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I shove his shoulder, laughing. “Shut up.”

“Thank you for coming tonight,” he says, his voice warm.

Too warm.

And not flirtatious—affectionate. And that’s harder to resist.

By a lot.

“You’re welcome,” I say softly.

A smile tugs at his lips, and his voice deepens. “If we were alone, I’d probably kiss you.”

“If we were alone…” I swallow, nervous. “I might let you.”

His smile grows wider as he watches the last of the sunlight disappear from the top of the snowcapped mountain. “Thank you for letting Britta sign you up for her flowers.”

“Sure.”

Even though I would rather grow flowers than arrange them, I’m not going to turn down a job, especially this summer.

“You know that means you have to go to the wedding with me now,” he points out.

“It means I have to make the arrangements, not that I have to go with you. Besides, won’t you be in it? Maybe you’ll walk down the aisle with a pretty bridesmaid, and you’ll forget all about me.”

“I walk down the aisle with my cousin,” he says, amused.

“Well…then that probably isn’t an issue.”

He laughs, leaning against the back of the swing and rocking us forward. We stay like this as the dusk gives way to twilight, until it’s dark enough even the kids decide to go inside and the solar lights on the back deck flicker on.

When Noah sets his hand on mine, I let him. And when he interlaces our fingers, I let him do that, too.

“Hey, Piper,” he says.

“Yeah?” I’m very aware of him in the dark—his large body, the rhythm of his breathing, even the way his heart is beating as fast as mine.

His thumb brushes over my knuckles. “I still like you.”

I swallow, my heart swelling. My feelings for Noah battle with my hesitation, and I think in the end, I know which will win.

Under the cover of nightfall, with the summer crickets serenading us, I whisper, “I still like you, too.”

11

On the drivehome from Noah’s parents’ house, we talk about his family, the cake, birthdays past, and absolutely nothing. However, we don’t talk about our confession.

But as we pull up to the house, I sense the conversation is coming.

It’s five minutes to eleven. After we left the swing, everyone wanted to play cards inside, so we stayed until the kids were half asleep and even the adults were yawning.

I should be tired, but I’m not, and I don’t think Noah’s dad’s coffee is the only thing to blame.

“Do you want to open your gift now or in the morning?” I ask Noah when we walk inside the empty house.

I expect him to make a joke about our private party, but he merely heads into the kitchen and says, “Now.”

The gift bag sits on the counter, waiting. I’m suddenly second-guessing myself. The present is too expensive, too personal. Noah will read too much into it.