I look up at him, only inches away, his eyes dark and focused on my mouth. “I am?”

“Yeah.” His head tilts.

I lean into him.

Then I remember. Garlic clam sauce.

I jerk away. “Sorry, I uh . . .”

He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Can I give you a ride home?”

This is new. Normally, we part ways and I take a cab. For some reason, not making out right away means I get a little more time with Alex. Note to self.

“Yes. That would be great.”

Also next time, bring gum. Why did I want to not make out with him again? I can’t even remember anymore.

His truck is parked up the block, a refurbished classic, the bright blue paint shining under the street lamps—a fancy vintage Ford Bronco. It has to be from the 1970s or something. He opens the passenger door for me, and I slide into the vinyl bench seat. The interior is spotless and looks completely new, but it’s all analog displays. Nothing electronic in here.

“This is a great car.” It feels like Alex. Lavish, sure, but at the same time unpretentious. He’s not the Porsche or Lamborghini type.

“Thanks.” He turns the key, engine rumbling to life. “It was my first major purchase after we went big time.” He shoots me a grin before checking the mirrors and pulling onto the street.

“Did you buy anything else fun?”

“I bought my parents a house.”

“Wow.” I can’t even fathom that kind of success.

Jane, you just don’t fit.

I slap the voice away, focusing on directions to my apartment. There has to be a way to get him to come upstairs with me. I mean, that’s why he’s taking me, right? Isn’t that what people do?

He pulls the Bronco up under a dull streetlight in front of my squat, two-story apartment building, leaving the engine idling.

My stomach flip-flops. I twist my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. “At the risk of sounding presumptuous, do you want to come upstairs and have a drink? I have . . . water?” And toothpaste. I can brush my teeth and then we can make out on my couch. Or on the floor. Or in my bed. Or hell, right here, I’m not picky.

But what would happen if he did stay the night? Would he disappear in the morning? What if he is the key, the one to make time move forward, the love the psychic was talking about? I can’t really say I’m in love with Alex right now, but I could see myself falling for him. Who wouldn’t? I mean, look at him. I turn in the seat to eye him straight on.

He’s smiling, eyes crinkled—and full of reluctant remorse. “I better not.”

“Are you sure?”

He slides closer to me, tipping my chin up to meet my eyes. “This is too important.”