“You ready to have a good night with me, Dr. Andre Cobb?” he asks, twirling his keys between his fingers. “I promise, if you give me a chance, I’ll give you the best night you can imagine.”

“That sounds like a tall order.”

“I appreciate a challenge; you know that,” he whispers. “And you’re worth making a fool of myself for.”

I study his features, every etch on his face, every twitch of his eye, searching for any sort of lie. But there’s nothing. Only pure hope and positive intent.

There’s nothing dark or sinister about Blake McIntyre.

“All right,” I finally say. “But any snacks we get are on me. I can’t have you buying everything.”

“Who knew Andre Cobb was such a knight in shining armor?”

“Dre,” I correct him. “You can call me Dre.”

Blake’s eyes beam brighter than I would’ve imagined possible at such a simple offer.

“Dre it is.”

* * *

We spend over two hours at the zoo, and even with the crowded groups, overactive children, and sleepy animals, it’s a fun date. Blake knows more about animals than I would’ve expected any upper-class teenager to know, and he takes an extreme amount of interest in the lions, the last exhibit we see. He talks about them for almost three minutes straight.

“Sorry,” Blake mutters. “I know I ramble when it comes to animals.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, nudging him with my shoulder. He’s blushing, looking down at his feet the whole time. “It’s cute. Have you considered being a vet? Or a lion psychologist?”

He looks up, with a puzzled look on his face that’s oddly adorable. He opens his mouth like he’s going to reply, but then he smiles. “Wait, that’s not a real thing, is it? Because it sounds like a freakin’ sweet—oh. You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“And what gave that away, hmm?”

He opens his mouth to say a quippy retort but winces, looking up. One raindrop turns into two, two into four, and like a stampede, everyone in the zoo goes running back to their cars. Luckily enough for us, the lion exhibit is close to the exit, and we make it before getting completely soaked.

“Here,” Blake says, reaching into the back and pulling out a towel. “Not sure how clean it is. It’s my post-practice towel, but…”

“I’ll take it.” I rub myself down quickly, ignoring the smell of sweat and cologne that lingers on the fabric. And, if I’m honest, it doesn’t smell horrible. It smells like him, and that’s not the worst smell.