The bike slows as we cruise down a road lined with eclectic shops and a few bars—South Congress, I realize. Or SoCo, as most people refer to it around here. This is the part of town where the city keeps its Keep Austin Weird motto going strong. Caleb has always hated it, declaring that this was Texas, not California. But there’s one breakfast place a few streets over that he likes enough to brave the “hippy and hipster” zone on occasion.

Monroe parks in a lot between buildings and helps me off the bike. Before I can ask where we’re going, he clasps my hand and guides me around a building and toward another parking lot. This one has lights strung everywhere and colorful picnic benches half packed with people. Food trucks line the edges of the lot, and a guy with a guitar is playing in the front corner.

My stomach growls at the combination of smells drifting from the lot—funnel cake, tacos, bacon. All the happy food groups. “I think my stomach just realized I never fed it dinner.”

“You and me both. Some high-maintenance chick kept me late at work and made me skip dinner.” I poke him in his side and he laughs. “Come on, let’s not live by cake alone. That bright orange truck over there has these Korean pork sandwiches that are so addictive I’m convinced they’re laced with crack. And we’ll need to grab a fish taco from Bueno’s. And then I know the girl who owns Sweet Revenge, the silver one over there. She will give us the cake hookup.”

His enthusiasm is so open it almost looks out of place on him—biker dude getting excited about cake. But I find myself smiling back. “A closet foodie?”

“Closet culinary student.”

My brows lift. “I never would’ve guessed.”

“That’s because you’re wildly judgmental and put me in the box of former convict or potential meth dealer the minute you saw me.”

“Riiight, says he who has called me sorority girl and princess nonstop.”

“Fine. Are you or have you ever been in a sorority?”

My lips press together. I don’t want to answer, but I know he’s not going to let me off the hook. “It was only freshman year—”

“Ha!” he says, and tugs me further into the lot.

“But I’m no princess. No fairy godmother ever saved me from anything, there’s no inheritance waiting, and my prince just ditched me for a girl who thinks keeping up with the Kardashians is a solid life goal.”

He slows down at that and I bump into him. The humor in his expression softens into something more serious. “That asshole was not a prince. He’s a punk. The way he talked to you . . . like he wanted to manage you. Like you were a task on his Day Planner to handle. Fuck that. I’ve known you for three hours and know better than to try that shit with you. You’d castrate me.”

I blink, a little stunned at his spot-on assessment of how Caleb talks to me. I’ve never put it in those terms, but manage is the exact right word. And I’d let him. Maybe part of me had felt like I needed to be managed, like he’d lead me to some holy grail of fitting in with the “right” people.

“That dude was more concerned about what a dining room of strangers was thinking than he was about what you were feeling. If he really cared about you, he should’ve gotten on his knees and begged you to forgive him for being such a dick. But no, he tried to make you feel stupid and put you down instead. Your fairy godmother did show up tonight—with blonde hair, a fake tan, and a designer bag. She saved you from continuing that bullshit. You deserve better than being some guy’s Stepford girlfriend. Let Blondie take on that job.”

I can feel my eyes filling up, my emotions, which are already running high, trying to spill over because now I’m embarrassed. “You must think I’m an idiot.”

His brows scrunch. “What? How did you get that out of what I just said?”

“He’s a jerk, but I was stupid enough to stay with him.”

Monroe groans and releases my hand. “Stay right here.”

“Where are you going?”

He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he heads toward the guy who’s been playing guitar.

I panic, frozen for a moment, and then hurry after him. But my heels slow me down and by the time I get there, he’s already talking to the man and taking the microphone from him. What the hell? Monroe plants his Chuck Taylor on a nearby bench and propels himself up and onto the picnic table.

“Attention, everyone!”

I’m at the edge of the table now, ready to pull him down by the pant leg if necessary, but everyone is turning our way. “What are you doing?”

He smiles down at me but doesn’t answer, just gives me the one moment motion with his finger. He looks out at the crowd again. “Listen up, today is my friend Natalie’s twenty-first birthday.”

“Oh my God.” Where’s a shovel so I can dig a hole in the dirt and crawl in? I try to scoot into the shadows.

“No one has sung to her yet. She’s had no cake. And worse, no alcohol. In fact, so far today she’s survived being broken down on the side of the road in the heat, has caught her boyfriend cheating and knocked that boyfriend’s nuts into his throat in public, and turned the purse of the chick he was with into a designer punch bowl.”

Eyes swivel toward me. I want to die. But someone claps, and there’s a You go, girl from an elderly lady at a nearby table. That makes me smile.

“And yet she still looks this hot after all that,” Monroe declares.

A wolf whistle comes from someone on the far side of the lot. I laugh and put my hand over my face.

“So”—Monroe raises his hand in a mock toast despite having no drink—“happy birthday to Natalie, one badass bitch!”

The crowd toasts back and then the guy with the guitar starts a rendition of Happy Birthday. A chorus of diners serenades me.

Monroe hops down from the table, singing along with them and grinning. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Nat-a-lie . . .” He leans over. “So, in answer to your question, no, I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

My hands go to my hips, and I give him my are-you-out-of-your-mind face. But I can’t help the swell of emotion that comes from the simple act of being sung to by a large group of people. There’s some weird power in that. I never really had birthday parties—even as a kid. Mom wasn’t organized enough to put something together. So I’d get a few presents and a trip to McDonald’s with my cousins. This is so much better.

I close my eyes. Because I will not cry, dammit. “If you think this is going to get me to kiss you again, prepare to be disappointed.”

“As if I would have ulterior motives,” he says, and I open my eyes to find him watching me with an amused expression.

And son of a bitch, I do want to kiss him. Because he looks so damn good standing there. Because unlike Caleb, he isn’t afraid to look silly in front of other people. Because he called me a badass and meant it.

I make a sound of frustration. “I’m still not sleeping with you.”

I step into his space, and I’m not sure who kisses who first. All I know is that before the birthday song ends, his hand is in my hair and his lips are on mine and my body is melting against his.

My lips part and his tongue is stroking mine, devouring any remaining resistance. Hungry sounds escape me, and my fingers seek something to hold on to, eventually knotting in his T-shirt. There’s a frantic edge to both our movements, like we don’t know which way to go next, like we want to do everything all at once. We’re going to bump noses; I know it. But somehow we work it all out. His hands slide to my waist, and I’m pushing onto my toes. My arms loop around his neck, and we’re kissing, kissing, kissing.

Somewhere in the background people are clapping and catcalling. And finally my mind registers where we are. There are people. We’re being watched. I break away with a panting breath. My cheeks are on fire, and I press my face into his shoulder. “Oh my God.”