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Pretty little princess that I am, I nod. “Very grump. Big hates everyone but her energy. You’re just…you’re perfect, Wynn. Everything I’ve always loved and wanted and thought wasn’t real.”

He covers his mouth as heat swells in his cheeks again. “You’re actually too adorable.” Clearing his throat, he scoops his hand behind my back, against my waist, and nudges me toward the bathroom exit. “I really gotta shower before it gets so hot in here, I pass out. I’d genuinely ask you to join me, but good girls shouldn’t do that on their second confession.”

“I absolutely wouldn’t have the nerve unless you undress me yourself,” I tell him.

He coughs, opening the door to his bedroom and poking me out of the steaming bathroom. “Yeah. Well. I’m not gonna do that.”

“Not even if I beg?”

“Do you even understand what not having nerve means?”

I smile, because I might cry tears of joy if I don’t wake up from this.

His expression softens, and then he kisses my forehead—altering my chemistry forever. “I love you, Devina. My Dece. Keep dreaming of me while we’re apart. And come back very, very soon.”

Breathless, I say, “I will.”

After he closes the door, I wobble my way back out to my car, where I spend a good long time clutching his shirt to convince myself it’s not a dream while I wait until the moment comes that I feel stable enough to drive.

Chapter 3

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Perfectly reasonable behavior, thx.

December

I am sitting on my bathroom floor in Wynnter’s shirt, doing what any sane woman would after today’s events.

Texting her bestie where it concerns the forays of her love life.

August: Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew. No more kisses for you. Ever. Please. Please make this stop. I don’t want to hear about this. I don’t ever want to hear about this. Now that I know you’re into my stinky brother, your job is to become my sister by marriage, so we can then say what marriage? Marriage to who? Doesn’t matter. Sisterhood.

Me: You’ll be relieved to know that I don’t need your books’ kisses now. I’m homemaking them myself.

August: I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.

Me: This is called karma for withholding joy from me.

Me: Btw, I’m in his shirt. Right this second. I didn’t even wash it.

August: That’s so unbelievably gross.

I’m about to shower, but for now, I’m so happy I could cry. His shirt is so big, even though I’m not a small woman. It’s snug in all the right places, like a portable Wynn-Wynn hug. I think he might’ve been working on winterizing his motorcycle, because there’s an oil stain and the smell of gas is stronger than the scent of his detergent or body wash. Even though it isn’t clean, it doesn’t smell bad. It just smells like Wynn. My Wynn.

Tucking my nose in the fabric, I let my shower steam everything up so I can relive this afternoon as much as possible.

Me: It’s romantic.

August: It’s hopeless romantic. There’s a difference between that and regular romantic.

Me: Sorry my tastes aren’t “pretends to kidnap your entire family to coerce you into marriage.”

August: Don’t even lie to me.

I’d argue. But she’s right. That totally would be my taste, too. There’s a very good reason August and I are besties. We get each other. In many ways. The one way we don’t see eye-to-eye is our physical taste in men.

She wanted a blond prince guy. I want Wynnter.