“Three?” he asks.

No response.

“Two.”

No response.

“One.” Bingo. And heat creeps up the back of my neck.

“This convo is over, Gunner,” I whisper, struggling to get the words out.

“You used one.” I hear the humor in his voice.

I back away, turn on the ball of my feet, and I shut the bedroom door behind me. As I walk into the living room, I see Izzy straddling Matt’s lap as they speak in hushed tones. They are so engrossed in their conversation they don’t notice I’m here. I don’t want to be a third wheel, so I grab my camera next to the stylish lamp and stroll to the balcony and perch on the seat. I got into taking pictures because of my mom; she used to love taking pictures of everything, according to Petra. So every time I hold a camera, I feel like I’m close to her. The city is alive beneath me as I take pictures of tall skyscrapers. The wind cools off my scorching skin and the sky is the color of cotton candy.

Thirty minutes later, I hear the glass door open, and I twirl around. Gunner’s hair is wet, and his clothes cling to his damp body as he holds two glasses. As he perches next to me, he smells like body wash. He hands me a glass, and I set the camera Izzy bought me last year for my birthday down on the concrete.

“Did you have fun in the shower?” Oh, my God. Did I just flirt with Gunner? Guess I did. Maybe I need to lay off the wine, it’s making my lips loose as a goose.

“Would have been ten times better with your tiny hand jacking off my dick.”

He scoots so close to me our thighs rub against each other, and I pretend to ignore he is affecting me.

I feel my cheeks heating, and I rub my index finger on the rim of the glass. We are quiet for a while. Izzy strolls out the door with messed-up hair and bee-stung lips.

“Matt and I are hanging out, I’ll be back in the morning.” She darts her eyes between me and Gunner. “Gunner, you better not hurt Gia. Or I swear I’ll be your worst nightmare.” Then she hugs me and whispers in my ear, “Guard your heart.”

“What’s your scrawny self gonna do? You can’t even bust a grape,” he shoots back.

“I have muscles.” She flexes her right arm, using her index finger to push up her bicep. “And I have a mean right hook. My dad taught me how to box. I know a thing or two.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say. “Have fun with Matteo.”