I shrug even though he can’t see me. “A woman can change her mind,” I answer airily. He groans, the vibration coming through the phone, into my ear, and shooting straight down to low in my belly again.

Yep, I’m risking a lot here, but damn if I’m not gambling on a sure thing because I have no doubt that one night with Blake would be enough to get me through a long dry spell.

“You’re killing me, Zo. But no, I didn’t call for a booty call.” It sounds like it physically hurts him to say that because he takes a deep breath before continuing, “I called to ask you out.”

“Out?” I squeak in shock. “Like a date?”

Blake chuckles. “No.”

My heart sinks to my toes like gravity just got a super-boost of strength, and then for shits and giggles, someone flips the gravitational pull switch off, making my heart fly up and try to come out my mouth.

“Oh.”

“No, not like a date. That’s what we did before—eat dinner, have a drink, get to know each other—but it wasn’t planned the way a date should be. What I want to do is take you out on an actual date. It can look the same—dinner, drinks, conversation—but it’s different because of the intention from the get-go.”

Wow, he’s good.

Dangerously good.

“That sounds . . . awesome,” I say honestly, but before I can get carried away with things I can’t have, I make myself say, “but I can’t.”

“Oh.”

For such a flat sound, it’s painfully sharp to my heart. “I thought we had a good time?”

He sounds so unsure of himself, something I would’ve never thought a good-looking, smart, sweet guy like Blake would feel. It makes him seem a bit more real somehow. And he deserves more than a no.

I sigh heavily, not prepared for this conversation but diving in anyway. “It’s for your own good, not because I don’t want to.”

“Can you explain that, please?”

I don’t know why. I should just tell him that it’s not going to happen. Or that I was joking. Anything other than give him a peek behind my curtain. I haven’t let anyone back there in ages, and while some of the basics have become the basis for folklore around town, nobody other than Jacob knows the whole truth.

But that’s what I suddenly start telling him. The truth, not the overinflated stories.

“When I was eleven, I went to summer camp. One of those sleepaway deals where you make fire with flint rocks, row canoes around the lake, and roast marshmallows over campfires.” I pause, the memories washing over me.

“Sounds fun?” Blake hedges.