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“I don’t know. I just—I’m not ready to go back.”

He must’ve noticed something raw in my expression because he asks the driver to take us someplace else. It strikes me that it may not be a good idea to let a boy I’ve sort of kind of just started to know take me somewhere I don’t know while I’m in a foreign country, and I pat my messenger bag to assure myselfthat my can of deodorant’s still in there. In a pinch, it’ll make for an excellent pepper spray substitute.

After about a twenty-minute drive, the car stops at the front of what looks like a garage.

“Um…” Okay, now I’m really starting to question my life choices. The shop sign says:uluwatu scooter & motor bike hire. A grin spreads across my face. I would never have thought of doing anything like this. Come to think of it, I never would’ve thought that George—born and raised in the city and chauffeured around his entire life—would want to ride a scooter around Bali either. I mean, his “hobby” consists of doingmath,for god’s sake.

We walk inside and George speaks rapid Indonesian to the shopkeeper before turning back to me. “He’s asking if you’ve ever ridden a scooter or motor bike before.”

“Oh. Um. No.” I know it’s dumb, but saying it feels like I’m admitting a character flaw or something. Definitely minus cool points for me.

The shopkeeper gives me a once-over and then says in English, “Sorry, miss, you not eighteen yet, you not drive scooter. You two just hire one, okay?”

“What?” I snap. “No way, not okay. Why the hell can’t I ride a scooter on my own?”

“Sorry, no rental to foreign teens. You get hurt, my business get sue. I rent to him only.”

By now, I’m way too full of carbs and sugar and pork crackling to do anything but shrug and say, “Fine.”

We’re given a helmet each, and like a total noob, I struggle to clasp mine. George steps toward me and says, “May I?”

May I.

My heart gives the tiniest bit of a squeeze at how old-fashioned he sounds. I nod wordlessly and he takes the straps of my helmet. His face is so close to mine that I have no idea where to look. I keep glancing away and then glancing back, trying not to be so obvious about admiring his face. Up close, he’s even better looking than he has any right to be. His eyebrows are thick and straight, making him look slightly stern, slightly older. And his jawline is so strong. Very Captain America–ish. Except, you know, Asian.

The clasp clicks into place, shocking me out of my lecherous thoughts. I practically jump away from him as though I’ve been burned. George looks a bit taken aback by that—who can blame him?—so I busy myself by looking everywhere around me but athim.

It’s only after George pays and an assistant wheels out a scooter that I realize something really, really awkward: I’m going to have to put my arms around his waist.

Uh-oh. The realization’s like a supernova inside me. Suddenly, every part of me is burning, from deep in my belly all the way to my fingertips. I’m sure my usually pale cheeks are now neon red.

Stop that, Shar. He’s just some kid. Okay, so technically he’s your age and therefore not a kid. But look at him! He’s so—so kidlike with his clean-shaven chin and those big teddy bear eyes of his, and that neat haircut and those surprisingly broad swimmer’s shouldersand his angular, muscled arms and—hmm. Okay, so technically he’s not at all kidlike. But he’s still a nerd. He legit talked about DHA omega-3 fatty acids as dinnertime conversation. You’re going to be hugging a nerd.

A hot nerd.

Argh, this is hopeless. Oh, wait, I know what this is. It’s my stupid teenage hormones again. Right. I don’t actually like George. It’s just glandular.

I ease my breath out slowly. Dear glands: Please stop glanding. Okay. I’ve got it under control. All it took was to identify the problem, i.e., my hormones, and now that I’m aware of it, I can totally ignore it.

“You okay?” George says, climbing onto the seat. He turns the key and the scooter starts up with a rumble.

A small whisper-moan slips out of me. He looks sexy AF on that thing. STOP IT, GLANDS.

He must’ve misread my hesitation because he gives me a reassuring smile and says, “Don’t worry, I’m a safe driver.”

Which should not be sexy, but somehow is. This is hopeless. I take another big gulp of air and slowly make my way to the scooter. When I swing my leg over the back seat, I swallow so loudly I bet George can hear it over the sound of the engine. WTF? What part ofbe cooldid my body not get? Stop salivating/sweating/doing anything that involves any secretions!

We sit there for a moment, and then George turns around and says, “Um. You should hang on to me.”

“Right.” I have to consciously instruct my arms to lift up and go around his waist. How far should I go? I fail to come upwith an answer, so I go all the way around and link my fingers together at his front. Great, now my entire body is pressed up against his back. My next inhale is so shaky it makes me cough. George shifts, and I swear I can feel every muscle on his back moving, his skin hot and very muchthere.

“Let’s go,” he says, and swings us out of the garage.

The moment we hit the road, all thoughts of how awkwardly close to George I am sitting whip out of my head. The salty seaside air blows into my face, and for a few moments, I close my eyes and allow myself to just enjoy the sensations of everything. The thrum of the scooter, the feel of the wind in my hair, the sensation of speed, the hardness of George’s abs—

No. Bad brain. Bad.

I open my eyes again and find that George has taken us off the main road and we’re now on a small road that goes alongside the cliffs overlooking a pristine beach. Wow. This time, my entire body relaxes. It’s impossible not to when I’m presented with this incredible view—the fine sand so yellow it looks like something a child might have drawn, the water a deep sapphire, all the robust tropical jungle around us. So different from the beaches of California. So much more untamed and magical.