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“That seems fair.”

She tries to peer over, but I step in the way so she can’t see.

“Pick a good one,” she says.

“Don’t worry. I will.” I pull one off the rack quickly. Theshirt seems like it might be a little too big, but this is the right one. I know she’ll like it. “Close your eyes.”

She does and stands there, waiting.

I hold it up for her, hoping that she won’t think it’s too silly. “Open.”

“I like you a latte,” she reads.

“I like you too,” I say.

She tilts her head and locks eyes with me, a coy smile on her lips.

“Did you see what I did there?”

“Yeah, I did.” She reaches for the shirt.

I dodge her. “So what do you think? Do you like it?”

She laughs. I want that sound to burn its way into my brain. Calming, joyful, relaxing. I’m addicted to hearing it again.

“Hand it over,” she says. She puts a hand on my shoulder for leverage and stands on her tiptoes, arm stretched up high against mine. My hand is just out of reach with the shirt.

I peer down. She’s so focused on the shirt that she doesn’t notice me taking her wrist and tipping my head down to kiss her again.

She freezes, and her brown eyes grow big as she blushes. “Daniel Hansen...”

I smile. “Margo Blakely . . .”

She grabs the shirt out of my hand, holding it close. Then she opens her purse, looking for her card to pay.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” she says, shaking her head.

I grab cash out of my pocket before she can find her card. I’m going to pay before she has a chance to. As I pass her, I whisper, “You can do whatever you want.” Her jaw hits the floor, and I swipe the T-shirt back. “I’m paying.”

She doesn’t say anything, and I’m convinced it’s because she can’t. She’s speechless. She doesn’t know how to react to this side of me.

I don’t even recognize myself. I’m smiling and laughing way more than I ever have before. Every time she looks at me, my heart races.

After I buy the shirts, we change in the bathrooms. I change faster than her and wait against the wall for her to come out.

She opens the women’s bathroom door slightly. “Don’t laugh,” she says. Then she steps out in a shirt that reaches halfway down her thighs, and the top of her overalls are unfastened and hanging down as if they’re just pants, the straps peeking out from under the shirt. I don’t blame her for not wanting to put the wet denim back on all the way, but I can’t help but chuckle.

She pushes my shoulder. “I told you not to laugh.”

“I’m not,” I sayasI laugh.

“It’s not funny,” she says, but she starts laughing too.

I hold my index finger and thumb close together. “Maybe just a little.”

“It is not,” she argues.

I take out my phone and snap a picture. “See for yourself.” I show her the picture.