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“And you’re sure what you’re proposing isn’t too soon for you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it is. Something serious certainly would be, so that’s obviously out of the question. But I really like you and...” I’m feeling bold. Stupidly bold. “I really want to be close to you. This isn’t like me at all, but it somehow feels like maybe it is. It feels right in my chest, you know?”

In my excitement, I’ve hopped up on the sofa, so I’m kneeling on it sideways. I’m still barely taller than Joe, who’s leaning against the backrest, and looking to the side, at me.

“It feels right to me, too,” he says, his voice a little strangled.

This emboldens me further—seriously, was something in this can of soda I drank just now?—so I straddle his thighs and sit down on his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck. He presses me against his chest, hands stroking my back through my thick sweatshirt.

“I don’t want any mention of anyone else when we’re together like this,” he says thickly. “Specifically not my ex-wife and not your ex-fiancé. Understood?”

I nod.

“I don’t want to know what you did with someone else or what I did with someone else. Just you and me, together, now.”

Nodding, I smile and scratch his beard.

“Tell me what you like, then. Or better yet, show me,” he says.

My heart thunders under my breastbone. “Look, Joe,” I say, licking my lips. “I haven’t been with many guys...”

“That’s okay,” he says, pushing away a strand of hair that always falls over my eye. “I haven’t been with many guys either.”

I laugh and swat him on his shoulder.

“Seriously now, I’m not some kind of player, either. I got married young.”

“So we’re both clueless rebounders?” I try to make light, because I feel close to bursting. With heat, with pressure, with excitement. I want him.

He chuckles. “No. Not clueless. People we cared about foolishly let us go, but we should be thankful because we get to be together right now, right here, and even though we just met, it feels absolutely perfect.”

I get a little choked up at his words, so all I can do is nod. I cup his cheek and run my short nails through his beard, our eyes fixated on each other’s, pupils dilating. His lips are full and look very soft, and he’s breathing in shallow pants. The tip of his tongue darts across his teeth, those magnificent, long, beautiful teeth, and I suddenly feel like I’m possessed. I trace the outline of his mouth with my thumbs, the two mirroring each other, first the edge of his top lip, then the bottom, and then I just have to dip them into his mouth, in the groove between his top teeth and upper lip. I slowly move across his gums, and I know this is bizarre but fuck if those teeth aren’t the sexiest thing I’ve seen in my life.

“What are you doing?” Joe asks, a little muffled because my fingers are in his mouth.

“You have amazing teeth,” I say. “Just the nicest teeth I’ve ever seen on anyone in real life.”

He huffs with amusement. “It felt a little like you were trying to figure out my age. You know, the way they do with horses.”

I chuckle and lean down to kiss him on the neck, behind his ear. “What if I was? What would the teeth say?”

“They’d say I’m thirty-four.”

“Wow. Well, your geriatric status notwithstanding, you have absolutely gorgeous teeth. And such a beautiful smile.”

He stiffens beneath me. “Am I ... too old for you?”

I pull back. “Hey, I was just joking. Of course you’re not too old. I’m twenty-seven. Not exactly a kid.”

“Okay.” He visibly relaxes, and runs his hands absentmindedly up and down my back. “You know I think you’re gorgeous, right? Like, gorgeous all around, and not just your mouth bones, like me?”

I laugh. “I’m not, but thank you.”

“Oh, I disagree. I haven’t even seen you naked, but I just know you are.” He brushes his fingertips across my cheekbone, then buries his hand in my hair, right beneath my disaster of a bun. He feels around a bit, testing the tightness, then tugs at my scrunchie and pulls it off. My hair spills all over my shoulders. It’s a day after the most recent wash, so I tell myself it shouldn’t look too terrible. He puts the scrunchie down on the couch armrest in a move so careful you’d think he were disarming a landmine, then uses his fingers to fan my locks out and to the side, spreading them like a blanket while his eyes fill with awe.

“You have beautiful hair. It’s so soft,” he says as he rubs a strand between his fingers. “And so shiny. I noticed it when you first got to Hops & Curds, even with the hood on.”

I smile. “You don’t miss much, do you?”