Be a jackass, Kessler. Just a little bit. You can do it.

She steps out of the car, and when she does, it’s like in the movies where everything is in slow motion. Not at all similar to my version of slow motion. This is much more graceful. The wind picks up and strands of hair blow across her face. She lifts her hand to pull the hair away, and that’s when I notice what a difference one year can make.

She’s different. Her hair is shorter. She has bangs. She’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt, which is something she admitted to never doing before last year.

She’s covered in confidence, from head to toe.

It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

“Hey,” she says, as I reach behind her to close her door. She seems to be happy to see me and that alone makes me smile back at her.

So much for playing aloof.

I literally lasted zero seconds when it came to the alpha-male alter ego I’ve been practicing.

I release a yearlong pent-up breath and I step forward and pull her into the most genuine embrace I’ve ever given anyone. I wrap my hand around the back of her head and pull her to me, breathing in the crisp winter scent of her. She immediately wraps her arms around me and buries her face against my shoulder. I feel a sigh escape her and we stand in the same position until the cab has backed out of the driveway and disappears around the corner.

And even then, we don’t let go.

She’s squeezing the back of my shirt in her fisted hands and I’m trying not to be obvious about the fact that I might be a little bit obsessed with her new hairstyle. It’s softer. Straighter. Lighter. Refreshing, and fuck, it hurts.

Again.

Why is she the only one who makes me wince like this? She sighs against my neck and I almost push her away, because dammit, this is too much. I’m not sure what bothers me more. The fact that we seem to have picked up right where we left off last year or the fact that last year wasn’t a fluke. If I’m being honest, I kind of think it’s the latter. Because this past year was hell having to go every minute of the day with her on my mind and not knowing if I’d ever see her again. And now that I know she’s committed to this idiotic plan of mine to meet up once a year, I foresee another long year of agony ahead of me.

I’m already dreading the second she leaves, and she just now showed up.

She lifts her head from my shoulder and looks up at me. I brush her bangs back with my hand to see more of her face. Despite how frantic she sounded on the phone earlier, she seems completely peaceful right now.

“Hello, Fallon the Transient.”

Her smile grows even wider. “Hello, Ben the Writer. Why do you look like you’re in pain?”

I try to smile, but I’m sure the look on my face right now isn’t an attractive one. “Because keeping my mouth off of you is really painful.”

She laughs. “As much as I want your mouth on me, I must warn you that a hello kiss is probably only going to be a six.”

I promised her an eleven. It’ll have to wait.

“Come on. Let’s go inside so I can find out what color panties you have on.” She’s laughing that familiar laugh as I grab her hand and walk her toward the house. I can already tell I have nothing to worry about. She’s the same Fallon I remember from last year. Maybe even a little better.

So . . . maybe that means I have everything to worry about.

Fallon

I wasn’t expecting this when he said to meet him at his house. I was more or less expecting an apartment, but this is a fairly modern two-story house. A house-house. He closes the front door behind me and heads for the stairs. I trail behind him.

“You didn’t bring luggage?” he asks.

I don’t want to think about how little time I’ll actually be here. “I’m heading back tonight.”

He stops mid-step and faces me. “Tonight? You aren’t even staying the night in California?”

I shake my head. “I can’t. I have to be back in New York by eight in the morning. My flight is at ten thirty tonight.”

“The flight is more than five hours,” he says, concerned. “With the time difference, you won’t even get home until after six in the morning.”

“I’ll sleep on the plane.”

His eyebrows draw apart and his mouth tightens. “I don’t like that for you,” he says. “You should have called. We could have changed the date or something.”

“I don’t know your phone number. Besides, that would have ruined the entire premise of your book. It’s November 9th or nothing, remember?”

I think he may be pouting, but I do recall him being the one to make that rule.

“I’m sorry I was late. We still have six hours left before I have to head to the airport.”

“Five and a half,” he clarifies. He begins walking up the stairs again. I follow him all the way to his room, but now I feel like he’s upset with me. I know there were probably ways around flying in and out on the same day, but to be honest, I wasn’t even sure he would show up. I thought he probably had crazy, spontaneous days with fake girlfriends all the time and he wouldn’t even remember me. I figured I wouldn’t be too embarrassed with myself for believing he would show up if I was able to get right back on the plane a few hours later and pretend it never happened.

But not only did he show up, he was still waiting two hours later.

Two hours.

It’s extremely flattering. I would have probably given up after the first hour, thinking he stood me up.