“Say you don’t mean it. Say I’m the best. Say no one is better than me.”

It’s like being tickled, and I’m laughing and snorting at the same damn time when a throat clears.

And a voice I don’t recognize cuts in—fast, excited. “Excuse me. This may be crazy, but it’s probably not, because I’m pretty sure I’m right. Aren’t you America’s Worst Boyfriend?”

Oliver groans.

We both turn to face some random person, a guy a few years younger than us with dark hair and a trim frame. He’s waggling his phone at us, showing his Twitter feed. A satisfied grin lights his face. “Yes! I thought it was you. I was so sure, and now I know it is. I’m Noah. I’m doing this crazy scavenger hunt for my company, and we have to get ten items. One is a pic of a real-life internet celebrity. We hashtag the pic, and everyone shares it. Can I take your pic? It would probably get my team into first, and if we win, our company will donate to the charity we chose, and I picked pediatric cancer research.”

While the guy catches his breath, a flash of sadness crosses Oliver’s eyes, and that’s when an idea sticks in my mind.

The next brilliant scheme.

This will solve the hairiest, thorniest issue of all. And it’ll even do some good, it seems.

I drape an arm around my best friend, then meet Noah’s gaze. “You can take his picture, but his nickname isn’t America’s Worst Boyfriend. It’s America’s Best Boyfriend.” I squeeze Oliver’s shoulder like a girlfriend would do, then shoot him a hearts are aflutter in my eyes look. “And I know that because I wrote the essay and this man is my fiancé.”

“Sweet! Even better. It’s like I can break the story. I always wanted to be a journalist. Well, after being an Olympic superstar. That was my first goal. But this—this’ll work.”

“Excellent. Glad to hear it,” I say. Oliver turns his face to me, mouthing, You’re brilliant.

“Smile for the camera,” Noah says, and holds up his phone. “New hashtag. ‘America’s Best Boyfriend.’”

And America’s Best Boyfriend deserves a kiss. I lean in and press my lips chastely to his cheek when Oliver says, “Let’s give them something to hashtag about.”

16SUMMER

I’ve thought about kissing Oliver before. My mind has gone there every now and then.

It’s not like I’ve mooned over him.

Please. I’m a grown woman. I don’t moon.

It’s been more of a . . . consideration. A visit to another town, just to peek around, see the shops, check out the scenery.

That’s all it is, because I’ve had enough experience with this inconvenient crush that it’s no longer inconvenient. I can turn it off anytime. Hell, I turn it off most of the time. I guess that makes it a convenient crush.

But when I have let my mind skip over the border to Kissingville, there’s a buildup. I picture us at a bar, on the beach, along the boardwalk.

There is always a moment. A movie moment that I see coming.

But now I’m completely blindsided, and I have no time to brace for the most unexpected kiss of my life.

I close my eyes the second his lips touch mine.

No, the world doesn’t stop.

No, I don’t melt.

And no, I don’t stop breathing when Oliver brushes his mouth against mine.

What happens is far more wondrous.

I feel good everywhere.

There’s not a corner forgotten or untouched.

I’ve taken a happiness drug, and it’s flooding my veins with a dreamy, dizzying sensation, and every molecule is tingling.

It’s sunshine and music, this feeling of his lips dusting mine with a soft, tender ghost of a kiss.

A gentle slide.

A delicious sigh.

His lips trace mine for the very first time and the kiss sweeps through me, lights flickering on like fireflies in June.

I’m illuminated by a kiss that feels like floating.

His lips are soft, full, and confident.

They brush against me, making me tremble, making my skin shimmer.

It’s possible I’m glowing.

Because holy hell.

Oliver Harris is proving Stella’s theory wrong.

This man can kiss.

Oh my, he can kiss so damn well.

My knees wobble, my stomach flips, and shivers rush down my arms, skating across my skin.

One touch of his lips, one flick of his tongue, and I am tumbling out of this-is-so-easy zone and into what-the-hell-was-I-thinking land.

Pretending to be his fiancée is no longer the simplest thing, not when I know now exactly what I’m missing.

I’m missing him.

I’m missing a kiss that makes me want to sing.

I’m missing this possibility beyond my reach.

Then, that possibility turns hotter, burns brighter. Oliver’s hand cups my cheek, grazing my skin, making me shudder. His fingertips trail down my face.

And he lingers, his thumb sliding along my jaw. It’s almost like he doesn’t want this to end either. His lips luxuriate on mine for one last second, and right when I swear he’s about to pull away, his tongue flicks out across my bottom lip.