sure he’s talking to me, his right dimple displayed in its full glory. I have dreams of doing weird things to those dimples.