I push all thoughts of Monday from my mind and focus on her now.

We’ve opened our second bomber, and her cheeks are flushed, her posture relaxed. I’m glad I didn’t warn her I was coming over. She answered the door in cotton shorts that don’t cover much more than her panties did Sunday morning. Her wide-neck sweatshirt falls off one shoulder, and I can’t keep my eyes off her exposed cherry-red bra strap. One little strap has my imagination running wild, landing over and over again on her in bed in nothing but a red bra and panties.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, pushing her plate away. She leans back in her chair and puts a hand on her stomach in a time-honored gesture of satisfaction.

“Like what?”

She sighs. “I’m not sure. You seem . . . maybe regretful? What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, Carter? Are you worried I’m going to become one of your stalker fangirls and chain you in my basement now that I know you can cook?”

“Well, I wasn’t, but now I am,” I say, and she laughs. “I was thinking that tomorrow’s the big day. Are you worried about this?”

“Not . . . really.”

“That wasn’t very convincing.”

“It’ll be fine. It’s just that I’ve been looking forward to Saanvi’s wedding, and this changes things. I won’t be able to let my guard down because I’ll be worried about slipping up.”

I want to ask why she’s so determined this is necessary, but that would mean asking about Rich, and I promised I wouldn’t. “I think we’ll be fine.”

She rolls her shoulders back, and determination steels her jaw. “Okay, what else do you need to know?”

“I’m not sure.” In some ways I already know her so well, but in other ways I feel like I know nothing. Mostly, I want an excuse to stay—to listen to her laugh and look into her eyes instead of getting in bed and resigning myself to the nightmares that await me. “What’s your favorite color?”

She laughs. “I haven’t been asked that question since I was eight. I don’t think I have one. What’s yours?”

My gaze lands on her bra strap. “Red.” As of sixty minutes ago, but it still counts.

“I guess I like red too. Definitely not pink.” She shudders.

“Why not?”

“It’s the color of my childhood bedroom. Mom had pink everything in there. The furniture, the bedding, the rug, the walls. It reminded me of the medicine she’d give us when we had a stomach bug.” She shrugs. “A little pink is okay, but it’s definitely not my favorite. Saanvi still loves it, though. And it suits her. She’s even girlier than I am. What else?”

“Steak or chicken?”

“Steak. But don’t tell my parents. They don’t know I eat beef.”

“Oh, are they Hindu?”

She puts her arms over her head and stretches, yawning. “No, it’s for health reasons, really.”