She grins, laughs, and buries her face in my shoulder. “I guess I am. But I figure, if I’m gonna get something inked onto my skin that’s gonna last the rest of my life, it may as well mean something.”

“Very philosophical of you.”

“Because yours mean nothing, right?” She rolls so she’s up on her elbow again, but this time, she’s leaning over me. “This,” she says, pointing to the trees curving around my wrist. “So random. What do they mean?”

“Home,” I answer instantly. “My house has been surrounded by these trees my whole life. I travel so much, sometimes the only time I can remember is when I’m on a tour bus, traveling down the interstate, brushing my teeth. And this helps me remember.”

“And this?” she tugs down the collar of my shirt. “ ‘One, two, three, four’?”

“The words I say before every song,” I explain, thinking of the words that are inked collarbone to collarbone. “Four of the most important words I’ll ever say.”

“And these?” She lifts my shirt this time, revealing the lyrics curving around my left side.

“The lyrics from the first song we ever wrote. It was fucking garbage and never recorded, but the lines are everything to me.”

“ ‘It’s you, baby, it’s you / Your smile, your hair, your lips, your touch,’ ” she reads aloud, finger tracing across the ink wrapping around my side.

“Stop,” I groan, shoving my shirt back down and pushing her hands away.

“Come on!” she laughs. “All of it, Aidan!”

“No!”

“Fine. I’ll just read it next time we line up.”

“You’re gonna have sex with me just to read the tattoo?”

“No.” She sits up and, resting her hand on the grass by the side of my head, looks down at me. “I’m going to make you think we’re having sex, read your tattoo, then run away.”

“What makes you think I’ll let you run away?”

“Didn’t say I’d get very far,” she mutters.

“Do you have an answer for everythin’?”

“Do you have a question for it?” Her delicate brows curve upward, questions in her eyes. “Precisely,” she continues before I can answer. “As long as you keep askin’, I’ll keep answerin’.”

“I have a question.” I sit up, fighting my smile, and push her hair from her eyes. “Can I kiss you?”

Her lips part, shock flickering in her eyes, before she closes her mouth. She shakes her head, a smile forming, and meets my eyes. “Well played, rocker boy. Well played.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“Yes,” she sighs, leaning forward to kiss me. She tastes like candy apples and soda, sweetness overload, and it would be so easy to get high on her right now.

“There,” she says softly, pulling back. “Answered.”

“Acknowledgment,” I correct her, pulling her closer to me. “This is your answer.”

I kiss her long and hard and deep until I’m sure I really am high on her.

Jessie

Little things.

I’ve noticed that it’s always, always the little things that change everything. Like lying under the stars with the sounds of a fair in the background while you talk tattoos. Like being forced into a cuddle on the grass. Like the sweet request for a kiss, even if I know he said it to annoy me. It worked, but I couldn’t help the flutter in my belly.

God, I couldn’t.

I wish I could. I wish it never fluttered. But it did. So much.

I think I’m going crazy—I do. I don’t know where we go from here or what I’m supposed to do with how real this relationship is starting to feel. I don’t know what I was expecting when I agreed to this, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t late-night chats and hugs and arguments that turn into hot kisses or even hotter sex.

I guess I expected pretense. I expected what was promised to me. And this? This wasn’t.

Because I can still feel his fingers brushing my hair away from my face. I can still taste the cotton candy from his lips on mine. I can still hear his question.

Can I kiss you?

Four words. So small. So simple. So trivial. So unlike him there was nothing I could do but simply stare at him for a long moment while my heart went loopy.

Because, God. There’s nothing else in this world like a guy asking if he can kiss you. And when the question comes from the mouth of a hot, tattoo-covered guy who’s more accustomed to taking than asking, it’s even better.

It doesn’t matter that I walked right into it. What matters is that the question made it the best goddamn kiss of my life.

I sigh and pull the plug in the bathtub. Finishing work before my parents get home and my sister gets out of school definitely has its perks—like long, hot bubble baths to mull over my problem, which shouldn’t even be a problem.

I wrap myself in a fluffy towel and grab my phone from the side of the sink. There are two missed calls from Chelsey, so I call her back while I walk to my bedroom.

“About time,” she answers. “I thought you were off on another lovey-dovey date with your new boyfriend.”

“I just finished work,” I reply. Just because she’s the progeny of a rock star and hates them doesn’t mean I do. Or that I want to listen to her latest rant about them. “You called?”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I have to go to some concert with Aidan.” I pull underwear from my drawer and drop onto my bed.

“You have to, huh?”

“Chels,” I warn. “Don’t be a bitch.”

“Can’t help it. It’s in my blood,” she replies. “When will you be done playing girlfriend?”

“I don’t know. It’s at seven or something.”

“Well, if you can escape early, I’m going out with Sofie and Ella tomorrow night. If you can tear yourself away, you should come.”

“Well, if Sofie and Ella are getting away from it early, I probably can, too.”

“Ugh. Are any of my friends single?”

“Yes. You just pissed them all off.”

She sighs into the phone. “Probably. So are any of my friends not dating a rock star, despite my warnings?”

“I don’t know. Ask them, Chels. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure. Just to let you know though, Dax came into the bar looking for you at lunchtime. I told him you took a rocket to Mars.”

“Thanks. You’re the best.”

“I know. But I think he knew I was lying.”

“Really? What gave it away?”

She laughs. “If he shows up again, don’t worry. I have a cheese grater with his balls’ names on it.”

“Noted,” I reply, fighting my own laugh. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“You better.” She hangs up, and I drop my phone on the bed next to me so I can get dressed.

There’s nothing funny about the fact that the hardest part of my fake relationship is my best friend—who, by the way, is less concerned about the fact that the relationship is fake than the fact that the guy I’m seeing is a rock star. Yeah, Chelsey sure knows how to look after me.

I tug my dress over my head and squeeze a towel around my wet hair. As I take to the mirror with my brush, I notice my roots poking through, noticeably dark against the red, so I make a mental note to call the salon for my next appointment.

Instead of grabbing my hair dryer, I text Sofie to see if she’s at home and braid my hair to one side. I pull it over my shoulder and take the dryer to my bangs right before my phone vibrates with her response, confirming she is at home. I reply, telling her I’ll be over in a few minutes, and grab all my things from the side table.

I scribble a note to Mom in the hallway, tearing off the Post-it and sticking it to the mirror. I’m pretty sure that stopped being a requirement when I turned twenty-one, but it’s a habit, and I know she’ll text me to see where I am and if I want dinner. I turn back and scrawl No dinner! on the bottom before locking the door behind me.

And you have got to be fucking kidding me.