A lock of her hair touched the floor board. I held it in my fingers, feeling the texture. It was soft, silky. The color reminded me of burnt caramel—gold and brown. I leaned forward and placed it under my nose. Peaches. Thirty minutes passed, an hour. And then the janitor came in. That woke her up. She pulled her arm away from her face, and her hazel eyes found me. She looked confused and so damn adorable I wanted to wrap her in my arms. "It's time to go," I said, and remembering yesterday morning how she needed coffee to wake up, I reached for her water bottle, opened it. I smelled coffee. "Here." She sat up slowly, drank dutifully. Without a complaint this time. A few seconds later, the caffeine had hit her system. She looked exhausted, but a little more awake. "Ready?" I asked. She nodded. She walked mechanically, hugging her bag in front of her, like a shield. Her hair hid her face from me. The only time I walked with her without talking was that night when I first kissed her. And still, I had felt impatient energy coming off her in waves. Tonight that energy was not present. She felt subdued, as if she was hiding herself from the world. "You can hold onto me," I whispered. "If you want." She shook her head, kept walking. When at last we were seated in her car, she leaned her head back against the seat. And just closed her eyes. I sucked in a breath when I felt her rest the side of her head on my arm. "Five minutes," she said softly, her voice breaking. "Five goddamn minutes. Let me just..." "You can take more than five minutes. You can take..." I stopped myself before I said anything stupid. "Close your eyes, Kara. I got you." "I'm so tired." "I know, baby." Her breathing was uneven, her chest rising and falling fast. I was expecting her to cry, but there were no tears. She just closed her eyes. We sat in the parking lot for a quarter of an hour. I didn't dare move, just in case she was asleep again. I didn't want to wake her up. But I realized she was awake and was just quiet. "What's your last name?" she asked suddenly. So randomly I wanted to stroke her hair. I know hers was Hawthorne. "St. Laurent," I answered. "You're no saint though," she laughed softly, teasingly. It sounded so feminine that I wanted to kiss the tip of her nose. "Sometimes I feel like one," I said. I had a feeling she rolled her eyes at me. "Middle name?" "Jeremiah." "Jeremiah," she repeated. "That's one of the prophets in the Bible. He's an ass kicker." She pulled away. I could still feel the imprint her body heat made on my arm. Her voice was still a little shaky, but I could tell she had calmed down. Still, her voice remained soft, whispery. Like we were talking in candlelight. "You look like a Jeremiah," she added. "Not Jerry, though. Jeremiah." My lips wanted to twitch. "What's yours?" "Cammilla." I said her name in my head a hundred times. "Doesn't it sound like a stripper name? Don't obsess too much on it though." This time I smiled. "We're still waiting for some of the parts on your motorcycle. Just letting you know, just in case you're wondering." I shrugged. As long as she had it, she was bound to me. It was more than fine if she kept it for a while. It seemed she was getting nervous, filling up the silence with chatter. I wondered if she was thinking what I was thinking. About that moment she rested her head on my arm. "Tell me what you like," I said. She stilled at my question. I heard her breath hold for a moment, a split second before it released. I frowned. "You have a way," she said. "What way?" "Like you're seducing me with your words." My face relaxed into a lazy smile. "Am I?" "See." She blew out a breath. "Put a lid on it, all right? I got it." I chuckled. "Answer me." She looked up at the ceiling, then breathed deeply. She muttered something under her breath. I thought I heard Lord have mercy, but I wasn't sure. "Hold on." She cranked her window open a little more. "Hmm, let me think," she started, chewing her lip. "I like decorating. And designing." I was hoping she'd answer my other question. If I was succeeding in seducing her with my words, but I liked her answer too. "Houses?" She nodded. "I would have probably taken Interior Design if I had the money, but that's what the internet is for, right? I just watch videos about it and I learn a lot." She preferred an eclectic style, I thought, remembering the time when I was in her house. "What else?" I prodded. "When I was a kid, I had this huge swing in our old house. Whenever I felt sad or angry or misunderstood, I'd just go there and swing the day away. If I had money to spare, maybe I'd buy some candy or milkshake and I wouldn't get hungry while I was there. I didn't have many friends so..." She jerked a shoulder. "I was too much for girls my age, I guess." She placed her hand on the steering wheel, her thumb rubbing the groove on it. "Dylan sometimes came with me, but mostly he stayed in the tree house. He and my dad built it, I decorated it. I think that's where I started to love decorating." She pulled her seat back, tucking her long legs under her and leaning against the door so she was facing me. I liked that. I liked that a lot. "I like fireworks, too. When we were kids, Dad used to bring me and Dylan to The Forks in Winnipeg. We'd drink milkshakes and eat spaghetti and feed the ducks in the river." The smile on her lips looked tender. Her childhood memories were happy ones. I wished I could tell her the same. "Dylan wanted to ride the boat, but Dad didn't have money. I don't remember us having enough money ever." She frowned. "I used to ask my dad every year to buy me new shoes for the new schoolyear. I was a kid and didn't know better, until I heard Andrew giving my dad shit about paying off his debts or something like that. I thought at the time because I was so young that I didn't understand what they were talking about, but I realized I did. Because I never asked my dad to buy me anything after that." "Tell me more."