Oh God. My chest fills with air, like a balloon filling, filling, filling, and straining to burst, tight from the pressure of holding myself in check in a public place. This moment? I never want it to end.

But it does, of course.

Someone in the bar whoops—whether at us or the images on the large-screen TV overhead, I’m not sure. Dean and I spring apart, our breathing slow and heavy, the longing in his gaze surely mirroring mine.

“One water for Dean and a Blackberry Jam for the self-saboteur,” Brandon says, his eyes dancing with mischief.

In my mind, I shoot laser beams at my friend, and he disintegrates to dust. From here on out, I’m addressing him as Brandon of House Harris, the Worst of His Name, King of the Traitors, Breaker of Balls, and Father of Cockblockers.

As Brandon makes a big show of placing beverage napkins on the counter, Dean and I right ourselves, the pickup artist who started us down this path long gone.

After taking two large gulps of water, Dean peers inside his glass as if it’s an aquarium and he’s searching for marine life within its depths. Is he as gobsmacked by the intensity of that kiss as I am?

Wait. What am I doing? How is this productive? I’m looking for someone who’s all in. Dean’s the kind of man who prides himself on being all out. Encouraging anything other than platonic friendship with him would be the baddest of bad decisions. So it’s obvious what I need to do here. Drawing a deep breath, I shake out my arms. “Thanks for the rescue, Chapman. I’ve got to hand it to you, that was very convincing. Your acting skills are improving by the day.”

His thumb pauses on the glass, then he stands and raps on the bar counter twice. “Right. It helps that I’m a quick learner. Glad I could be of service.” He doesn’t even glance at me before he takes off. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Solange.”

“Take care, Dean,” I call after him.

Then I drop my head on the bar. That didn’t feel good. Or right. But it felt safe. And when it comes to Dean, safe is what I’m aiming for. I want to get out of this arrangement unscathed. And if that means I need to pretend my and Dean’s kiss was a means to an end rather than a tantalizing glimpse of how explosive we could be together, so be it.

Dean

“What are you doing here? Didn’t you see the No Loitering sign?”

When I get home from Sip City, Max is lounging on a bench in front of my building, wearing basketball shorts and a white T-shirt that’s seen better days, as if he threw on whatever was on the floor of his bedroom to come over.