She aggressively shoves a fry into her mouth. “You had nothing but Sriracha in your fridge,” she says around it.

“There was also celery and string cheese. And I made you come four times. Four. Do you even bother to do that with your box of toys beneath your bed?”

London chews on her straw, and then says, “What makes you think I have a box of toys under my bed?”

And I swear to God, she’s blushing even more hotly now.

“You deny it?” I ask quietly.

She completely leaps over my question. “You banged someone else last night.”

“Technically, I didn’t.”

She laughs. “So technically Aubrey did give you car head.”

She didn’t—she sucked on my neck and reached for my dick until I gently pried her hand away and walked her to her doorstep. But London’s already got her mind made up, so why bother?

“You didn’t even care that I called you by the wrong name all night!” I fire back. “Why does it matter to you whether I did or didn’t get car head?”

Her eyes go wide. “It doesn’t matter to me whether you got car head. It matters to me that you won’t just let what we did be a fun night, and you insist on”—she makes circular gestures at the table and then in the air—“food.”

I cough out an incredulous sound. “I didn’t follow you here. I’m just trying to be polite. You would prefer that I say a simple hello and take my nachos back to my place? Who’s the manwhore here? It isn’t me.”

She looks to the side, which gives me an opportunity to admire the definition of her jawline, the smooth line of her throat. Her hair is sun-bleached and I can see a few grains of sand clinging to the nape of her neck. What is going on in that head of hers? I can’t even begin to guess.

“You make me insane,” she says quietly, more to herself than to me, as she stabs a fry into some salsa.

It hits me in an instant. “I think you don’t like how much you like me,” I say, unable to keep from smiling. “You can’t fit me into your Barfly Box of Shame. You want to dismiss me as a dickhead player, but then you think I’m hot and fun and you like watching me eat nachos.”

London turns her face back up to me, smirking. “Nailed it.”

“Apt phrase.” I pause, tossing another chip into my mouth before saying, “You sort of want to kiss me right now.”

She leans in, studying my face. “You’re thinking too much on this.”

It’s true. I am thinking way, way too much on this. But I also know I’m right. I bend, eating in silence for a minute, but I can feel her eyes on me the entire time.

“What?” I ask, pushing my plate away before wiping my mouth on my napkin.

“I need to head home and shower before work.”

There’s something there. Some . . . invitation? I feel my eyes go wide, wondering if I should gamble here.

“I live about three blocks away,” I remind her.

London stands, carrying her plate to the trash can before turning to me. “Fine. But you still don’t get to kiss my ladybird.”

* * *

LONDON’S COOL IS back in place when she pulls up at the curb behind my car. I watch her climb out and look around my yard as she walks up to meet me on my porch.

“I guess I didn’t give much thought to the fact that you live alone in a house in La Jolla.”

Tilting my head, I ask her, “Where do you live?”

“A loft downtown,” she says. “My grandmother left it to me.”

“Well, that’s something we have in common then,” I tell her, turning to the front door. “This house is Grams’s.” I slide the key in. “She lives in Del Mar now in a fancy retirement community. My sister, Margot, used to live here with me, but now she lives closer to campus with a roommate.”

“Isn’t UCSD, like, four miles from here?”

“Probably less, but she’s in grad school. Biology. She hates to drive and needs to be close to the lab.” I nod to indicate she lead us inside. “Come on in.”

It’s clear London isn’t here for idle conversation. She turns and heads straight down the hall, looking over her shoulder at me when she asks, “Is it okay if I shower in the bathroom down here?”

“Yeah,” I tell her, following. “You want company, or you want to rinse off alone?”

She’s put on a T-shirt for the drive here and turns to me fully, pulling it up and over her head, unties her bikini, and drops it at the threshold to the bathroom. “If I wanted to shower alone, I would have just gone home.”

My brows rise as I stare at her naked chest. “Fair enough.”

This whole thing is weird, and abrupt, but I can get on board with it if it means showering with a wet, slippery London.

She climbs in, turning on the water and watching through the glass door as I undress. I follow her in, suddenly aware of the way my cock grows tight, poking her hip when she turns to kiss my neck.

“I can’t really figure you out,” I admit, closing my eyes when she drags her teeth along my jaw.

“I can’t really figure me out, either, if that’s any consolation.”

It is, actually. She smiles up at me sweetly before turning and picking up the shampoo and putting it in my hand.

“But you’re right: despite my instincts, I sort of like you,” she says, kissing me once and then turning her back to me. “And I bet you give good shower.”

“I like to think so.” I work the shampoo into her hair, piling it on top and massaging her scalp. London leans back into me, and the hot water pounds against my chest. “This sort of reminds me of washing Margot’s dolls’ hair.”

London goes still and then very slowly lifts her head and looks at me over her shoulder. “What.”

I burst out laughing, pressing my face into the warm skin of her neck. “Yeah . . . I can see now that, without context, that was totally creepy. But we used to play doll salon. Being the younger and much-abused brother, I ended up as the shampoo girl. I would bring them to her for blow-dry and style. She would yell at me if I didn’t properly condition.”

“Margot sounds pretty awesome.”

I nod, guiding her head a little to the side so I can massage her neck. “She is. And to this day Sephora is her church.”

“It both thrills and vexes me that you’re a dude who knows about Sephora.”

“And Chico’s,” I tell her, enjoying how easy this all is—even when we’re talking like this in the shower. “Also a place not often frequented by men, but Chico’s is my Grams’s jam. Come to think of it, Mom is a huge fan of Coldwater Creek.” I pause, sudsy fingers deep in her hair. “Jesus, my weekends are dominated by chauffeuring the women in my life.”

“A nice counterbalance to the weeknights dominated by chauffeuring the women in your phone.”

I feel the way we both go still under the water. Just when I think it’s easy between us, just when we’re both unwinding, she goes there.

“Did I say that out loud?” she asks, turning her head but eyes squeezed shut against the slow drip of suds down her forehead.

“You did.”

“And are you glaring at me?”

“No.” But I won’t lie to myself and pretend her impression of me doesn’t sting a little. I put my hands on her shoulders, guiding her around to face me. I wipe the soap from her brows, murmuring, “Rinse.”