“Thank you,” I say.

“Do you want one? I’ve got one more.”

My stomach makes a pterodactyl sound. “I shouldn’t. I mean, don’t you want it?”

“I’d be happy to give it to you.”

I take it and wolf it down. Nick sits watching me. I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s different about you?”

I scan down his body. Same long, messy hair. Same wrinkled video-game-themed shirt. Same baggy shorts and dirty white sneakers. Then I figure out what’s missing. “Where’s your phone?”

“My dad made me leave it back at the room.”

“Oh my dog!” I exclaim for Abby’s benefit. “Are you okay? Are you going through withdrawal yet?”

He smirks. “Ha ha. I’m surviving . . . barely. I don’t get to take any pictures, though, which sucks.” He gazes around at all the fabulous scenery that surrounds us.

“I can text you some of mine,” I offer.

“That’d be awesome. Thanks.”

“Are you Ada’s boyfriend?” Abby asks, propping her chin in her hand.

He glances from me to her. “No. But I am a boy who’s her friend.”

“But you like her. Like kissy like,” Abby says.

He looks at me again. “You got me. I guess I do.”

“And she likes you.”

“Does she?”

“Yep.” Abby takes another enthusiastic bite of the granola bar. “Trust me. She likes you a lot. Her last boyfriend was an asshole.”

“Abby!” I exclaim. I’m blushing. I rub the back of my neck. “She’s right, though.”

“That’s . . . good to know.”

“So you should be her boyfriend, and she should be your girlfriend,” Abby says. “Have you kissed her yet?”

“No,” he says slowly. “Not yet.”

“You should,” Abby says.

“I will if she wants me to.”

Shit. I want him to. The magic is back: my palms are sweaty and my heart is racing and there’s a suspicious fluttering in my stomach. Or maybe I’ve just had too much coffee.

He has nice lips, I observe. Not too small or too big. A good proportion between the top lip and the bottom. They look soft, too. I wonder what they would feel like.

I make a mental note to start our time tomorrow night with kissing.

“A-duh. You’re not listening to me, are you?”

I blink. I’ve been zoning out. Worse, I’ve been daydreaming about kissing Nick while I’m sitting right in front of him. “I’m sorry, Abby-cakes. What did you say?”

“I said, I’m still hungry. Almost enough to eat Peter, I think.”

“Oh. Well, you’re just going to have to—”

“Lunch is served!” calls out the coffee lady from the patio. “It’s a simple spaghetti and meatballs, but I think you’ll find it quite satisfactory.”