“What do you want for Christmas?” he asked.

I jumped slightly, startled. I was pretty sure I looked exactly like someone looks when they’re caught staring at their best friend with less than innocent thoughts. We hadn’t kissed again.

But I really wanted to.

His question echoed in my head. “Christmas?”

Dark eyebrows pulled together, serious. “Yeah. Christmas.”

I tried to cover. “Is that what you’ve been thinking about all this time?”

“No.”

I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.

“I don’t really know,” I told him. “Any particular reason you’re asking me this in September?”

Elliot rolled to his side to face me, his head propped in his hand. “I’d just like to get you something nice. Something you want.”

I put my book down and rolled to face him, too. “You don’t have to get me anything, Ell.”

He made a frustrated sound and sat up. Pushing up off the carpet, he moved to stand. I reached out, wrapping my hand around his wrist. The light, lusty mood between us had been only on my end, apparently.

“Are you mad about something?”

Elliot and I didn’t fight, really, and the idea that something between us was off tilted my internal balance, making me feel immediately anxious. I could feel his pulse like a steady drum beneath his skin.

“Do you think about me when you’re back there?” His words came out sharp, exhaled roughly.

It took me a second to process what he meant. When I was back home. Away from him. “Of course I do.”

“When?”

“All the time. You’re my best friend.”

“Your best friend,” he repeated.

My heart dipped low in my chest, almost painfully. “Well, you’re more, too. You’re my best everything.”

“You kissed me this summer and then acted like nothing happened.”

This came at me like a blade to my lungs. I closed my eyes and covered my face with my hands. It had happened like that. After I kissed him in his kitchen, I’d made everything go back to how it was: reading on the roof in the morning, lunch in the shade, swimming in the river. I’d felt his eyes on me, the shaking restraint of his hands. I remembered how warm his lips had been, and the way I felt like a lit fuse when he growled into my mouth.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Why are you sorry?” he asked carefully, crouching down beside me. “Are you sorry because you didn’t like kissing me?”

I felt my hands flush cold, looking at him in shock. “Did it feel like I didn’t like it?”

“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging helplessly. “It felt like you liked it. A lot. And I did, too. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, Mace, and then you just . . .” He scowled at me, face tight. “You got weird.”

My thoughts got all tangled—the memory of Emma beside him in the driveway and the panic I always felt when I imagined him leaving my life for good. “I mean, there’s Emma—”