“Don’t, Kenna,” I say when he uses his thumb to open my lips. He stands dangerously close—his height, his breadth, his size, his do-me-now-woman sex appeal intimidating the hell out of me.

He grins wickedly and strokes a hand over my hip.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not going to happen,” I say breathlessly.

“Yeah, it will.” His smirk says, It definitely will.

He pats my butt slowly, and the familiar way he brushes his lips over mine brings my temper to a boil. Who does he think he is? Does he think because we made out by mistake he gets to play my boyfriend? When I growl and slap his hand away, he chuckles and heads back to the bathroom.

Ohmigod, I cannot believe I let him put his filthy paws on me in that closet—and stay the night over!

Soon I hear the shower, the sound of the water slapping his delicious man-flesh. Then I hear him hum a tune, a tune I’ve never heard before. My chest moves when I remember he used to do that when we were teens. God, no, stop thinking of those moments. It hurts. Truly it does. Think of the bad ones. When he left. When he left me on my own after making me need him and believe I couldn’t live without him.

Refusing to get all sappy with memories, I grab my phone and think of Melanie.

She’s probably at the office, missing the delightfully bitter morning company that is me.

I quickly text, I kissed him

Every second I wait for her answer, I feel worse and worse, not only about the closet incident but also about falling asleep with him around. When I woke up, the bastard was almost spooning me.

Melanie: What?

Me: I kissed the bastard! He spent the night. Oh god!!!!! This is suicide!

Melanie: Why? Was he into it? You know what they say about where there was once fire . . .

Me: He was into the kissing, into using me for his selfish reasons and I was selfish too.

Melanie: So what’s the problem?

Me: The problem is he’s going to think he WON!

And he will. He really, really will, because he’s so full of himself I’m surprised he fits inside this building. How can I even explain to Melanie, who’s happy and carefree and innocent, that when a douche bag breaks your heart, you cannot let him have it again, you cannot let him touch you again. I’m about to try when she writes, Look, Maleficent, if he’s being a dick let me tell Greyson to send someone to rearrange his face—stat.

I blink.

Me: Melanie your new bloodthirst scares me

Melanie: Heee! :)

The thought of someone hurting Mackenna makes me sick. Only I get to hurt him. Damn it!

I toss my phone aside and breathe in and out, remembering my tricks from anger management. Then I force myself to think of Magnolia and my mother.

Mags.

I left my poor Mags alone with my mother, who’s even less merry than I am because I was determined to find closure and save all this fucking money to have some freedom in the future, for me and for Mags. Closure to me equaled Mackenna realizing that leaving me was the biggest mistake of his life. And how did I plan to do this? By getting involved again?!

We can’t get involved. We can’t be buddies—especially not fuck buddies.

Can we?

No, we can’t, because I’m too wimpy to survive him twice. Because even if he likes me a little bit once more, he won’t like me for real when he learns what sort of secrets I hide. You get struck by lightning once and survive, lucky you, but you won’t survive twice. That’s for sure.

How can I make it clear that the closet and a sleepover do not make us friends?

Remembering what he said on the bus about giving me a chance to redeem myself with a song, I grab a pen and start writing. I’m growing madder by the second. So mad it’s like I’m not writing words on a piece of paper but chiseling them into a slate.

Soon he steps out of the shower, strutting like he’ll have me yet. Yeah, he’s good. All wet, with droplets of water sliding down his golden flesh. His silver eyes meet me with quiet assessment—like he can sense the shift in the air. Well, at least he’s smart.

With a fake smile, I walk over and hand him the paper. “Your song,” I say.

His eyebrows fly upward in surprise, then he reads the words out loud.

Mackenna’s mouth

Spits all lies

A sewer tastes better

He looks at me in pure, undisguised amusement. “Seriously?” he prods.

“Go on,” I say through my teeth.

I can smell his shampoo. Hate it.

He continues reading.

A donkey’s ass is sweeter

I hate Mackenna’s mouth

And his fucking lies

He can kiss my ass

And it will taste better than his fucking mouth

He lowers the piece of paper, and before I realize it, he’s caught me by the back of the neck and kissed me flat on the mouth. Then he yanks back and strokes his knuckles across my wet lips, still grinning.

I wipe my mouth to get rid of the tingle his touch leaves. “I’m still working on it. Just thought you might like to start thinking of a tune,” I say, scowling.

“Why let me pick if you’re on a roll, baby? Let’s just use the background music for Jaws.”

“Stop kissing me when you feel like it, Kenna.”

“Stop opening your mouth and sticking your tongue at me when I do, Pink.”

“I didn’t . . . ugh.” I flip him the bird and feel entirely too warm when he heads for the door, taking my song with him.

“Thanks for this.” He grins like it’s a love sonnet. “Glad to see you’re making lists again.”