I narrow my eyes, grumbling. “Fine. I’m stubborn. I just want to⁠—”

“Do everything on your own?”

“Yes. But you know why. I mean, are we that different? You like to be prepared. I like to be independent.”

“Well, nothing could have prepared me for the Twitter hate,” he jokes.

I wince. “Are you mad at me for that?”

He takes another bite of his breakfast, then says, “It’s hard to be mad at you. And believe me, I tried.”

I’m about to reply when the woman in the booth behind us says to her companion, “I have no problem admitting I would watch the neighbors have sex. Are you telling me you have an issue with that?”

My eyes pop.

I nearly drop my fork.

Oliver mouths, This is getting interesting.

As I lift a forkful of eggs, the woman says, “And you’re telling me you wouldn’t watch?”

The man she’s with scoffs. “No. I wouldn’t. You would? You truly would? If you looked outside and saw someone in an apartment across the street having sex, you’d watch?”

I keep my gaze on Oliver’s, smirking as I take a bite.

Oliver mimes bringing a pair of binoculars to his eyes, pretending to peer at someone in the distance. I hold in a laugh as the man and woman grab their things and leave, the debate raging on as they go.

“It’s not perversion,” she says, her voice lingering as they head to the door. “It’s curiosity.”

“It’s a little perverted. Actually, a lot,” the man says as they fade out of earshot.

Oliver’s lips quirk in a grin. “That raises an interesting question, doesn’t it? A little or a lot perverted?”

I laugh. “I thought you were going to ask if I’d watch.”

“Excellent question too. Would you watch?”

“Would you?”

“You go first,” he says.

“Fine. The answer is yes. Yes, I would.” I square my shoulders, owning it.

“So, set the scene for me,” he says. “You’re at home with Mags, you walk past the window, you see the neighbors shagging. Mr. Winchester with his bald spot and beer belly has bent Mrs. Winchester over the couch by the window. And you’re the Peeping Tom in that scenario?”

“Are you saying I should only watch hot young things bang in front of the window?”

We are back to Oliver and Summer, pals at large.

He laughs, shaking his head. “Not saying that at all. I just want to understand this particular perversion of yours.”

I pretend to toss my napkin at him. “Humans are inquisitive. If someone is going to publicly screw, I will watch. Not for titillation but curiosity.”

He arches a brow. “You’d watch for curiosity?”

I nod, then take another bite of my eggs, chewing, swallowing. “Yes. Because it’s interesting. Sex is interesting. And if someone is going to do it in front of an open window, I’m going to check them out. And obviously, you are not.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I am most definitely watching. Wait. Correction. I am flipping through the channel, stopping, deciding if it looks good.”

“And if it’s Mr. and Mrs. Winchester, you’re moving on to ESPN?”

He pretends to work a remote. “Clicking the next channel at lightning speed,” he says, a gleam in his eyes.

“Well, I guess you’re more discerning than I am with your perversions,” I say, glad whatever weirdness he felt at the pool has vanished. “Or more discerning than the rest of the world too, since everyone seems to want to watch us kiss, what with that pic and all.”

One eyebrow climbs. “Really? I dunno, Summer. Seems like watching your neighbors go at it like bunnies is just a little different than checking out a snapshot of a somewhat chaste kiss.”

Somewhat.

That’s the key. It was somewhat chaste, but what does he make of the “somewhat” portion? I wish I knew.

“The concept is the same,” I say, sticking to the cerebral side of this conversation.

“The concept is one hundred percent not the same,” he insists, stabbing his finger against the table. “Case in point. We can look at that picture right now, in public, and that’s not perverted.” Grabbing his phone, he taps on the search bar, and seconds later, slides the device to the middle of the table so we can both see it again.

An image I checked out less than an hour ago.

And I can’t look away from this picture of a man and a woman swept up in each other.

Lost in a kiss.

They look . . . enrapt.

The memory of the kiss sweeps over me, cocooning me in a kind of residual bliss.

A somewhat chaste bliss, but I feel all the tingles you get from a memory. They float over me, reignite, send flutters all through my body.

Flutters that turn to sizzles as the memory intensifies.

They turn more carnal.

They’re hardly chaste at all now.

Heat races through me, and my neck is hot. My cheeks go red. And my wishes must be written in my eyes. I have to wonder if Oliver can read them there.

Kiss me.

His gaze locks with mine, and I swear on all that is good and holy—on Stella’s cookies and comfortable yoga pants and nights out with friends—that his eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them before.