“Thank you!” the woman says, and melts away.

Rachel and I are alone. I search for the right words. Needless to say, I don’t find them. Instead I say, “This is probably not a good idea.”

“Oh,” she says quietly, biting her lip. “Yeah. I get that.”

“I mean, it’s not you. You did—good. Like really good.”

She looks at me, startled, like a compliment was the last thing she was expecting. Like, who are you and what have you done with Brody?

“I really appreciate the giveaway thing. That’ll help a lot with reviews.”

I notice she’s doing it again. Getting that soft look on her face. I wish she wouldn’t, because that’s when I’m the most screwed. She can look hot for hours, but when she looks like Rachel, that’s when I fall apart.

I’m trying not to think about all the Rachels she has ever been.

The one who used to bring Connor and me food in the treehouse, and looked like she was going to cry the one time I asked if she wanted to stay and eat some, too.

The one who used to make muffins and hand them around the neighborhood, while Connor and I modified our nerf guns to shoot nails.

The one who used to play “library” and “school” and “wedding” on the far side of the yard while Connor and I burned shit to the ground.

Even then she knew exactly what she wanted, and I knew she was going to get it. I also knew that no part of her plan included someone like me, who by age nine already excelled at pranks, destruction, and it’s-better-to-ask-for-forgiveness-than-permission.

Rachel is still looking at me, soft and curious. And then she does a wonderful, terrible thing:

She licks her lips.

Just one quick swipe, tongue peeking out, the worst kind of tease.

It’s all I can do not to lean forward and taste the spot she licked.

When my eyes leave her mouth and meet her eyes, she’s watching me with her eyebrows up. And a smile tugging the corner of her mouth.

Rachel is no longer the teenager I spent years trying not to want. She’s all woman now, and I’m pretty sure her head is full of things I want to know about.

“Connor would kill me,” I say.

Am I talking about sex toys on the boat? Or Rachel and me?

Doesn’t matter; it’s true either way.

The speculative look is still on her face, like she’s wondering the same thing, but she nods. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t find out till last night that that’s what she was selling, and she told me you’d seen the website.”

“I was supposed to. I just didn’t. I’m not the best at following directions.”

That makes her smile for real, which feels like a hundred thousand dollar win.