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“What’s wrong with vanilla?”

“Nothing.” Her smile turns playful. “I just didn’t peg you as a vanilla kind of guy.”

My eyes lock on her mouth for a second longer than they should.

She notices.

Fuck.

But I can’t help myself. I lean in closer and lower my voice. “Believe me, Lena, not everything about me is vanilla.”

Her eyes go round…then, shit, she proceeds to choke on her ice cream.

“Fuck,” I curse, slapping her gently between the shoulders. “You good?”

Her cheeks flush scarlet, eyes watering as she coughs and sputters. “Jesus, Wes, warn a girl first.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that.” I pause the circles I’m rubbing on her back. “No, that’s exactly what I meant.”

She stares at me, lips parted, eyes wide with shock, but it’s the intrigue in her deep chocolate gaze that has the heat in my bones flooding straight to places it shouldn’t be. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the inches between us, the slight hitch of her breathing, and theway her tongue darts nervously across her lower lip.

“I’m just saying,” I add, enjoying the flush that deepens down her neck, “I’m not all grease stains and baby bottles.”

She clears her throat, laughter shaky and embarrassed. “Believe me, I never thought you were.”

Chewing her bottom lip, her eyes lock with mine.

Are we…fucking flirting?

At least I think we’retryingto because I’m out of practice.

What the hell am I doing?

I drag a hand down my face just to break the eye contact.

Lena laughs under her breath, cheeks still pink. “Anyway, this is clearly your fault.”

“My fault? You’re the one choking on ice cream like it’s your first day with a tongue.”

“Yeah, well, you flirt like a teenage boy. It’s disarming.”

I throw my head back and bark a laugh, and just like that, whatever moment almost happened dissolves into the kind of back-and-forth that feels easy.

She licks the side of her ice cream with a cheeky smirk. “So, are you going to just sit there, or are you going to help me stop my sister from teaching Rosie how to somersault off that picnic bench?”

I follow her gaze. Rosie is standing on top of the picnic bench like she’s about to base jump, arms raised.

We both think they're just playing until Tess crouches down and yells, “Ten! Nine! Eight—”

“Why is she counting down?”

“I don’t know, Lena, why the fuck is she counting down?”

“Tess, stop!” we both bellow in unison, leaping toour feet, ice-creams forgotten as they fall at our feet.

The world freezes for half a second.

Then Rosie jumps.