She scrolled through Finley’s contacts until she found his number, then sent him a text. It’s Willa. Finley’s having a rough night. She needs . . . something.

It was a Friday night and Campbell was sure to be at Ben Mantey’s party, but fifteen minutes later he strolled into Finley’s bedroom with a bag of weed in his pocket. Cam rolled a joint, and they propped themselves against the wall beneath Finley’s open bedroom window, getting high and playing Would You Rather . . . ? until Finley fell asleep with her head on his shoulder.

“Thanks for coming to help,” Willa said after they tucked Finley back into her bed. “That was really . . . sweet.”

“You seem surprised.”

“Maybe a little,” Willa admitted. “I figured you were busy.”

“I’m never too busy for Fin.” He leaned in so close that Willa almost thought he would kiss her, and her heart stopped beating. Instead, he grinned. “Need a ride home?”

She’d planned to spend the night, but Finley was finally comfortable and deeply asleep. “If it’s not out of your way.”

“Grab your stuff.”

Willa left a note and followed him out to the truck. The bench seat was covered with a striped Mexican serape, and mounted in the dashboard was an old-fashioned radio with tuning knobs instead of preset buttons. She focused on those things—things she loved about his truck—instead of the jittery feeling of being alone with Campbell. Willa had no reason to be nervous—he was Taylor’s brother—but she was not completely oblivious to his good looks. Or that Finley had been crushing on him since the beginning of time. As he swung up into the truck, the space suddenly felt too small.

“Relax, little Willa,” Cam said as he started the engine. “I don’t bite.”

He clicked on the radio, and they listened to the Indians game on WLEC as they headed down the Chaussee and across the Causeway. Instead of turning onto First Street, Cam drove to the Dairy Queen and pulled up to the drive-through menu.

“Blizzard?” he asked.

“Um . . . sure. Butterfinger. Small.”

Campbell ordered for both of them, and when they had their ice cream, he drove Willa the rest of the way home. He pulled into a parking space in the lot outside her apartment and cut the engine. “I have to tell you . . . I had you pegged as a cookie dough girl.”

She laughed. “I think you’re confusing me with Finley.”

“I’m definitely not confused.”

She glanced in his direction and her smile slipped. He wasn’t looking at her like she was one of his sister’s friends. He was staring. Willa’s gaze bounced away—to the radio, to her backpack on the floor, and finally, out the window. Anywhere but at Campbell. Her face burned with pleasure and shame, and she had no idea where to put all this brand-new, not-wholly-unwelcome attraction.