long denied, waiting patiently—and sometimes impatiently—for her release. The pressure was so strong, so intense, that every single part of me could feel it.

Currently taking sides in this internal debate were my brain, Lower Caroline (speaking for the distant O), Backbone, and although she’d mainly kept quiet lately, letting Brain and Nerves take control, Heart was now weighing in.

It should be noted that LC (Lower Caroline wanted a hip but abbreviated name) had somehow drafted Simon’s penis into the fray, and even though his penis didn’t have direct access to her yet, LC felt it necessary to speak up on his behalf. While I didn’t much like the term penis, internally I felt strange about calling him dick or cock, so penis it was…for now.

Now, Backbone and Brain were solidly in the wait-for-sex camp, believing this essential to the foundation of this burgeoning relationship. LC, and therefore Simon’s penis, were in the have-sex-with-him-as-soon-as-possible society, obviously. O, while not officially in residence, could be counted among LC’s supporters. But I felt a twinge, and just a twinge, of her floating above both camps, along with Heart, who was currently singing songs about everlasting love and warm, fluffy things.

Take all this into account and what do you have? One totally confused Caroline. A Caroline divided. No wonder I had sworn off dating. This shit was tough. So was I glad to have something to think about other than the pressure cooker of sex indeterminate? Yes. Could I spend a little more time trying to come up with a more clever name for Simon’s penis? Probably. It deserved it. Mammoth Male Member? No. Pulsating Pill ar of Passion? No. Back Door Bandit? Hell no. Wang? Sounded like the noise those doorstopper things made when you flicked ’em…

I said it out loud to myself a few times, cracking myself up a little. “Wang. Wang. Waaaang,” I muttered.

“Hey! Nightie Girl! Get yourself over here,” Simon called, breaking me out of my wang study. I left behind the mental battle, picking my way carefully across the craggy rocks to where he was poised.

“I need you.”

“Here? Now?” I snorted.

He lowered his camera just enough to raise one eyebrow. “I need you for scale. Get over there.” He pointed me toward the edge of the cliff.

“What? No-no. No pictures, huh-uh.” I backed away toward my blanket.

“Yes, yes, pictures. Come on. I need something in the foreground. Get over there.”

“But I’m a mess! I’m all windblown and sunburned, see?” I pulled down my v-neck just a little to show him how I was beginning to pink up.

“While I always appreciate you showing me your cleavage, save it, sister. This is just for me, just to give me some perspective. And you don’t look windblown. Well, only a little.” He tapped his foot.

“You’re not gonna make me pose with a rose in my teeth, are you?” I sighed, shuffling over to the edge.

“Do you have a rose?” he asked, looking serious except for the shit-eating grin.

“Shut it, you. Take your pictures.”

“Okay, just be natural. No posing, just stand there—facing the water would be great,” he instructed.

I complied. He moved around me, trying different angles, and I could hear him muttering about what was working. I admit, even though I was shy about having my picture taken, I could almost feel his eyes, through the lens, watching me. He moved around for only a few moments, but it felt longer. The internal war was beginning to wage again.

“You almost done?”

“You can’t rush perfection, Caroline. I need to get the job done right,” he warned. “But yes. Almost done. You getting hungry?”

“I want those clementines in the basket—grab me one? Or will that mess with your masterpiece?”

“Won’t mess with it. I’ll call it Windblown Girl on a Cliff with a Clementine.” He laughed and headed back over to the car.

“You’re funny,” I said wryly, catching the tiny orange he threw me and starting to peel.

“Are you sharing?”

“I suppose so, the least I could do for the man who brought me here, right?” I laughed, biting into a wedge and feeling the juice dribble down my chin.

“You got a hole in your lip?” he asked, capturing the moment as I rolled my eyes at him.

“Do you actually think you’re funny, or are you just assuming you might be?” I countered, beckoning him over with the peel. He shook his head, laughing as he took a wedge. Of course, he took a bite and no dribble. He opened his eyes wide in feigned amazement, and I took the opportunity to smash another wedge in his face. His eyes remained wide open, as juice now ran freely off the tip of his nose and on to his chin.

“Messy Simon,” I whispered as he looked at me. In a flash, he pressed his lips to mine, getting juice all over both of us as I squealed into his mouth. “Sweet Caroline,” he whispered through his grin. He turned us so the sea was behind us, held up the camera, and took a picture: us covered in orange mush.

“By the way, why were you saying ‘wang’ earlier?” he asked.

I just laughed harder.

“This is it. This is now officially the single best thing I have ever had in my mouth,” I announced, closing my eyes and moaning.

“You’ve said that about everything you’ve eaten tonight.”

“I know, but I seriously can’t handle how good this is. Smack me, pinch me, throw me overboard, this is too good,” I moaned again. We sat at a little table in the corner of a small restaurant in town, and I was determined to try everything. Simon, showing off his language skills, had ordered for us. I told him to go for it, that I was in his hands and I knew he wouldn’t steer me wrong. And the boy did good. We feasted.

We went with traditional tapas, of course, accompanied by glasses of the house wine. Little bowls and plates showed up at the table every few minutes after that: tiny pork meatballs, slices of ham, marinated mushrooms, beautiful sausages, grilled squid with fruity local olive oil. With each bite, I was sure that I had just eaten the best thing ever, then another wave of gorgeous food would show up and convince me once again. And then

these prawns arrived. Unreal. Fried crispy in olive oill with tons of garlic and parsley, smoky paprika, and just a hint of heat. I swooned. I actually swooned.

Simon? He loved it. He ate it up. My reactions as much as the food, I think. He ate it up.

“Honestly, I can’t handle any more,” I protested, dragging a piece of crusty bread through the olive oil. He smiled as he watched me shamelessly enjoy another piece of bread before finally pushing back from the table with a groan.

“Best meal ever?” he asked.

“It really might be. That was insane.” I sighed, patting my full tummy. Ladylike, schmadylike, I’d pounded that meal down like someone was going to take it away from me. A waiter appeared with two small glasses of a local wine. Sweet and crisp, it was the perfect after-dinner drink. We sipped slowly, the breeze coming in through the windows lightly scented with the sea air.

“This was a great date, Simon. Really. Couldn’t have been more perfect,” I said, taking another sip of my wine.

“Was this a date?” he asked.

My face froze. “I mean, no. I suppose not. I just—”

“Relax, Caroline. I know what you meant. It’s just funny to consider this a date: two people traveling together, but only now on a date.” He smiled, and I relaxed.

“Hmm, we haven’t really followed the traditional rules so far, have we? This might even be our first date, if we wanted to get technical.”

“Well, technically speaking, what defines a date?” he asked.

“Dinner, I suppose. Although we’ve had dinner before,” I began.

“And a movie—we’ve already had a movie,” he reminded me.