I lift my chin. “The truth.”

“Which is?”

“That I was into you!”

Her eyes widen, her jaw drops, and then she sighs. “Well, I can’t be mad at you now.”

“Good. I don’t want you to be.”

She flops down on the bed, takes the bottle, and drinks way more than she should. “Do you feel different?”

“About?”

“About your new PB. I’m so proud of you. You’ve worked so hard, and it’s all paying off.”

My smile forms when hers does. “I still have to beat Coop—”

She covers my mouth with her hand. “Let’s not talk about him. Not tonight. Not ever again.”

Slowly, I pull her hand away. “What do you want to talk about?”

Her grin widens. “How hot you look tonight.”

“Are you hitting on me, Sanders?”

She takes another long swig, her eyes staying on mine. She nods.

I smirk.

Game on, Laney.

An hour later, I’m hauling her ass into a cab and telling the driver her address. While I didn’t even get to start my second beer, she’s slurring her words. Drunk Laney is Fun Laney. “Do you like?” she asks, throwing her feet over my legs. “The bootsh. Like?”

“Is she going to puke in my cab?” the driver asks, watching us in the rearview mirror.

Probably. “Nah, she’s good.” I squeeze her thighs, and she giggles into my arm. “She’s a tough one.”

“I am tough!” Laney announces. “Sticks and stones and fists and bones, right?”

I pat her crazy head and swear it, she purrs, moves closer to me. I don’t count the seconds, the minutes it takes to get to her house because whatever it is, it’s not long enough. I pay the cab driver when he gets us to Lane’s sans puke (yay) and I get her into her room, take off her “bootsh,” wait for her to dress in the bathroom and get her into her bed, safe and sound. I sit on the edge of the bed, look and smile down at her. Then I trace a finger across her forehead, move her bangs away from her eyes—eyes that drift shut at my touch. Her head lolls to the side and she sighs, licks her lips. “I love it when you do that,” she whispers.

“Yeah?”

“It’s as if you have to see me.” Her eyes meet mine. “Sometimes when you look at me…” She grasps my wrist, places my hand over her heart. “Do you feel it?” she asks, and I close my eyes, focus on the touch.

Five seconds.

Eight heartbeats.

“You make my heart race, Lucas.”

My eyes snap open. “Go on a date with me, Lane?”

“But—”

“But nothing. Don’t you think we’ve waited long enough?”

“Yeah,” she whispers. “I do.”

“Tuesday?”

She nods. “Tuesday.”

I kiss her forehead. “You need anything before I go?

She sits up. “Don’t you want to stay?”

“Of course I want to stay.” But I don’t trust myself with you, Lane. “But I shouldn’t.”

“Yeah, you should,” she says, nodding, her eyes wild. “You should also take off your t-shirt.”

I chuckle. “I can’t.”

“Why?” she whines. “Besides, it’s like, one in the morning. You have to get up in less than four hours, and by the time you walk home it’ll be, like, 6 am.”

“It’ll be ten minutes from now.”

“But I want you to stay with me.” She pouts, turns into a kid begging for candy. “Please?”

“Fine, but I’m not touching you.”

“Good. I don’t want you to touch me.” She giggles, flops back down on the bed. “But you have to be shirtless.”

“Lane,” I warn, slipping off my shoes and removing my belt.

She watches me strip down to my boxers, her bottom lip caught between her teeth and her eyes hazy, from the alcohol or lust—I’m not sure, but I’m not willing to risk it, to regret it.

I get into bed, as far away from her as possible because the slightest touch could set me off. But she doesn’t get the hint, she moves closer, her head on my chest, her breath warming my skin. Her hand flattens on my stomach, moves lower. Lower. “Lane,” I warn again.

She kisses my jaw, and I can’t catch my breath, and she says, “I said I didn’t want you touching me. I didn’t say anything about not wanting to touch you.” Her fingers move, trace the outline of my stomach muscles and I clench my fists at my sides, try not to get hard, but I don’t have control of my body, and my boxers are starting to feel really fucking tight. She kisses her way up my jaw to my ear. “I always get so turned on when I watch you race.”

“Oh my God,” I groan. “We shouldn’t—”

“Are you hard?” she cuts in and her hand skims my erection, answering her question. “You want me to take care of it?”

Fuck, yes. “No.” I grasp her wrist, stop her from moving. Then I shake my head, laugh at myself. “I can’t believe I’m saying this.”

“What?” she asks, the hurt in her voice unmistakable.

“As much as I want this, want you, I can’t do it like this. When we do it again, I want to have earned it. I want it to mean everything. I don’t want us to walk away with any regrets. From now on, I’m going to do it right.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

LUCAS

Tuesday comes, my stomach in knots, and I’m a fucking wreck—more than the thirteen-year-old version of me pre-non-first-date with Laney. But there’s so much more on the line now than there was then, and it needs to be perfect. I need to be perfect. She deserves nothing less.

I text Leo when I get in my truck, tell him I’m on my way to get Lane.

He responds: All systems go, Captain.

I knock on the front door instead of her bedroom. Brian answers, his arms crossed. “First official date…” he says. “Come in, son.” He opens the door wider, motions to the couch. I sit. “Lo, your date’s here!” he calls out.

Brian eyes me up and down. “I should probably do the whole setting-the-rules-for-dating-my-daughter thing, huh?”

“Um…” I look around for Lane, but she’s nowhere, and why the hell am I scared of a man who’s told me he lets his girlfriend use her handcuffs on him? “If you feel like you need to.”

“10 pm curfew,” he says, and Lane’s never had a curfew, at least not with me. He adds, “No drinking. No smoking. No sex.”

I choke on my saliva.

He gets me water.

I down the entire glass.

He keeps going, “No touching below the waist. In fact, no touching at all. Not even to hold hands. No looking at her, even in her direction.”

“Brian…”

“It’s Sir to you, kid.”

“Dad!” Thank fuck for Laney. “He’s kidding,” she says, and I stand up, turn to her and…

“Wow,” I breathe out. She’s wearing a long sleeve dress that reaches the floor, hides her skin but shows off her curves. “You look—”