A smile brightens her face before she tamps it down. “Thanks,” she says quietly. Then, after a beat: “So are we okay? We haven’t really talked. Which is fine. Obviously. I mean, why would we? I know the bowling alley got a little away from us. I promise I won’t climb you like a tree on our next outing.”

Guilt hits me like a sucker punch. I hate that I’ve made her uneasy.

“Bea.” Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I sigh. “I’m sorry I’ve been acting odd. I’ve been stuck in my head since the Alley. I wasn’t sure what to say. So I didn’t say anything. But that’s unfair to you.”

Bea searches my eyes. “So you weren’t freezing me out because I jumped you like a koala in heat after getting us so worked up over a friendly Friday night bowling match that it felt like life or death by the last frame? You’re not pissed?”

I take a step closer to her, setting down my tea on the nearby counter. “Not at all.”

“Oh.” She peers down at her skirt, running her hands across the fabric. Black again, this time with tiny rainbows all over it. “Okay.”

“I think . . .” The words catch in my throat, but I take a deep breath, then force them out. “I think we should talk about what we need to make this more comfortable, to make this work.”

“Right,” Bea says slowly, frowning. “Why does it sound like you’re suggesting we get our toenails ripped out?”

I wrinkle my nose. “The things you come up with.”

“Well, I’m looking at your gorgeous face, twisted with disgust—” She freezes. Eyes wide. “Wait. Forget I said that.”

Heat blooms in my cheeks, floods my veins, until every corner of me burns hot and curious. I stare at her in shock. Does she find me attractive?

God, it’s tempting, that thought. It’s also dangerous, because then I’d want to tell her the truth. I think you’re gorgeous, too. I’ve stroked off every night and told myself it’s not your body I’m wanting, your mouth I’m dying to taste again.

I can’t tell her that. There’s a big jump from “your face is gorgeous” to “I’ve masturbated to the thought of you every night since we met.” Especially if she didn’t mean it.

Did she mean it?

“Seriously, ignore that,” Bea says, flustered. “I-I-I think I blacked out. Had an aneurysm.”

Ouch.

“An aneurysm, you say?” Leaning past her for the otoscope, I catch a trace of figs, the sensual undertone of sandalwood. That perfume she wears could bring a man to his knees.

Her pupils dilate as she stares up at me. “What are you doing?”