What about this? Me? Has he already dismissed me as this year’s summer fling? And will I be okay with that? I want to ask, but I bite my tongue.

His crooked smile tells me he somehow knows what I’m thinking anyway.

“This summer will be even better,” I dare say.

“Oh yeah?” He squints against the sun as he studies my face. “And why’s that?”

“Because I’m here.”

He chuckles. “Now who’s being cocky?” Taking one last haul off his cigarette, he butts it out on the stone and then sits up. He reaches for his shoes, a pair of suede Adidas that are literally falling apart—the seam on one toe broken, the ends of the laces frayed, the dark gray material severely stained.

“Can’t let go of them, huh?” I tease.

“They’re comfortable,” he murmurs, but I note how his cheeks flush.

Did I just embarrass the guy I’m madly crushing on? Way to go, Piper.

I quickly backpedal. “I have a pair of tennis shoes like that. They’re my lucky ones. I haven’t lost a tennis match in them, like, ever.”

His gaze is still on his grayed laces, but I see the corners of his mouth pull, in a tiny smile. A smile that says he knows I’m lying, punctuated by his quick glance at my pristine teal Nikes, bought just last week, along with two more pairs to choose from throughout the summer.

“We should probably get back.” He yanks his T-shirt over his head.

As anxious as I am about getting caught shirking responsibility, I’m not ready to leave. “Not so fast.” I reach for the brown paper bag and toss it to him.

He cringes. “I knew you had these.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yeah, I did. I saw you come out of the canteen with them.”

I frown. “Where were you?”

“Around . . .” He tips his head to gaze at me, his eyes twinkling playfully. “You’re really gonna make me do this?”

“A bet’s a bet.”

With a groan, he dumps the packs out on his lap, holding up the cherry flavor with a scowl.

“They only had nine razz apples.”

He tosses it onto my lap. “I’m allergic to cherry.”

“Really?” I frown. “But I doubt there’s actual cherry in it.”

“You willing to find out up here?” He gestures at our secluded spot, high up on the rock. “Because I’m anaphylactic.”

“Oh. No. Definitely not.” I shake my head for emphasis. “Let’s prorate it, though. You’ve gotta do nine in . . . one minute, forty-eight seconds.”

“You’re taking this to a whole new level.” Chuckling, he tears open the tops of the pouches, holding them upright between his thighs in a line. Setting the timer on his watch, he hands it to me, our fingers sliding across each other in the process, sending my blood racing through my veins.

I clear my throat to help calm myself. “Ready?”

“No.”

“And . . . Go!” I press the tiny red button and the numbers begin churning on the screen.

With a curse, he grabs the first open pack and, tipping his head back, he dumps the powder into his mouth. His face twists horribly against the tartness. “Oh, God . . . I forgot . . . how sour these are!” he manages between swallows and cringes.

I howl with laughter. “One down, eight to go!”

He fires a glare my way, tosses the empty pack aside, and collects another one. “Just you wait—I’m gonna get you back for this.”

I’m in tears by the time he finishes the last pack, just as the beep of his watch sounds. “I can’t believe you actually did it!”

He rubs at his bottom lip with his thumb, wiping away at some residual powder. “I thought I was going to puke for a minute. My mouth hurts.” He stretches his tongue out and waggles it around, showing off his green-tinged candy-coated taste buds, making me laugh harder. “Shut up and eat yours,” he mutters through a smile, as he begins collecting the tossed packs.

“I haven’t had one of these in forever.” I wet the candy stick in my mouth before dipping it into the powder, and then pop it back into my mouth. My cheeks pucker, the cherry tart on my tongue.

I glance up to find Kyle’s gaze locked on my mouth. “So that’s what those are for,” he murmurs, his expression contemplative, his lips parted. It’s the same look he had earlier, when we were in the water.

When I was sure he wanted to kiss me.

I desperately want him to.

With a small, playful smile, I scoop more powder on my stick and suck it off, more slowly this time, repeating the steps several times.

Kyle dips his head. He’s trying not to laugh.

“What?” I ask, and a touch of apprehension stirs.

“Nothing. It’s just . . . your mouth, it’s stained red.”

“No it’s not.” I press my lips together.

He bursts out laughing. “Yeah. Like, all over.”

Heat floods my cheeks as I silently curse, tossing the stick into the pack. Here I am, trying to seduce him, and now I look like a four-year-old who got into her mother’s lipstick. “Yeah, well, your tongue is green.” I furiously rub my palm against my lips, trying in vain to wipe the color off.

“Stop! Stop . . .” He’s still laughing as he grabs hold of my hand and pulls it away, lacing my fingers within his. His eyes are twinkling with mischief as they settle on my mouth. “Actually, I like the red on you. Like, really like it.” He leans in a touch but then hesitates.

I can’t take it anymore.

I close the distance and press my mouth against his. Only for a second, long enough to feel the softness of his lips and the cold metal of his lip ring, and to taste the sour apple candy powder.

And then I remember.

I break free with a gasp, my heart rate spiking. “Oh my God! I forgot! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking! What do we do?”

He frowns with confusion. “About what?”

“Your allergy!” How far is the walk to the golf cart? Can we make it in time?

“Oh. That.” He grins. “Yeah. I lied about that.”

“What?”

He shrugs. “I hate the cherry flavor.”

Relief bowls over me, even as I smack his chest. “Kyle! You don’t joke about stuff like that!”

“I’m definitely regretting it now.” His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering for a moment before he finally leans in.

The last kiss was fast and fleeting, driven by my impulsiveness. This one, though, is all Kyle. It’s slow and intentional, his lips brushing over mine once, twice . . . before settling against them in a playful dance of soft presses and the occasional graze of his tongue. Only his tip, though, and only against my lips, moving fast enough that I barely catch it with my own. Each time that I do, I sense Kyle smiling.

Trevor never kissed me like this. He always dove right in—with passionate lips and busy hands. I thought he was a good kisser. I thought that was what I liked.

But this . . .

This is more like a game. Kyle is teasing me.

And I am devouring every second of it.

My breathing turns shallow as I match his tempo, my fists balled in my lap, heat beginning to pulse through my limbs and into my core. My fingers reach for his lap, but I hold them back, curious to see what he does next.