Rough, impatient, but not clumsy.

His mouth is still cool from the lemonade, his breath tinged with hints of lavender, and his hand slides around to the small of my back, fisting into my shirt. His other moves into my hair as he pulls me tight against him, my spine curving up until we’re flush with each other.

His tongue slips into my mouth, experimentally, and then a little deeper, tangling with mine. A thrill shoots down the front of my rib cage as he turns us one hundred and eighty degrees, backing me into the side of the driver’s seat, settling his hips in against mine.

I’ve read interviews with actors, about how filming sex scenes isn’t sexy, how the performance of it is mechanical. A little awkward, but overall professional.

But that’s not what’s happening to me. What’s happening is biological, not cursory.

My nipples are tightening against his chest, and heat is sinking lower in my stomach until it drops between my thighs, and when I feel him hardening against me, the shock of it almost instantly gives way to a frazzled, confusing want.

I don’t remember moving my hands into his hair, but I feel it slip between my fingers, hear a small, needy sound in my throat at the brush of his tongue over my bottom lip.

He draws back slowly, the kiss settling like the tail end of a fast-moving storm, a tapering off rather than an abrupt stop.

My breath is shallow, and I can feel his heart racing.

“How was that?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” I manage. “Good.”

“Is he still looking?” Miles asks.

Right. Peter.

Since Miles turned us around, I’m the one facing the shop and its adjoining patio.

Peter’s not watching. I’m not sure Peter’s even still here.

He’s either gone inside the store or gotten in his car and driven away. Without craning my neck to scan the parking lot conspicuously, I can’t be sure which.

Heat blazes up my throat to my forehead. “No.”

Miles’s fingers graze clear of my jaw, his other hand relaxing against my back. “Should we head out?” he asks.

“Yep!” I squeak, and squeeze out from between him and the truck. It’s a good thing we took his car: I’m in no condition to drive.

We rinse the cherries and eat them while we grill the asparagus to mix into a massive salad for dinner.

Neither of us broaches the kiss, and I genuinely can’t tell whether he’s had a single thought about it since we left the lavender farm. Every time I zone out, though, a snippet replays in my mind, my skin warming from the memory.

On the one hand, it feels like maybe I just had a very vivid sex dream about him and need to act normal until a salacious dream about, like, Santa Claus overshadows it.

On the other hand, I’m positive it really happened, because if I’d had to imagine what kissing Miles would be like, it would’ve been sweet and playful and fun—maybe just a little bit sloppy. Because he’s sweet, playful, fun, and a little bit sloppy.

But that’s not at all what it was like.

Of course, maybe if the kiss had happened under less vengeful circumstances, it would’ve been different. Maybe that’s just how he kisses when he’s recently been confronted by the man his girlfriend left him for. With a vengeance.

“You okay?” he asks.

I look up from the cucumber and tomato I’ve been chopping on autopilot. “Yep!”

He frowns, his hips sinking back against the counter. “You want to talk about it?”

My head snaps back up.

“Whatever he said to upset you,” Miles clarifies.

I carry the cutting board to the salad bowl and swipe the contents into it. “He was just being shitty.”

Miles turns back to the countertop grill and tongs the asparagus onto their other sides. “It’s fine if you don’t want to tell me.”

After several seconds, I say, “You were right that he’s still jealous. He really can’t stand the fact that anyone might like you. Thinks it’s, like, a direct condemnation of his character. And you know what? Maybe it is.”

Miles’s head cocks on a knowing smirk. “It’s not about me. It’s you. He wants you both. He’s with Petra, but he still wants you to be in love with him.”

“Right, because if I’m into someone who’s totally different than him, it’s a blow to his ego.” I backtrack immediately. “You know, if he thinks I’m dating someone who’s super different from him.”

Miles shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s it. He took a big leap, and now that the initial high is wearing off, he’s wondering if he did the right thing. And then seeing you with someone else reminds him what it was like to be with you.”

I catch myself worrying at my lower lip. When his gaze drops toward the motion, I stop. “He said something about you,” I blurt.

Instantly wish I could take it back.

Miles’s brow rises.

“He was just being shitty,” I repeat. “And it made me mad. And that’s why . . .”

He folds his arms, his face going neutral. His face is very rarely neutral. “What’d he say?”

There’s a lump in my throat. “First of all, keep in mind you don’t owe me any kind of explanation.”

“Daphne,” he says, like, Cut to the chase.

“He said your family doesn’t talk to you.”

The reaction is instantaneous and unsubtle. A flare of shock. Hurt.

He turns, messes with the asparagus again.

“He was acting like an asshole,” I say.

He nods without facing me, his shoulders tight, so unlike his usual lax and languid self.

I forge on: “Like I said, you don’t owe me any explanation. He just brought it up to be a jerk, and it’s none of my business.”

He nods, still tense.

Shit. I played right into Peter’s hands. He found a way to hurt Miles from afar, for having the audacity to love Peter’s best friend, and then, allegedly, his ex.

I step up behind Miles and set my hands on his shoulders, gently easing them down. He lets out a deep, tired exhale. I resist an urge to push my face into the gap between his shoulder blades.

“Miles?” I say.

He looks over his shoulder at me, the light catching the streaks of dark brown in his eyes, lightening them to a maple-syrup amber.

“I’m sorry for saying anything,” I say.

“Nah, it’s fine.”

He turns toward me, my hands skating over his back, coming to rest on his shoulders. He catches my wrists in light, loose circles, his gaze falling. “Sorry, I’m . . .” He takes a breath. “I guess I’m surprised Petra told him that. I just . . . I barely even talked about that stuff with her.”

I press my palms against his trapezius muscles, trying to release the tension from them. His thumbs move back and forth on the sides of my wrists, restless. I get the sense he’s trying to soothe and distract himself. It’s doing the opposite to me.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

His head jerks slightly to one side. “It’s true. I don’t really have a relationship with my parents. It is what it is, and I can’t change it. But so much of life’s good. What’s the point of dwelling on the shit that’s not?”

“Wow. I couldn’t relate less,” I tease gently. “I’m a born complainer.”

He smiles, just a bit. “You are not.”

“Are you kidding?” I say. “My mom and I used to play this game we called Whiny Babies. We’d just take turns complaining about smaller and stupider things until we ran out. Like, the girl I sat next to in English lit chewed her pencil really loudly. Whoever had the smallest complaint got to choose dinner.”

The corner of his mouth curls. “Sounds like a blast.”

“It was, actually,” I say. “Sometimes complaining about stuff, just having someone to empathize with you, takes the sting out of it.”

“There’s no sting,” Miles says. “It’s fine. I’ve got my sister. That’s my family.”