“No offense, but why would you want to be with a guy like that anyway?”

“Right?” She holds her arms out to her sides. “Excellent point. I don’t. It was explained to me like this: my expectations for a male relationship are very low due to the experiences I had growing up. So me picking a partner is like going to the grocery store on an empty stomach and not knowing how to read the nutrition labels. I pick the lowest-hanging fruit that resembles the foods I know.”

“Okay, that . . . that’s going to take me a minute to process.”

“You don’t even have to process it. Basically, I’ve screwed up, and I’m trying to do better. My kid deserves for me to do better. A part of doing better is not picking men that are in the same food group that I choose—no offense.”

I draw back, baffled. “I am offended, actually. Not that I know of whatever food spoilage you’ve consumed in your life, but I’m a full-on nutritional package.”

She snorts.

Slowly, what she’s saying starts to make sense. I’m like the other guys she’s dated, and they’re all losers.

I should keep my mouth shut and go on about my night because I have no interest in being the one. Hell, I can’t be anyone’s everything. I can’t promise anyone shit—not even myself.

But I also don’t understand how she’s associating me with any man who had her and blew her off. Fuck. That.

She sighs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lumped you in with them in such a general way.”

“Or in any way, but thanks.”

“I just meant that you’re unavailable. You don’t live here. You don’t even live in a place that’s remotely accessible to a girl in Ohio unless I hop on a plane for a half-day trip.”

This is true. Completely true.

“You told me that you’re a California boy. ‘Sunshine and salt water.’” She half smiles, half frowns. “Kissing you was a big mistake. Huge.”

“Well, I mean, I wouldn’t go that far.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “You, Mr. Beck, are a slippery slope. I think you know this.”

I grin. It’s a compliment.

“I’m going to have to relive that kiss for days now. Weeks, even,” she says. “And that’s not . . . that’s stupid.”

I hear what she’s saying. I understand what she’s saying. I agree with what she’s saying.

But after a few moments of letting her words settle in my psyche, I’m still not convinced that she’s right. The two of us spending time together, kissing—or more—does logically seem like a waste of time and a potential disaster when I go back home.

Because I am going back home.