He don't care about dessert and he don't care about carte blanche and whether it only counts on the island or not. What he does care about is havin' those pretty eyes of hers look him up and down as hungry as they did back there in the mall. He cares about her hands bein' on him like they were yesterday, and about holdin' her close after, his fingers knotted in her hair like they never want to let go. She's got carte blanche for that any old time she wants.

All she's got to do is ask.

"Well. If you don't want it to count here, then we can restrict it to back there. Sure. Or you could stake a claim and have it count here too." It might be one of the few times in his life he's made an open offer like this one. Hell, he lived with Cass six months and didn't never make her the same kind of offer. What the hell's gotten into him?

He ain't sure, but he likes it. He won't look at Freckles all goo-goo ga-ga or nothin'; he ain't no lovesick schoolboy. No, he just likes how it feels when they're together.

Fifteen, she said: might as well act it. He plucks the straw out of his just-about-empty Coca-Cola and flicks it in her direction. Droplets of melted ice mixed with Coke syrup spray across the table at her. Not enough to get her all sticky or nothin', but enough to be fun.

"Gotcha."