CHLOE BAKER'S LOST DATE

Chapter Eight: Welcome to BookBox

"So, that's everything that happened," I say to Kit two hours later. "All five chapters of it."

We're sitting on the small, L-shaped couch in my living room that doubles as a guest bed, surrounded by empty pizza boxes. When I'd recovered from the shock of discovering that I'd spent the day with someone who wasn't Jack, I'd summoned her to an emergency summit at my apartment. She'd arrived with hot pizza and a tub of ice cream, and I felt like a fool when the sight of our special comfort food combo made me cry. She'd listened to my story without interruption even though I was sure that I'd given her way too much detail.

"So," Kit says, thoughtfully, "how do you think you made the mistake in the first place?"

"He was late. I was stressed that people in the restaurant were judging me. I guess that's why I latched onto the first guy that walked through the door who looked like Jack."

"How much did he look like him?"

"A lot at first, I thought. But when he sat down ... I mean, so many people have pictures that don't look like them, right?"

"For sure, but ..." Kit waves her ice cream spoon around, a dollop of vanilla looking precariously close to sliding off and onto my couch. "He sat down. He went along with it. Why?"

I explain again about how I'd sort of shamed him into it. That hug. The loud voice I'd used. "I guess he took pity on me."

"Okay sure, at the beginning. But why keep up the ruse afterwards?"

"I don't know."

She tilts her head to the side, her dark brown eyes considering me like a cat. "You think it's because he liked you."

Damn it. That's exactly what I was thinking. "Stop reading my mind."

"Stop being so obvious, then."

I made a face at her. "The thing is, I don't think I was making up us getting along. I mean, we spent the day together. He kissed me on a bridge. He bought me flowers—"

"Hmm, the kiss." Kit tucks a lock of her thick hair behind her ear. She has a row of studs that goes halfway up her earlobe—she'd almost passed out when she'd gotten them done when we were fifteen, but they look cool now. "Good kiss, bad kiss?"

"A great kiss."

"Like, tongue, teeth, hair pulling?"

"We were outside!"

"What's that got to do with it?"

"I've never had a hair-pulling kiss where someone else could see."

"You should try it sometime."

I start to laugh. "Sure, sure, I can just see Lian watching you now ..."

"Not in front of her, obviously. But come on, details. Give me the heat level at least."

My cheeks are flaming. "A nine, okay. At least." I hug myself, remembering the feel of his hands on the skin at my waist as we were kissing, the press of his lips. "Can you have heat like that with someone if you don't like them?"

"Totally."

"How would you know?"

"Come on. Remember Roger?"

"That gross British guy?"

"Yeah. He was gross, but also kind of hot. And the sex..." She put her fingers to her lips, then flicked them away. "Chef's kiss."

"You never told me you slept with him."

"I don't tell you everything."

"I'm very sad to hear that."