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lines of his neck, smooth tanned skin and strong muscle disappearing beneath the soft collar of his T-shirt. I had a sudden,

overwhelming urge to put my mouth there.

At the same time, my mind was skittering. It wasn’t just that Jacob was another driver. It was also only the second time I’d

thought something like that about anyone real . I was aware of my sexuality, in a distant, inconvenient sort of way, but it was something I kept firmly relegated to the

corners of my mind. For years, I told myself if I didn’t pay any attention to it—if I kept my fantasies vague and faceless,

never attached to a real person—then it couldn’t really matter.

Then, on a flight from Montreal to London a few years earlier, I sat next to a guy who spent the whole flight typing some

research paper on his laptop. I spent the first hour plotting his death—he typed loudly and inconsistently, so every time

I started to doze off, I was woken up by an abrupt burst of clacking—but then he pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, and

I spent the next five hours sneaking glances at his forearms and fantasizing about feeling his fingers moving over my skin.

That night, in my bedroom in London, I could hardly sleep for thinking about him.

Then I woke up the next morning, completely horrified, and vowed never to think about a guy like that again.

I took every thought and desire and shoved it into the darkest corner of my mind. Every time a feeling threatened to arise,

I pushed it into racing instead. It was the first time I realized the sheer force of my own willpower. I told myself I wasn’t

attracted to anyone, and I was so convincing, I think I actually believed it.

Then Jacob stepped into the picture, and it was like I was back on that plane, shivery and wrung out from five hours of longing.

“I’ve never heard of any of these bands,” Jacob said, wrinkling his nose. “?‘Race playlist’—what is this, like, pump-up music?”

He clicked play and listened for a minute with one earbud. I bit into my lip, fighting the smallest smile, because I knew

it wasn’t exactly pump-up music. It was just calm, mellow indie stuff, most of which was only instrumental.

Jacob pulled the earbud out and stared at me. “This is the kind of music they play at spas ,” he said in horror.

I frowned. “I’ve never been to a spa.”

He ran a hand over his forehead. “Good god, Keeping. You really are a robot. Someone needs to teach you how to live.”

He dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone, a battered iPhone with a splintery crack in the screen. His background image

was a group of ten people grinning at the top of a mountain hike. They were all squished close together with their arms wrapped

around each other. I’d never been in a picture like that in my life.

“See?” Jacob said, holding up his phone for me to get a closer look. “This picture says something about me.”

“It looks like an ad for some sports clothing company.”

I won’t pretend it was a particularly clever thing to say, but it was an attempt at a joke, and my heart was racing at my own bold ness. I was rewarded for my bravery with a crinkle at the corner of Jacob’s eyes.

“I do look like a model, thank you,” he drawled. “No, it says I like hiking, and being outdoors, and being with friends.”

“What does mine say?” I asked.

“Yours?” He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. 110101. Robot speak.”

He laughed at his own joke, and I smiled without thinking about it. His eyes dropped down to my mouth, then back up again.

Something shifted behind his dark gray irises, and a beat of loaded silence fell between us.

“?’Scuse me!” The moment was broken as a man appeared from around the corner, lugging a heavy crate on one shoulder. I stepped

forward to get out of his way, and suddenly I was about six inches from Jacob. When I stepped back again, my legs were unsteady.

I understood, now, that stupid saying about knees going weak. It turned out it wasn’t stupid at all, just an accurate assessment

of how it felt to want someone so badly.

He watched me for a long, drawn-out minute and then grinned. “Yeah, someone definitely needs to teach you how to live. Here.”

He handed me his phone. “Give me your number.”

I know he saw how clumsy my fingers were as I thumbed my number into his phone. My heart rate ratcheted up again as I was

doing it. I felt like I was having some crazy out-of-body experience, like I’d been drugged or something. Or like I was drunk—drunk

on sandalwood and stubble and forearms.

“Thanks,” Jacob murmured as he took his phone back.

He took a step toward me, and for one brief, insane moment I thought he might kiss me right there in the hallway, all of five minutes after we’d met.

My eyes dropped to his mouth, and when I finally dragged them back up to his eyes, he looked exceptionally smug.

He brought a hand up to his neck and rubbed it absently—months later, he would admit he knew exactly what he was doing to me with that single, casual motion—and my brain went totally blank.

I think I may have actually leaned toward him, but suddenly he stepped back.

“Good luck tomorrow,” he said. He strolled away, hands in his pockets, and threw his last words over his shoulder along with

a challenging grin. “Try to impress me.”