She smiles. “So I can be your first?”
“Yes, please,” I say, smiling back at her. “I’d love for you to be my first.”
Chapter 24
Lainey
I thought I had processed what happened between me and Tyson. Long after he and Hannah had fallen asleep, I was still replaying it all. But as I wake up this morning, sober and in the light of day, I’m in a state of disbelief.
As bold and flirtatious as I can be, Tyson and I have never crossed the line of friendship. Not once in all these years. I’ve always known better than to try anything with him, as everything he does is aboveboard—even when he’s drinking. I try to pinpoint what made me go there last night, but I can’t figure it out. All I know is that something felt different between us. The fact that he reciprocated at all confirms that it wasn’t just in my drunken head.
Even more surprising than what actually happened, though, is the way I felt as Tyson held me in his arms. I’m not one to enjoy cuddling, but last night, I loved the feeling of closeness, and right now I almost miss it. And him. To be honest, it’s all sort of blowing my mind.
As Hannah heads out the door, I casually ask her if she knows where he is. She says she doesn’t. My guess is that when he returns to the room, he will act as if nothing happened. At most, he will address it, acknowledge that it was a drunken mistake, and recommend that we never speak of it again.
The second Hannah leaves the room, I check my phone, wondering if he’s texted. He hasn’t—and I feel a small stab of disappointment, wishing he had at least said good morning. I tell myself not to be silly. When have I ever waited for, wanted, or needed a guy to text the morning after sex, let alone the minor stuff that happened between us?
Then again, in some ways what happened between Tyson and me felt more intimate than sex. In any event, I text him:
Good morning!! If you’re out and about, can you please bring me an extra-hot, extra-large, whole-milk cappuccino? If they don’t do larges, please get me two. Everything here is served in a thimble! 
A few seconds later, Tyson gives my text a thumbs-up. Nothing more.
For a second, it annoys me that he didn’t even say a simple good morning, and I wonder if his lack of a meaningful response indicates regret. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. Either way, it won’t happen again, and I need to stop overthinking and get ready to face my day.
I get up, wash my face, and brush my teeth, trying not to look over at the shower. I then return to the room, grab my laptop from my bag, and check my emails, seeing several from Casey, including a PDF of the latest revision of the script. Ready to work, I head out to the balcony to start reading. I’m about three pages in—and totally loving the dialogue—when Tyson returns.
“That coffee better be for me!” I call out, trying to act normal.
As he walks out onto the balcony, both of us avoid eye contact.
“It is for you. And look. It’s bigger than a thimble,” he says, putting it down in front of me, along with a white bag.
“What’s that?”
“A muffin. You’re welcome.”
“Thank you,” I say, as he sits down in the chair across from me and opens his laptop. He clears his throat and says, “Are you reading your script?”
I look up and nod, finally meeting his eyes.
“Can you send it to me?” he asks. “I want to read it.”
My heart skips a beat as I nod, then forward him the PDF.
“For your eyes only,” I say with a smile.
He nods, all business.
We read in silence, neither of us speaking or looking over at the other. At one point, he makes a hmm sound that seems approving. I catch him smiling twice, too. About thirty minutes later, Hannah returns. She putters around for a few minutes, then announces that she’s going out again. I tell her not to do anything we wouldn’t do, winking at Tyson.
The second she’s gone, he says, “You’re too much.”
I shrug and smile.
“So I take it you didn’t tell her?”
“Tell her what?” I give him a wide-eyed look.
“So you’re going to do that routine, huh?”
I laugh. “Sorry. No.”
“No, we aren’t going to do that routine? Or no, you didn’t tell her?”
“Both.”
“Good.”
“Good we’re not going to do that routine? Or good I didn’t tell her?” I smirk.
“Both,” he says. “I know you’re usually an open book—and I’m not going to tell you what you can discuss with Hannah—but I would prefer if we kept last night private. Between the two of us.”
“Oh, I’m sure you would, Mr. Keep a Secret for Ten Years.” I smile, but the second the words are out, I regret them. A reference to Summer just isn’t appropriate right now. His stone-faced expression and tight jaw seem to confirm that I miscalculated.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He nods, then gazes out over the water.
