“Um hmm.” JT listens to a voicemail.

“You do know MIT is made up of programmers who build sexbots.”

He doesn’t make eye contact and I study how much gray streaks his hair. It’s something I haven’t noticed before today.

“They test the sexbots on freshmen virgins.”

He looks up with the phone at his ear, his attention caught. “What about freshmen?”

“Nothing.” He’s not listening because he thinks this deal is sealed. An elderly man sits at the next table in my direct line of vision and stares as only the elderly and babies can, bold and curious. Unblinking and unapologetic. I don’t want to feel sorry for him at his table for one, napkin tucked into his shirt collar and leaning forward in eavesdrop mode.

Uncle JT and I eat at Alessandro’s Restaurant every Sunday night. It isn’t the type where wait staff surround the table and deliver birthday wishes in a rowdy sing-along. Here, the waiters deliver $500 bottles of wine to customers with too much money and too little sense.

I’m not legal for the wine, but I’m old enough to be embarrassed over the cake.

“We’ll talk about this later,” he says without looking at me and moves his thumbs over the Blackberry keypad.

“Excuse me. Going to the ladies room.” My voice is steady, but I’m trying hard not to cry. He makes eye contact for a second, nods, and returns to his phone. I swear that phone’s my nemesis.

The restrooms are at the far end of the restaurant. I ignore the waiter watching me weave around tables. I thought JT understood what a big deal the college thing is going to be. I try to be normal, but we both know I’m not and never will be. He’s accepted that for all these years, so why is he pushing me out now? Living at home is the most logical solution. It’s not like I get in his way.

I’m lost in thought when I round the corner to the restrooms and plow into a body. A phone crashes to the tile floor and a guy takes a step back.

“Oh, so sorry.” I grimace. “Really sorry.” I bend to grab the phone that’s slid across the corridor and now sits at the door of the men’s room. I also see a large envelope on the floor.

The restroom door opens and a person barrels into my bent head, knocking me flat on my behind. The sensation of being pushed sends me into a paralysis. An explosion of irrational fear invades every cell of my body, and I recognize it immediately. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. I squeeze my eyes shut to block out anything but the mantra.

Hey, there’s a kid in there. We’ve got a survivor. She’s alive. The voices in my head are loud, but I mentally chant harder. I’ll be okay.

I’m sprawled against the wall with the stranger’s cell phone in one hand. Hands grab my arms to help me stand. I jerk my arms from them in a quick, panicky motion I can’t control.

“Please don’t touch me.” I take a deep breath. “I’m fine.”

I get up off the floor with one hand on the wall and feel the heat on my face, the temperature of hot asphalt.

The older man who exited the men’s room gives me the she-must-be-on-drugs look, mumbles apologies, and walks off. The younger guy stands unmoving, staring at me.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“You should watch where you’re lurking. That’s dangerous. To stand there.” I try to slow my breathing and refuse to take his extended hand. My back hits the wall and I run out of space.

“Lurk?” One corner of his mouth tips up.

I take in his smile and narrow my eyes. He thinks it’s funny? My heart is still racing from his touch.

“Yeah, lurk.” I take a step and he grabs my arm.

“Can I have my phone?” The other corner of his mouth joins the party and it’s a full-on grin. Dimples appear and they’re not the cute, little innocent boy kind.

My stomach flutters like a moth caught in a jar.

His gaze sweeps down my body. Those twin dimples of danger match eyes that I swear can see through my clothes.

And I almost melt into a pool of girly goo. Jerk. Totally gorgeous-beyond-words jerk.

I shove the phone into his hand, and he releases me. When I make it into the restroom, I press my hands against the counter and stare at myself in the gold, gilded mirror. I expect my tan face to look pale, shaken, freaked. But I look normal. The outside me never matches the inside me. I look confident, from my smooth dark hair to my perfect red dress.

Good. Running into someone doesn’t qualify as an earth-shattering and traumatic experience. Get a grip.

A few minutes later, I return to the table and JT is still working on his phone. When he does lift his gaze, he motions at the cake in front of me.

There’s no way I’m telling him what just happened because he’ll tell me it’s the very reason I should go away to college. He’ll argue that I need to be socializing with other people.

The waiter appears out of nowhere to light the candles. “Happy Birthday,” he says, giving me this look he must think is sexy before he disappears to wait on the next table. I suppress an eye-roll.

Eighteen candles on a small cake make for quite a spectacle. Not as suitable as a bonfire for letter burning but it would do the job.

I lean forward, ready to blow out the candles.

“Make a wish,” JT demands in his no-argument CEO voice.

I shift uneasily. “No wish.” I’ve already told him my wish—a safe life where I continue going to school at home.

“Malerie Toombs.” He makes a tsking sound and reaches over to pull the cake back. “You will not blow those out without a wish. Don’t you want your wish to come true?”

“Since when is Mr. Practical so superstitious?” I close my eyes and lean toward the cake. I’m tired of worrying about college and can’t bear to hear all the reasons why I’ll love living away from home. Diversion is necessary. I think of what he hopes I’ll say. “I wish you’d bring back the guy who carried in my cake.” This wish makes him smile. He wants me to act like girls my age.

“Not a chance. He’s too old for you. And he gave you that look.” His eyes twinkle.

“What look?”

“The look. The one that said, ‘I’d like to get that girl alone and—’”

“Stop.” I hold up my hand.

“‘—bang her.’” He gives me a knowing look, like he’s passed some rite of hipness.

I cringe and scrunch my nose. “Oh, wow. You did not just say bang.”

“I know lots of phrases for your generation. I’ve watched Jersey Shore.”

“Ugh,” I groan, closing my eyes. “Please don’t think a reality show sets the standard for the rest of us. Definitely not.” Although JT’s acted as my guardian for the last eleven years, he still manages to surprise me.

He chuckles and I can tell he’s pleased he shocked me. “Do you think I don’t know what goes on in a young man’s head? When I was eighteen, I had the same sex-tracked mind as that waiter.”

I’m scrambling to change the subject. Fast. Before he decides to tell me stories of all night frat parties and practical jokes and the greatness of college life. “I really think that guy is pitifully ugly. Poor thing.” I smirk at JT’s raised brow that screams liar at me. The waiter has a beautiful face and long, lean swimmer’s build. He’s a walking magazine ad. “Can I finally have that present you’ve been guarding?”

He shuffles his feet and the bag scrapes against the tile floor. “Let’s have the cake first. This gift is very special. It’s something I’ve saved for this day and I want to take my time explaining it to you.”

I hold my long hair back and blow out the candles in a wide-sweeping, exaggerated effort. “There. Happy?”

He nods, a satisfied got-my-way smile lighting up his face before he hands me a serving knife.

I have just given JT the first slice of cake and am licking icing from one finger when I realize that someone stands to my right. I push my empty water glass over and don’t lift my gaze. I’m positive that eye contact with the waiter will tempt JT to say something embarrassing.