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Lyla

I t’s been a while since I’ve dated a guy, so I may be reading the cues wrong—but I’m fairly certain Drake Blythe is going to kiss me. His hand shifts from my glasses to cup my cheek, my fingers still wrapped around his wrist.

He tilts closer to me, clearly testing the waters, and I inch toward him. His breath brushes against my lips, warm and unsteady, like mine. My hand is shaking but I reach out and put it on his chest, where I feel his heart beating as hard as mine is.

Drake Blythe is going to kiss me.

And he still doesn’t seem to remember who I am.

Does that matter? Part of me is torn—like I need to be honest before we kiss. Not to mention that dating a Play It Forward mentor is strictly against my personal code of conduct.

Not that we would be dating —merely kissing. (Semantics, schmemantics.)

But the window for that little piece of honesty is closing rapidly as Drake closes the gap between us. My lips are millimeters from his—when the closet door opens, startling us apart.

“Hey there, Lyla,” a cheery voice says, like walking in on near-kisses in supply closets is part of his Tuesday routine. “Oh, hey, it’s Drake Blythe.”

I squint up at the man hovering above us. “Milo?”

Of course it’s Milo. Of course.

The man probably thinks we were searching for printer ink and stumbled into each other’s lips. At eleven o’clock at night.

Speaking of which . . . “Um, what brings you here?” I ask as Drake and I shuffle off of the floor and out of the closet.

“I had a layover in Tampa . . . and then I realized I wasn’t in Tampa, I was in Tulsa. So I figured I should swing by here to reset my internal compass.” He shrugs as if everything he just said makes a whole lot of sense. “It’s a long story.”

Drake, who’s never met Milo before, seems to be taking him all in—from his Play It Forward windbreaker to his fanny pack and tightly-laced sneakers. I’ve never quite seen Drake so . . . speechless.

“Well, thanks for, um, letting us out of the closet,” I say, explaining how we got stuck.

“You really should get this thing fixed,” Drake says.

“I’ll get right on it,” Milo says, opening his fanny pack.

Then, as if his pack belonged to Mary Poppins—Milo pulls out a can of WD-40.

It’s a miniature can, unlike anything I’ve seen before in a store.

He immediately starts spraying the hinges and all around the handle.

“You know what they always say: WD-40 fixes doors and broken hearts,” Milo says, testing the door. “But mostly doors.”

“Right,” Drake says, dragging the word out. “I have so many questions,” he mutters to me.

“Well, I really should be getting home,” I say. Milo gives us both a salute and goes back to doing whatever it is he’s doing in the middle of the night.

Drake grabs my purse—bunching into his massive hand like a cave man—and then guides me out of the Play It Forward offices and into the parking lot.

I should clean up the craft mess. I should stay away from Drake Blythe and not let him kiss me.

I should also drink more water and eat more vegetables.

But all of those things are problems for Future Lyla.

Specifically, 8 a.m. Lyla. Poor girl. 11pm Lyla wants to be as close to Drake Blythe as humanly possible. For better or worse.

I feel hyper-aware of Drake’s hulking presence as he walks me to my car.

I don’t think I’m the only one trying to touch the other as casually—but intentionally—as possible.

His hand on my lower back is feeding flames to the rest of my body.

With each step, my arm brushes against his torso and it’s sparking magic between us.

I want this walk to take forever—and, somehow, at the same time, I want us to be there right away because I want to know what Drake is going to do when we get there.

Will he kiss me?

Will I let him?

When we finally reach my Toyota Camry, I turn slowly toward him, trying to soak up these last few moments before something has to happen. One way or another.

“So,” I say.

“So.”

Am I smiling like a lunatic? Oh my gosh, I’m totally smiling like a lunatic.

But who cares—because Drake is also smiling. Far less lunatic-y. But still.

He edges closer to me, the toes of his shoes brushing against my sandals, sending goosebumps up my legs like he just flipped a switch.

This is happening ! My body is practically screaming in anticipation.

Drake leans down, his hands hovering around my face. His forehead leans against mine, and my body is completely frozen. I’m afraid that if I move, I’ll mess it all up. But when Drake’s nose brushes against mine, I melt into him, grabbing his shirt in my hands to hold myself steady.

“Lyla?”

“Yeah?”

“I really don’t want to mess this up.” It’s one of the most sincere things I’ve heard Drake say. He tilts back, looking me in the eye. “I want to take you out. On a real date.”

“And then you’ll kiss me?” I blurt.

“Maybe,” he says with a smirk. He leans in slowly, lips ghosting just past mine—but he detours to my cheek instead, his mouth barely brushing my skin as he whispers, “If you’re a good girl.”

Cue full system shutdown. I might need to lie down. If I weren’t already holding myself up against Drake, I would be a puddle. “Well,” I say, my voice barely there. “It’s just your luck that I’m always a good girl.”

Drake chuckles, the vibrations from his chest spreading through me until I feel jittery with adrenaline. Who needs to be a pro football player to get an adrenaline rush when all you need is to be almost kissed by Drake Blythe?

“How about Friday?”

“Hm?”

“Friday, for our date,” Drake says, leaning away from me—which is a good thing because I cannot think clearly when he’s so close. “The team has this fancy, dress-up thing. Would you come with me?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

We stare at each other for a goofy amount of time before Drake reaches out his hand with my purse. “You’ll probably need this.”

“Oh, right.” I laugh, a little unhinged. “Duh. Definitely. I’ll need that. Sure thing.”

And then, with a crazy amount of willpower I didn’t know I possessed, I get in my car and drive away from Drake. Hyperventilating the whole way home.