I raise a brow.

“When it comes to Italian food, you can bet I can put my fair share away.”

We eat, punctuating the meal with conversation about school, about where I see myself in five years, about what I want to do after I get my graduate degree. When the bill comes, he doesn’t even let me look at it before he slips a credit card into the waiter’s hand.

But him paying for the bill doesn’t make it feel like a date. I hate to admit it, but the whole experience feels more like a job interview.

And I keep comparing him to someone else.

Someone who is nothing like him.

Someone I have absolutely no business thinking about.

“Do you want to get coffee?” he asks as we stand to go. I peer out the window, noticing the dark clouds gathering in the sky, then shake my head.

“Nah, I think we might need to take a rain check on that—literally.”

He follows my gaze.

“Aw, come on—it’s not too bad. Hey, there’s a band performance at Franklin tonight. You want to swing by? I can show you the bullet holes in the auditorium door.”

I blink at him, then shake my head slowly.

“Uh . . . no. I think I’d rather just head home. Maybe another time.”

“Oh. Okay, sure.”

I can sense the disappointment in his voice, but he smiles at me as we head out the restaurant’s front door. The wind has picked up since we were last outside and I pull my jacket a little tighter. Jeremy notices and slings an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in closer. My breath stutters a bit and I glance over at him. He isn’t looking at me, but his cheeks are red. I wonder if he’s been waiting for this opportunity.

When we pull up to my apartment complex, the sky has turned from grumbly to downright wrathful, and I glance up warily through the windshield.

“You better hurry home,” I say, “so you don’t get stuck in this.”

He nods and licks his lips nervously. Quickly, I swoop in and press a kiss against his cheek before he can direct his mouth to mine.

“Thank you for dinner,” I say, somehow simultaneously pulling back from him and opening my door. Jeremy looks a little dazed, but he smiles and reaches for my hand, then gives it an awkward little shake.

“I’ll see you at school.” I say it firmly, making it clear this will be our last date.

I don’t think he gets the hint.

“I’ll call you later,” he insists.

I don’t say anything to that. Instead, I just wave as he pulls away from the curb, then take one last look at the angry sky before hurrying up the stairs to my apartment.

I’m home all of two minutes when the lights flicker in my bedroom, then the power goes out. I look up at the ceiling just as a sharp crack of thunder echoes through the apartment.

Shit.

I take a deep breath and try to relax. I’ve been in plenty of storms before. Then there’s a flash of lightning, followed by an almost deafening roll of thunder. I slip off my heels and dress, digging a pair of pajama pants out of my bottom drawer and finding a faded green T-shirt balled up beneath them. If I’m going to be stuck in here, I can at least be comfortable. Wrinkled, but comfortable.

I’m trying to decide between hiding out in the bathroom—no windows—or camping out in my bed under the blankets, when I hear a loud, staccato banging. At first, I think it’s just the thunder—or reverberation of thunder—as it echoes along the exterior courtyard. But then it comes again—louder and sharper this time. Along with a voice yelling my name.

I know that voice.

And the face, despite being soaking wet with rain, is just as familiar when I fling the door open.

You know, most people look like a drowned rat when they get caught in a rainstorm. Smith, on the other hand, looks like he’s ready for a photo shoot. His T-shirt—dark blue, or at least dark blue when wet—is plastered to his chest and torso, defining every inch and ridge of muscle. His hair is glued to his scalp, making me realize how much it’s grown in the six weeks I’ve known him. He’s starting to look a little less like a soldier and a little more like a student.

My stomach takes a swan dive.

He can’t be here right now. The barrier between us has become far too tenuous. Far too close to snapping. I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly aware that I’m braless under my T-shirt.

“I thought you were going to stay as far away from me as possible.”

He sort of smirks. “I changed my mind.”

I lift a brow. “I’d ask how you know where I live, but I guess that would be a stupid question.”

Smith doesn’t say anything to that—just scrubs a hand over his damp hair.

“I have to talk to you.”

I lean my hip against the open door, now pressed between me and the wall, and shiver. The polite thing to do would be to invite him in. The smart thing to do would be to send him away.

“Why?” I finally ask.

“I want to tell you something,” Smith says then, clasping the back of his neck with one hand.

“Now?”

“Yes.”

I peer up at the sky. “Fine, but you need to make it quick. I don’t like standing out here and you shouldn’t be driving in this anyway.”

“I’m leaving Franklin.”

A frown and furrowed brow take over my face.

“What? Why?”

I meet his gaze then, and something spicy and unavoidable flares up in my veins. His lips are parted and his chest is almost heaving with each intake of breath.

“You know why.”

The words are so low, they’re a half growl. I suck in a breath.

“Smith . . . ,” I begin, trailing off. His gaze pins me and he tilts his head to one side as he regards me.

“Are you saying you can keep doing this?”

I swallow hard. “I—I don’t know.”

He takes a slight step forward.

“Because I can’t,” he says, his voice strained. “I can’t see you every day and not touch you. I can’t listen to you talk without watching your mouth and imagine it wrapped around my cock. I can’t show up in your classroom and not push you up against the wall and slide my hand inside your skirt to see if my presence makes you wet. If I see you, I want you. Period. And I can’t do this anymore.”

“But—your credits . . .”

“I’m not worried about that,” he says, almost spitting the words at me. “And neither should you.”

“Excuse me?” I blink at him. He just shakes his head with his eyes narrowed. He looks furious. He looks furious at me.

“When are you going to say what you really want to say?”

“I don’t—what are you—”

“Come on, Cyn.” He shoves a hand back through his hair. “Stop letting your brain do all the talking.”

I open my mouth, then shake my head. The fury bubbles up in my chest and feels like it might spill over into my entire body.

“You know what? That’s fine. Drop out. Do exactly what I wanted to do—quit. But then you’re the quitter. You’re the one who gave up.”

I want to punch him. I want to shake him.

“All I’ve done is defend you. What a waste of my time. You clearly don’t care about anyone but yourself, and you don’t care if you are something different—something better— than the parents you’re a product of or the friends you’ve surrounded yourself with.”

I cross my arms over my chest and tip my chin up.

“I refuse to be the only person in your life who wants something better for you. And I do, Smith. I want so much better for you—you deserve so much better.”

And that’s Smith’s breaking point.

He pushes off the doorframe and moves toward me. When his hands reach my hips, he doesn’t even pause as he pulls me into him. I don’t care that he’s soaking wet as I wrap my arms around his shoulders. Neither of us says another word and really, why would we? There’s nothing left to say that our mouths can possibly communicate better by speaking.

When Smith kisses me this time, it’s like he’s on some kind of quest—like he’s searching for something that he knows I’ve got and he’s waiting for me to give it up to him. If that something is a whimper, he gets it right away. He takes advantage of my open mouth and prowls inside.