Instead, I make an observation. “So are you.”

He stops a few feet away, his gaze dark and intense. It sends shivers up my spine.

“Fishing for one?”

Forget fishing. I’d need a stick of dynamite and a shovel to unearth a compliment from Gray Phillips. I’ve never heard him compliment anyone about anything.

I snort at the suggestion. “My hopes are nice and low; don’t worry.”

He moves closer. Every inch that disappears between us increases my anticipation. There’s nothing resembling an appropriate distance between us. My spine presses into the wood that separates the sections of screen. The night air felt cool at first. Now, I’m flushed.

“If you want, I’ll give you compliments. All”—his lips brush my ear—“night”—ghost across my jaw—“long.” Press against my lips.

I moan into his mouth without meaning to.

“Do you want that, Evie?” He says my name like he never has before—with hidden meaning and heated familiarity.

I frantically search for my self-respect. “I thought we were a onetime thing.”

“We could be an as many times as we can until I leave thing.” He drops that sentence like it’s a simple statement with an easy answer.

This should be a hard, fast, and firm no. I already rode this emotional roller coaster. Got the T-shirt and the turmoil. Once can be a mistake. Even though he took it back, it probably was one. I’m the type of person who learns from her mistakes. Who thinks logically and follows reason.

Gray reads the hesitation on my face. “Look, I lied to Emmett that night. Told him I was back at the loft and was alone. He ran into Rachel and told her that. That’s why she texted me. It won’t happen again, I swear.”

He wants this, I realize. Wants me.

And rather than remember the aftermath—the embarrassment, the rejection, the anger—my body is focused on how it felt when he touched me. Kissed me. Was inside me. If it felt like that the first time, I want to know what it will be like the second.

Third.

Fourth.

Fifth.

Before I can say anything, Gray moves away, hearing what I didn’t—approaching footsteps. I sink into one of the wicker chairs just as Juliet rounds the corner, holding two plates of pie.

“It’s peach,” she tells me as she hands me a plate.

“It looks amazing,” I reply. “Thank you.”

“Gray.” Juliet holds the other plate out to him.

“Thanks, Mom.” He takes the seat next to me.

Henry appears with two more plates. We eat pie and enjoy the cool, peaceful evening.

Henry and Juliet talk about their trip to visit Juliet’s parents in Connecticut in a couple of months—just like they do every year. Juliet talks about her book club. Henry, his new golf clubs.