“For me?” My heart twirls in my chest. He made soup for me?

Jamie’s cheeks pink as he clears his throat. “I made four different kinds of veggie puree soups with my fancy blender and froze them. I was going to give them to you, but then I didn’t know if it was too much, or if you’d even like them. So they’re just . . . sitting in there. Making me feel like a presumptuous weirdo each time I get ice. Which is every morning. For my breakfast smoothie.”

“Jamie.” My heart feels like something just woke up inside it and stretched, demanding more space.

Jamie doesn’t say anything, but the blush on his cheeks grows.

A thick wave’s fallen onto his forehead, half covering his right eye. I brush it back, then slide my hands through his hair, enjoying its silky softness. “You made four kinds of pureed veggie soup. For me.”

“You need your veggies,” he says quietly, his fingertips drifting along my neck, tracing my bumblebee tattoo. “And my state-of-the-art blender just might actually make them texturally palatable for you.”

“My fake boyfriend isn’t supposed to ruin me for everyone else,” I whisper.

Jamie’s eyes fall shut as he drops his forehead to mine. “Sometimes, Beatrice, I want to ruin you for everyone else.”

My heart vaults out of my body, dancing in the star-studded sky. “You do?”

He nods. “And I know I shouldn’t.”

I stare up at him, terrified of what he’s saying. Even more terrified that it’s precisely what I wanted to hear.

“I shouldn’t want to be here, just the two of us,” he says, slowly wrapping an arm around me, then clasping my hand. “I shouldn’t want to hold you like this and dance in the kitchen while the kettle’s on for tea. But I can’t stop myself.”

On the first turn he tries to take, I trip on his foot and knee him in the thigh, rupturing the romance of the moment. “Well, try, James,” I say testily, brimming with embarrassment, “because this woman does not dance.”

Jamie peers down at me, unfazed. “You were doing fine. Just let me lead.” Resuming our sway, he sets his chin on my head and sighs. “It’s good practice for my father’s birthday party.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It’ll be a stuffy affair. The usual. Black tie. Live orchestra. A waltz.”

I freeze. “Jamie, I’m not joking. I can’t dance.”

“Not at all?”

“Not at all. I’m not coordinated.”

He pauses and stares down at me. “A waltz doesn’t require coordination so much as memorization. Do you want to learn?”

“Yes?” The word leaves my mouth before I can swallow it as successfully as I have all the other absurdity I want to spew.