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“Clues. You said I was missing clues. And I’m guessing you were right about Rose. We will be having a talk when she gets home. I’m just wondering, what other clues am I missing?”

“Oh.” He pushes up on his elbows, and the musky scent of his aftershave wafts through the air and into my nostrils, giving that beached fish that should be long dead by now another burst of life. “Can I speak candidly?”

“Please.” I roll onto my side, facing him, elbow propped and head in hand, hanging on his every word while Lizzie discovers that Lydia is a bit of a hussy.

“Okay.” He clears his throat. “Well, that guy at the bar?—”

“Doug,” I say, filling in the missing piece.

“Doug. He gave you the kill sign while you were singing. It’s karaoke, not the Grand Ole Opry. You don’t have to be Carrie Underwood at karaoke, yet he tried to cut you off.”

I nod. I agree. But I am still missing his point.

Callum huffs out a small, breathy chortle and turns on his side, mimicking my position. “He ended things with you on that stage, Fran. You should have walked off and left the creep in the dust the minute he told you to be quiet.”

“Left him in the dust,” I say, mentally writing out his words. I was so busy trying to fulfill my remake that it didn’t occur to me to be the one to leave. At least not at that point. You can’t remake a scene if you leave the scene…

“Yeah,” he says. “Nobody puts baby in a corner.”

“Ooo.” I lean an inch closer to him—it’s the floppy fish making me unbalanced. “You’re speaking my language.”

“And Paul. In-it-for-the-glory Paul? Why, oh why did you let that guy stick around so long? He gave you multiple red flags.”

“Red flags,” I say. He is the teacher. I am the student. I’m not just getting the man’s perspective. I’m getting the Callum (Hot Lips) Whitaker perspective.

“Yes. If a guy likes you, it should actually bother him to see you kiss another man. That was your first clue he wasn’t the one.”

I blink and study my friend. “Huh. I kind of thought that made him noble and forgiving.”

“Nope. Clue.”

I pull in a breath through my nose and exhale. Falling back onto my pillow, I peer up at the ceiling. So many clues. So much that I missed. “A clue that he wasn’t the one.”

“Right.”

“Okay.” I lift up on my elbow again, eyes on Callum, ready to learn. “Then what are clues that he might be the right one?”

“The one ? That’s personal, a question only you can answer. But think about how those guys made you feel. If you didn’t feel better around them than you did without them, that’s a clue they aren’t the one.”

I bite my inner cheek. “And what clues might a guy give if he wanted to… say, kiss a girl? What would he do then?” I think back to that night in my kitchen.

But I don’t see clues. It’s like a swirl of colors.

I’m not sure how they all came together, just that they did, and I liked it. “Take a girl to the refrigerator?”

Callum blows out a low, husky laugh. It’s a nervous laugh. “That guy should probably be smacked and kicked out of your house.”

“Meh. I like that guy.” I swallow. “Besides, I’m serious. I am, as you say, inexperienced in this. So, what can you teach me? ”

His jaw clenches. “Well, what have guys done in the past?”

“Umm…” I lift my eyes to the ceiling. “I’m always focused on what I’m doing. What remake is up next.” I cough out a breathy laugh. Because it sounds dumb. I’m focused on me. What kind of answer is that?

“Maybe that’s part of the problem,” he says.

I nod, my head still in my hand, my elbow still holding me up, my wrist aching with how long it’s been, but I don’t want to move. I don’t want to look away from Callum Whitaker. He’s teaching me to pay attention, and that’s all I want to do. Pay attention to him.

“That, and my lack of practice.” I gulp. I have kissed a few guys. Not many—a few. And the truth is, Callum is the only man I’ve ever wanted to kiss again. And again.

And again.

Rosalie told me to say it. But that feels daunting and scary. This feels like a game.

Callum’s brows lift. “I am here to help.”

We mirror one another in our posture. On his side, Callum leans an inch or two closer to me. “See?” he says, and for a quarter of a second, his eyes fall to my lips before meeting mine once more. “Just a small lean. But I’m attempting to get closer to you.”

“Closer,” I say because I am a great student.

“I might make up an excuse to touch you,” he says, reaching out for my hand laying straight down my side. He entwines his fingers with mine and, with the action, leans ever closer.

“Touch,” I say like a broken robot who can only mutter one word at a time .

“I’d probably let my gaze fall to your lips—” And he does. “And if you return these gestures?—”

“Lean, touch, look,” I say, broken robot crisis averted—that was three whole words.

“Then if I decided you’d given consent, I’d either move the rest of the way in or wait for you to.”

Consent —my floppy fish wiggles with the word.

I swallow. “Lean,” I say, and he follows me as if it were a command. “Touch.” His hand tangled in mine squeezes my fingers—that fish is alive and well and dancing on the bank. “Look,” I say as my eyes fall to Callum’s mouth.

“Consent,” he says, just as the music in our movie swells.

I’m pretty sure Lizzie Bennet herself just gave me consent. And Callum is so close. So, I move—for practice’s sake.

With his lips a hair’s breadth from mine and his warm breath on my skin, I close the extremely annoying gap between us. I lean my body until it’s a fallen domino against Callum’s and press my lips to his.

He goes still beneath my touch—but only for one measly, surprised second.

Just one, and then his hand in mine slips around my back as he hugs me next to him.

His lips tease mine open, and the mint on this tongue and breath filter over my tastebuds.

I shift my hand to his hair, tangling my fingers in their tresses and holding him next to me.

The air thickens with heat. The beached fish living in my gut is the happiest camper in all the world.

Callum’s hand presses into my back as he coaxes my lips to do his bidding. I am a willing sacrifice. My skin sparks wherever he touches—lips, nose, hands. Even the sliver at my back where pants meet shirt. This kiss speaks of so much more than friendship .

In fact, it might declare that it’s setting the refrigerator and all of Callum’s romance notions on fire.

Both are officially toast.