“Wow,” I had said drily. “That’s hot.”

Totally unfazed, he had brushed his golden hair from his eyes and smirked. “I assume you’re next?”

It was the first and last time I attempted a keg stand.

“Well, this isn’t exactly the Castle, is it?” Nick said, referencing the nickname for my old sorority house.

“Not exactly. But it’ll do for now. I think the place just needs a little bit of light.”

“And some furniture. Are the movers bringing that later or something?”

“Or something,” I admitted. “I don’t actually own any.”

“What about all that stuff in your apartment back in New York?”

“It was all Izzy’s. I’m going to have to buy new stuff, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“Well, you know there’s an IKEA over in College Park, right? It might not be glamorous enough for a social media star like yourself—”

I stuck my tongue out and poked him in the ribs; he lightheartedly batted me away.

“—but let me know if you want a ride over there or need my help assembling furniture or anything. I don’t like to brag, but I’m pretty handy with an Allen wrench.”

“I may take you up on that, considering I don’t even know what an Allen wrench is.”

“Of course you don’t,” he said with a laugh, and shook his head. “Someone’s always built your furniture for you, haven’t they?”

I shrugged. “When you’re this pretty …”

“Modest, too.”

“You know me.”

“I do,” he said softly, reaching out and wrapping a lock of my strawberry-blonde hair around his fingers, tugging slightly. “You’re letting your hair grow again. I like it.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” I said, surveying his athletic build, tan skin, and neat blond hair. Teasingly, I pinched the flesh on his tight midsection. “You’ve put on a little weight, but you carry it well.”

“Shut up, Audrey,” he said throatily, wrapping a strong arm around my waist, pulling me close, and lowering his lips onto my smiling mouth.

Kissing Nick was easy, comfortable. Even though our relationship had come to an end when we graduated, Nick always called when he was up in New York and we saw each other a few times a year. I once told him that being with him was like riding a bike—no matter how much time passed, I could always remember how our mouths, our bodies, fit together. He had given me a strange look, mildly perturbed at being compared to a man-powered vehicle, but hadn’t disagreed.

I snaked a hand up underneath his T-shirt, tracing his muscles and lingering on the left shoulder blade I knew was marked by a poorly conceived tattoo. I felt a little bad about that. I had been with him in the Fort Lauderdale tattoo parlor, both of us slightly buzzed on rum and sun, and I should have told him not to take the tattoo artist’s word that the Chinese character he pointed to meant “brave.” I should have told him that getting a tattoo he couldn’t read was a terrible idea.