“Don’t look at me like that, and don’t judge me—I was a different person then,” he says defensively.

   “A different person? Maybe five or six different people—that would make it less piggish.”

   He chuckles. “My turn. I dare you . . .”—he pauses for dramatic effect—“. . . to let me touch your boobs.”

   “Er, I’ll take truth, thanks,” I say, laughing.

   “Damn it!” he spits out, faking anger. “Okay. Is it true that . . . you want me to touch your boobs?” He starts reaching out for a grab.

   I swat his hand away again and laugh out loud. I fight a mental war against my physical urges, because the last thing I want is for us to do something we can’t take back—especially when we’ve been drinking. With a sigh, I say, “You kind of turn into a horny creeper when you’re drunk. This game’s over.” I crawl into bed, and he follows.

   We snuggle under the covers and I nestle my head on his chest. He puts his arm around me, his hand on my waist, and kisses my forehead. We’re both a little sleepy-drunk.

   “I was just kidding about the boob thing, Kayla,” he says through a yawn.

   “I know.”

   He’s silent for so long I don’t know if he’s fallen asleep. His breathing is even, and his chest rises and falls rhythmically.

   “Hey, Jake?” I whisper, hoping not to wake him if he has already fallen asleep.

   “Mmm?”

   “Have you ever been in love?”

   He sounds very tired when he answers. “You’ve already asked me this.”

   “Yeah, but I didn’t get a proper answer.”

   “Yeah, you did, and it’s all you’ll get. Good night, Kayla.”

   “Hey, Jake?”

   “Yeah, Kayla?” He’s drifting off.

   “I more-than-a-lot like you.”

   He’s quiet for so long again that I don’t know if he heard me. Then he says, “I more-than-a-lot like you, too—so much more-than-a-lot.”

   True to his word, Jake gets up early the next morning and goes to the hotel gym. I meet him there about an hour and a half later. I feel guilty about all the dessert and alcohol I’ve had over the last couple of days and figure I should do something about it.

   When I get there, I see Jake in his workout clothes lifting weights. His arms, tanned and defined, flex and unflex with every movement. I’m not the only one who notices. A group of women who look a few years older than us are pretending to stretch in front of him. I know what they’re really doing, and it pisses me off.

   The truth is, Jake’s at a whole other level.

   Jake Andrews: the could-be pro baseballer.

   There are boys, and then there are men. Even though we’re the same age, I still feel like a little girl next to him.

   James is a big dude—he’s a jock, too—but we were high school sweethearts. With him I felt like we were on an even playing field . . . while he felt like playing the field. I roll my eyes at the thought.

   I’m in the real world now.

   And in the real world, there are no Jake Andrewses for me.

   I suddenly don’t feel like working out anymore.

   I want to go back to the hotel room and be the frumpy, stupid little girl I am. As I turn to leave, Jake sees me and calls out my name. I stop and wait for him. He puts his weights down and walks in my direction—but not before a more than stunning blond blocks his path. Great.

   He crashes into her and almost knocks her over. He has to hold her up, one hand on her arm and the other on her waist. “Whoa,” he says, “are you all right?”

   I see her eyes widen at his deep voice and accent. She puts a hand on his chest, rubs up against his side, and on tiptoe whispers in his ear. She’s tiny, so he has to bend down to hear what she’s saying.

   After a couple of seconds, his eyes widen and he raises them to look at me. He’s still bent over, listening to whatever Slutbag has to say. After what feels like hours, Slutbag straightens up and hands him a piece of paper.

   Her phone number.

   Of course.

   He takes it with a nod and puts it in his pocket.

   My heart drops to the floor and into a pool of my idiotic, childish jealousy.

   I can’t stand to see any more, and I’m sure the lump in my throat is a sign that I’ll soon burst into tears. And if I do—when I do—I sure as hell don’t want to be here.

   I’m heading to the exit when I hear him yell my name again and ask me to wait.

   But I don’t.

   I can’t have him see me like this.

   I walk faster, but he’s catching up to me. He calls my name one more time, but I don’t turn around.

   “Kayla!” he grunts, grabbing my arm and forcing me to turn and face him. He takes in my face. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

   “Nothing,” I spit out and cross my arms like a six-year-old. I stare daggers at him.

   A huge smile slowly creeps across his face. He straightens up and also crosses his arms. He winks at me. Winks.

   “What are you smiling about?” I almost shout.

   “You’re jealous,” he says matter-of-factly. He’s got a huge grin smeared all over his beautiful, smug ass of a face.

   “I am not.” Brat.

   “Are so.” He nods.

   “Am not!” I stomp my foot. Brat. Brat. Brat. “I have no reason to be.” I can’t help pouting.

   “Yeah, you do,” he says, putting his arm around me and turning us toward our room.

   I look up at him with a questioning expression, and he looks down and kisses my forehead. “Why should I be jealous?” I ask.

   He shrugs. “Because I’m your Jake,” he says, “and you’re my Kayla.” He smiles, fishing in his pocket for the piece of paper. Once we’re in the room, he throws it in the trash.

   He’s my Jake. And I’m his Kayla.

   I like it.

   I more-than-a-lot like it—so much more-than-a-lot.

TWENTY-TWO

JAKE

   When we get back home, the house is empty, so we decide to crash in my bed for a few hours. It’s early evening when we wake up. We can hear people chatting downstairs.

   I slowly peel Kayla off me and stretch out. When I sit up, I almost shit myself—Julie is sitting cross-legged at the end of my bed, watching us.