“Myla, I can honestly tell you I’ve been thinking about you for the past four years.”

“Been longing, have you?”

“Just a touch,” I say, holding up my fingers.

Her other hand smooths up my chest and along my neck to join the other as she shifts so she’s straddling my lap. I place my hands on her hips, holding her in place as I lean against the back of the couch.

“I’ve been longing too.”

“Yeah?” I ask, feeling drunk with lust because fuck, have I pictured this moment when Myla gives herself freely to me. When she makes the first move . . . when she’s comfortable enough to straddle me.

“Yes, longing for more stories about you.” She grins.

“As you sit on my lap?”

“Yes, this is clearly more comfortable. So tell me more about Maine. I’ve never been. Is it as cold as it looks?”

Seeing where she’s going with this and not wanting to pressure her—she’s in control—I answer, “Freezing. And I don’t care what my parents, Nola, or Banner say. There is no way you get used to that kind of cold. Absolutely no way.”

“As cold as it is here, in Chicago?”

“Colder. Although the wind here doesn’t help. I just think it’s more frigid up there. But the summers are gorgeous, and when I wasn’t playing baseball, which was rare, I loved hiking with Banner and our occasional camping trips. One time actually, we set up camp, and we were supposed to be out there for three days. Our trip got cut short because we’d propped our tents right next to poison ivy and were itchy disasters after.”

“Oh, no. Did you get it anywhere . . . special?”

“Thankfully, just on our hands and necks and faces, nothing below the belt.”

“Penis poison ivy seems insufferable.”

“Yeah, not something I wanted to get wrapped up in.”

She presses both hands to my pecs as she asks, “Did you ever do s’mores or anything like that?”

“Every time. It’s what we lived on. We didn’t take much to eat but had plenty of chocolate, graham crackers, and marshmallows.”

“You know, I’ve never had a s’more.” She glances down, almost as if she’s ashamed about it.

“Wait, seriously?” I ask.

She nods. “Yeah, seriously. It wouldn’t have been something I did with my family because we didn’t do much together. And it’s not something my mom would have thought to do with me as a special bonding moment. She always thought I carried too much weight, so she kept my sweets to a minimum. So yeah, I’ve never had one.”

How can someone go through their childhood without having s’mores? That’s just . . . fuck, that hurts my heart. But it makes sense from what she told me about her mom and her childhood.

“Well, that’s going to change,” I say. “I’ll be damned if you go through another summer without a s’more. Actually . . .”

I pull out my phone and shoot a text to Banner, letting him know I need him to get s’mores materials to me ASAP.