Devon raised an eyebrow but didn’t say a word.
The second margarita made me bold. Loose. Dangerously chatty.
“I haven’t dated,” I heard myself say. “Like…at all.”
Devon froze, wing halfway to his mouth.
“Couple of coffee dates, nothing major. One guy kissed me after church once, and my dad banned me from youth group for a month.”
Devon stared. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” I snorted. “So yeah, I’m twenty-three and basically at, like…an eighth-grade level romantically.”
“Not embarrassing.”
“It’s alittleembarrassing,” I said, picking at a nacho. “Especially when I meet a guy like you and have zero clue how to let him know I’m interested.”
His jaw clenched. “Rylie?—”
“I’m a virgin,” I blurted.
Time froze. Like actual freeze-frame.
Devon inhaled his beer. Wrong. He coughed. Loudly. Very loudly.
“Oh my gosh—are you okay?” I reached toward him like I knew CPR. I didn’t.
He waved me off, coughing, then finally swallowed. “I’m fine. Just—surprised.”
“Nobody ever expects it,” I muttered. “But also—I can’t stop thinking about those boxers.”
He stilled.
“The black ones,” I clarified, because apparently tequila disables my shame functions. “When you were cooking. I keep thinking about them, and I kind of want to see them again. Is that weird?”
He stood so fast, his chair screeched. “We should go.”
“Go where?”
“My place,” he said. Then scrubbed a hand through his hair. “If you want. No pressure. None. Zero. But if you’re saying what I think?—”
“I’m saying I want to see the boxers again.” I grabbed my coat. “And maybe what’s under them.”
His eyebrows arched. “Rylie.”
“Devon.”
Something electric crackled between us—warm, terrifying, and wildly intoxicating.
“Actually,” I said, because apparently tequila had dropped every single inhibition I had left, “can we take the fire truck for a spin first?”
He blinked. “Wait—what?”
“The fire truck.” I nodded earnestly. “I’ve never been in one. And I want to. Desperately. Please?”
He stared at me like I had asked for the moon. Then he grabbed my hand.
“Let’s go.”
