Page 54 of This is a Kissing Book

I tell her about Mr. Man Bun at the rooftop party.

Oly shrieks and the nearby dogs, already on edge from the fireworks, erupt with barking. “He did the Darcy finger flex?”

I nod. “Patent pending.”

She grips me by the shoulders, searching my face, and whispers, “Mark my words, he’s the one.”

My throat bobs on a swallow because while I’ve always been searching for The One ™, it’s another thing entirely to possibly, maybe, potentially know who it is but not be able to connect the dots to “arriving there” with him because of the shifting tectonic plates beneath our feet.

On the way home, I try to convince myself that Linc stuck with me because he didn’t know anyone else at the party. After all, I clung to him when we were among the likes of Iva, Aiken, and their friends.

That night, after getting home smelling like bonfire, s’mores, and Linc—still wearing his hoodie, I’m drunk from his fresh minty scent—my phone beeps with a message.

Linc: Had a great time today.

My pulse does an elaborate Zumba routine—I only know what that is because Oly had me take a class with her when she still lived in the city. We also tried barre, Pilates, and sweaty yoga in a room that smelled like egg salad on a hot day. I had to leave after ten minutes.

Me: I did too. Thanks for being a good sport.

Linc: Are you impressed by my pickleball prowess?

Me: Your pickle-eating skills are unmatched.

Linc: So, it’s my turn to return the favor.

Me: Please don’t tell me you’ve signed me up for a couples’ ballroom dance class. You saw how often my shoes come untied.

Never mind Zumba. My pulse does a cha cha. Why did I write that? Why isn’t there an undo button? Suddenly overheating, I tear off Linc’s sweatshirt, but his scent lingers.

Hastily, I write back.

Me: I thought we were even.

Linc: The truth or dare variation of the pickleball game upped the ante. I’d like you to join me at a private party on Monday night.

Attend a private party with Linc? My brain immediately spirals into worst-case scenarios and best-case scenarios, which are somehow the same-case scenarios. He can’t mean what I think he does.

Me: Is it a luau? I’m only going if there are piña coladas.

Linc: You and the coconuts.

I can practically hear him chuckle. Always at me, ever the little goofball. Not tall and beautiful and elegant like Iva.

Me: I’m coco-nutty!

The moment I hit send, I cringe. When did I go from keeping things professional with Linc to … this? To being completely, authentically weirdly myself—the girl who makes terrible puns and cops to coconut obsessions?

Linc: I’m afraid it may not be as fun as pickleball. Could give us answers, though.

Me: That sounds mysterious and slightly ominous. Please don’t say Aiken will be there.

Linc: It’ll be interesting. Promise.

Me: What are the details?

Linc: I’ll fill you in tomorrow.

Me: Can I at least have time to read the fine print?