A while later, Jase is lying on his back on my bed, wearing shorts but nothing else, and I’m kneeling beside him.

“I think you already know me pretty well.” He reaches out to tug the elastic out of my hair so it falls free, draping over his chest.

“Nope. Lots to learn. Do you have freckles? A birthmark? Scars? I’m gonna find ’em all.” I lean down to touch my lips to his belly button. “There, you have an innie. I’m filing this information away.”

Jase sucks in a breath. “I’m not sure I can be still. Jesus, Samantha.”

“Look, and over here…” I lick in a line down from his navel. “You do have a scar. Do you remember where you got this one?”

“Samantha. I can’t even remember my name when you’re doing this. But don’t stop. I love the way your hair feels like that.”

I shake my head, making my hair fan out more. I am wondering where this take-charge confidence is coming from, but at the moment, who cares? Watching what it does to him takes away any hesitation, any embarrassment.

“I don’t think I’m going to get the whole picture with these here.” I reach for the top of his shorts.

His lashes flutter closed as he takes another deep rough breath. I slowly slide them down, tugging over his lean hips.

“Boxers. Plain. No cartoon characters. I figured.”

“Samantha. Let me look at you too. Please.”

“What is it you want to see?” I’m preoccupied by edging the shorts all the way off. And a little bit using this as an excuse because my bravado has wavered after seeing Jase in only boxers. And not exactly immune to me.

Okay, I know about arousal, I do. It was pretty much Charley’s perpetual state. Michael suffered over his, but that never stopped him from pulling my hand to his crotch. But this is Jase, and that I can do that to him, with him, makes my mouth go dry, and other parts of me ache in a completely unaccustomed way.

He reaches up, brushing my hair away from the back of my dress so he can find the zipper. His eyes are still closed but, as the zipper slides down, he opens them and they’re brilliant green, like leaves when they first show up in the spring. He smoothes the tips of his fingers around my shoulders and then eases the dress down, taking my hands to pull them out of the armholes. I shiver. I’m not cold, though.

I wish I had some exotic underwear. It’s an ordinary tan bra I’m wearing, the kind with that little meaningless bow in the center. But just as I find Jase’s plain boxers perfectly compelling, he seems mesmerized by my utilitarian bra. His thumbs brush over the front of it, tracing the outline, circling. My turn to take a deep breath now. Except that I can’t seem to, as his hands return to my back, searching for the clasp.

I look down. “Ah. You do have a birthmark.” I touch his thigh. “Right up here. It looks like a fingerprint, almost.” The tip of my index finger covers it completely.

Jase slides my bra off, whispering, “You have the softest skin. Come close.”

I lie on top of him, skin to skin. He’s tall, I’m not, but when we lie like this, we fit together. All the curves of my body relax into the strength of his.

When people talk about sex, it sounds so technical…or scarily out of control. Nothing like this sense of rightness, of being made to fit together.

But we don’t carry it any further than lying together. I can feel Jase’s heart thudding beneath me, and the way he curves away a little, embarrassed, probably, that his need shows more clearly than mine. So I just stroke his cheek and say—yes I say, the girl who has always guarded her heart—I say, for the first time, “I love you. It’s okay.”

Jase looks straight into my eyes. “Yeah,” he whispers. “It is, isn’t it? I love you too, my Sam.”

For the next few days after our blowup over Jase, Mom works her way through a) the silent treatment, with its accompaniment of sighs, frosty glances, and hostile muttering under her breath; then b) interrogating me about my plans for every hour of the day; and c) laying down rules: “That boy is not to be coming in here while I’m at work, young lady. I know what happens when two teenagers are alone, and that’s not happening under my roof.”

I manage not to snap back that, in that case, we’ll find a handy backseat or a cheap motel. Jase and I are getting closer and closer. I’m hooked on the smell of his skin. I’m interested in every detail of his day, the way he analyzes customers and suppliers, summing them up so concisely, but empathetically. I’m captivated by the way he looks at me with a bemused smile while I talk, as though he’s both listening to my voice and absorbing the rest of me. I’m pleased by all the parts of him I know, and each new part I discover is like a present.

Is this how Mom feels? Does every bit of Clay feel like it was designed specifically to make her happy? The idea kind of grosses me out. But if she feels that way, what kind of person am I that I just don’t like him being around?

“You’re gonna have to handle this one for me, kid,” Tim says, coming into the kitchen, where I am easing warmed focaccia squares out of the oven, sprinkling them with pre-grated Parmesan. “They need more wine out there and it’s not a real great idea to ask me to be the sommelier. Gracie said two bottles of the pinot grigio.” His voice is teasing, but he’s sweating a little, and probably not from the heat.

“Why did they ask you? I thought you were here to be office support, not waitstaff.” Mom is having twelve donors over for dinner. It’s catered, but she’s concealing the fact from the donors, having me carry out the precooked, reheated food.

“The lines get kinda blurred sometimes. You have no idea how many coffee and donut runs I’ve made since I signed on to your ma’s campaign. Do you know how to open those?” He nods at the two bottles I’ve extracted from the lower rack of the fridge.

“I think I can figure it out.”

“I hate wine,” Tim says meditatively. “Never liked the smell of it, if you can believe that. Now I could just chug both of those in two seconds flat.” He shuts his eyes.

I’ve peeled off the metal coating on top and am inserting the corkscrew, a fancy new one that looks more like a pepper grinder. “Sorry, Tim. If you want to go back out there, I’ll bring these out.”

“Nah. The pretentiousness is getting a little thick. Not to mention the bigotry. That Lamont guy is a supersized douche bag.”

I agree. Steve Lamont is a tax attorney from town and the poster child for political incorrectness. Mom’s never liked him, since he’s also sexist and fond of joking about wearing black every year on the anniversary of the day when women got the vote.

“I don’t understand why he’s even here,” I say. “Clay’s from the South but he’s not a bigot, I don’t think. But Mr. Lamont…”

“Is fuckin’ rich, babe. Or as Clay would put it, ‘He’s so loaded he buys a new boat every time the old one gets wet.’ That’s all that matters. They’d put up with a hell of a lot worse to get some of that.”

I shudder, jerking the cork, which breaks. “Oh, damn.”

Tim reaches for the bottle, but I move it away from him. “It’s okay, I’ll just try to get the broken bit.”

“Timothy? What’s taking so long?” Mom marches through the swinging kitchen door, glancing between us.

I hold out the bottle. “Oh, honestly!” she says. “That’s going to ruin the whole bottle if any cork gets in.” She pulls it from my hands, frowns at it, then drops it into the trash and opens the refrigerator to get another. I start to take it from her hands, but she picks up the opener and twists it herself, deftly. Then does the same to the second bottle.

Then she hands one to Tim. “Just go around the table and top off people’s glasses.”

He sighs. “Okay, Gracie.”