WE DRESS IN A GIDDY SILENCE. OUR EYES CATCH NOW AND then, and each time, we share a small smile or a disbelieving headshake.

There’s no awkwardness, but there is a manic sort of excitement. It’s hard to explain.

All I know is that I’ve never felt like this before.

We leave his airplane hand in hand. And I don’t know who reaches first, me or him, or if we both reach for each other at the same time.

I glow, feeling like the cat who caught the canary as I strut through the airplane hangar. That is, until we have to pass Greg in his office, near the exit.

“You two have fun out there?” he calls from his desk.

“I can’t imagine a more perfect flight,” Bash deadpans, giving nothing away.

The man turns his attention to me. “And you, Gwen? I heard on the radio that it was your first time. How’d it go?”

My mouth pops open, and my cheeks go hot. I know he doesn’t know what we just did, but I’m reading it as innuendo anyway.

I let out a nervous giggle, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Unforgettable.”

He gives me a wide, clueless grin. “That’s what we love to hear.”

With that, Bash tugs me forward. “Catch you next time, Greg,” he calls, like he can’t wait to get away from this interaction.

I tuck my chin as I let him lead me out of the hangar. And it’s only when we get outside and close the door behind us that we turn to face each other and burst out laughing.

Nothing about the moment is even that funny, but there’s something about it that clearly overwhelms us both.

Bash bends over slightly, pressing a hand to his abdomen. It reminds me of that night on the moving walkway in the airport, when he propped his hands on his knees, bent over, and laughed so hard that he could barely breathe.

I hadn’t realized then what a special moment that was. I hadn’t realized that he didn’t create a lot of room in his life for laughter.

I do now, though. So I watch him. I admire him. I laugh along with him.

My chest swells until it feels so full that it could burst. Every limb is deliciously soft. Every lump of anxiety inside me somehow smoothed over. And the knowledge that this is only the beginning of whatever this thing is between us does nothing but feed my excitement.

At the truck, he opens the door for me, and before I can even try to get myself into it, his hands are back on my waist. A flash of what we just did plays in my mind, and a shiver races down my spine as he lifts me into the passenger seat.

“You know I can get into the truck myself,” I say, curving a brow in his direction.

He shrugs. “Yeah, I know. But I think I’ve spent enough time not touching you.”

He shoots me a wink and slams the door before rounding the vehicle to his side.

As we pull out of the hangar’s winding driveway, he opens the sunroof and warm rays float in, kissing the top of my head. They match the warmth coursing through my limbs.

I close my eyes and settle back into the comfortable leather seat, relaxing into the blissful sensation.

It’s one of those days—not quite summer, but so close that you can taste it. Still a light nip in the air, but in the sun, if you close your eyes, it’s like you can imagine being somewhere tropical. And after a long, cold winter, there’s nothing better.

Well, except sex in an airplane with Bash.

“Does that count as our first date?” he asks, making me smile into the warm light.

“I’d say so.”

“Thank fuck.”

I glance his way, curious about his response. “Why?”

He shoots me a borderline playful glance from the driver’s seat. “Now you have to tell me your full name.”

My responding chuckle is raspy. His reasoning transports me back to that night in the airport. I told him then that my full name was first-date material… and he remembered.

“Guinevere.”

I chance a look at him, expecting a joke or offhanded comment. I’ve always disliked my full name. It seems frilly and impractical, and I’ve never felt as though it really fit me.

But Bash doesn’t say any of those things. Instead, he murmurs, “Guinevere,” like he’s trying it on for size. Then he smiles, reaches for my hand, and adds, “I love that.”

The warmth on my face surges through my entire body. I don’t think he realizes how good he makes me feel in all the most simple ways. The way he mends my wounds without even trying. No, all he does now is turn up the music and take me for a cruise along the rural road while holding hands over the center console.

He cranks the volume when “She Drives Me Crazy” by Fine Young Cannibals plays. I think I even catch him mumbling along with the words.

We don’t talk, but we don’t need to. Part of me doesn’t know what there is to say. The other part of me is avoiding thinking about the fact that we’re heading back to his house, where we’re going to have to address how to handle Tripp. Because Bash is an honest man, a loyal man, and if he’s going to have me as a mainstay in his life—which I hope he will—we’re going to have to tell Tripp at some point.

And I have a sinking suspicion that it will not go over well.

Like I willed the problem into existence, Tripp’s rental car is back in the driveway when we pull up. However, in addition to his car, there are also a few more.

The truck rocks as we make our way down the gravel driveway, and I slowly turn my head toward Bash, brows pulled up in question.

“So, about all the things I promised we were going to do when we got home…” He trails off, lifting one hand and scrubbing it across the back of his neck. “We might have to wait until a little bit later.”

I cross my arms. “Oh, and why is that?”

I know why. He can see Tripp’s vehicle just as clearly as I can. I just desperately want to will it away, pull out an eraser, and remove it from our afternoon entirely.

“It would also appear that Tripp is back.”

I sigh and glare at the car and make a wish for it to disappear. He’s the last person I want to see right now.

My wishes are not answered. The car is still there, mocking me.

Bash continues talking. “Don’t worry. I’ll manage Tripp, I know he won’t make a scene because the real issue is that I invited our friends over for a surprise birthday party.”

I freeze and then bite down on a smile, not wanting to react too obviously. No one has ever planned a party for me. “I don’t think you’re supposed to tell people that they’re about to attend their own surprise party.”

Bash scoffs. “Well, these goofs didn’t do a very good job of covering their tracks, now, did they?” He tips his head toward where the cars are lined up in the driveway.

“You could have come up with some other excuse. Like… Clyde invited everyone over for a group taint-tanning session?”

Bash looks disgusted. “That’s a horrifying visual. But yes, I could have made something up. But you broke my brain. I’m not firing on all cylinders.”

I smile. “Bash, this is actually so romantic,” I tease. “You planned me a big birthday party? The perpetual bachelor and town loner invited other people to his trash can just for me?”

I get an eye roll now. “Good god, you and Clyde with that Oscar the Grouch metaphor. That really needs to die.”

“Why? It’s so cute. Everybody secretly loves Oscar. Yeah, he’s grouchy, but it’s part of his charm. Just like you. If you were too happy, it would just be weird. I would wonder if you were sick or dying or something.”

He rumbles a laugh now, shaking his head as he cuts the engine. “What a way to be known: the guy who, if he was too happy, would probably be dying.”

He’s about to hop out of the car when I reach across the center console, grip the lapels of his jacket, and pull him to me. I kiss him quickly, needing one more before we walk into the house.

He freezes at first but only for a beat, then he softens. Those rough fingers trace the edge of my jaw, fluttering over it like I’m porcelain and he wants to be careful with me.

Less than thirty minutes ago though, he certainly was not concerned about being delicate with me.

And I am captivated by both sides of him.

He kisses me back, so full of longing that it makes my chest ache.

“Thank you,” I whisper, pulling away slightly. “I needed that.”

He plants one more quick, firm kiss against my lips, and then another, like he just can’t help himself. Like he just can’t get enough. His eyes trace mine, dropping to my mouth, and then back up.

When he looks at me like this, I feel like I might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. I feel like I’m his.

“Always,” he murmurs, just before a low grumbling sound rumbles in his throat. Then, “But goddamn it, right now I’m really regretting the surprise party. I should walk in there and cancel it. Tell them all to get the fuck out.”

I burst out laughing at that. “Yeah, the best of intentions and all that.” I chuckle, planting a kiss against his stubbled chin. “This will just make what’s coming later that much better. So let’s go get this over with. Start early and end early. Then you can follow through on all the things you said because it would be plain rude to break those promises on my birthday.”

His lips curl into the most subtle of smiles. “Yeah, that’s probably true. Can’t be lying to my girl on her birthday.”

I sigh wistfully, pulling myself away from him. Knowing that if I don’t create some space, I’ll be crawling across the center console for a repeat performance.

He unbuckles himself and points at me before getting out of his truck. “Stay there. Don’t spoil my last chance to touch you before we go in there.”

Then he slams the door, and I wait because I’d never want to spoil that for him.

We walk in to an eerily quiet house, kick our shoes off, and suddenly I’m glad that Bash did tell me because now I can do my best to control my facial expression.

I pad into the kitchen, the warm heat of him following closely at my back, urging me forward. When I round the corner, a chorus of shouts ring out.

“Surprise!” everyone yells, popping up from beyond the island—except for Clyde, who’s seated on his usual stool at the countertop, rolling his eyes.

“You fools all parked in the driveway. She knew you were here.”

West clocks him playfully on the shoulder. “Don’t be such a buzzkill.” Then, “Happy birthday, Gwen!” as he ambles forward to give me a friendly hug.

Beyond him are Skylar, Ford and Rosie, as well as Rhys and Tabitha. Just off to the side of them is a sullen-looking Tripp. On the kitchen table is the discarded bouquet of roses and the box that contains a bracelet that I’d rather not know the value of.

He’s smiling, but it’s his fake smile. I don’t know what antics he’s been exposed to in the time he’s spent waiting, but something tells me it might have been awkward—not because anyone knows the most recent developments between Bash and me but because they know our origin story.

Tension hits me in my chest as I wonder if how we met ever came up. Tripp doesn’t know. Not that he’s asked. It’s not as though we’ve kept in touch since I found out that Bash was his father. But I’m desperately hoping that this subject doesn’t become a topic of conversation during this party.

That would make things a hell of a lot more awkward than they already are.

My worries are swept away as the rest of my friends rush forward, wrapping me in hugs, dropping the odd kiss on my cheek, patting my back, and wishing me a happy birthday. It’s hard not to glow under their attention. Most of my birthdays have been spent alone or traveling or doing something that fills my cup, but not generally being celebrated.

Today, however, feels different, and I kind of like it. I don’t bother heading over to Tripp. Not after the way he treated me this morning.

Truth be told, I don’t know why he’s still hanging around here. I thought he’d have left, and based on the tight set to Bash’s shoulders and the way his jaw pulses as his teeth grind, he didn’t expect him to come back either.

I wonder if he’s figured out all the ways this could go wrong while standing and watching everyone make their greetings.

Seeming to pick up on the tension, Tabitha claps her hands loudly, gathering everyone’s attention and really leaning into that executive-chef vibe. “All right, kids, enough milling about. Let’s get this party started.”

I smile at her gratefully, appreciating how intuitive she is.

With that, she whips everybody into shape. Ford takes over curating the music for the get-together. West opens the front patio doors, letting the warm air blend the indoor and outdoor spaces, then heads off to make drinks for everyone. Rosie and Skylar retreat into the kitchen to keep Tabitha company.

Bash pulls Tripp out toward the front landing, and I watch them go while resisting the urge to follow and eavesdrop. I’m so desperate to know what’s being said that I nearly jump out of my skin when Clyde ambles up and bumps his bony shoulder against mine, startling me out of my snooping.

“He came back about an hour after you left. Said he wanted to talk to his dad. Told that little fucker to leave, but he wouldn’t.”

Anxiety courses through me as I bite down on my lip and nod, my mind replaying what Bash and I were up to while he waited here.

I don’t know what to expect when they walk back into the kitchen, but Tripp looking properly chastised wasn’t at the top of my list.

He heads straight for me, eyes lifting almost timidly from beneath his lashes. And then, right there in a room full of people, he says, “Gwen, I want to apologize for how I spoke to you this morning. I was out of line and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I’m going to back off.”

There’s an edge to his delivery and a level of agitation in his stance that makes me wonder just what Bash said to him. I force myself not to peek over at his dad for any sort of reassurance. It would be too obvious.

And this is all too damn fragile to be taking risks like that.

Instead, I dip my chin and reply softly, “It’s water under the bridge.” Because the truth is that it has to be.

If Bash and I have any hope of making a future, it has to be.

Tripp offers me a tight smile. “Good. I told Bash I wanted to stay and hang out, get to know his friends a bit. But he said I’d have to take that up with you.”

I almost wince. Awkward. What am I going to say—no? When the man I’m falling for wants a relationship with his son so badly? What kind of woman would that make me?

So I channel every ounce of my inner maturity and give him a casual shrug. “Of course.”

Strangely, Tripp looks almost grateful. “Thanks,” he says quietly before turning away to join his dad and the other guys on the patio.

His reaction only adds to my confusion, but I brush it off and join my friends.

The afternoon flows from there. Clyde maintains his spot, everyone taking turns coming up to chat with him. They give him an affectionate pat on the head or a side hug, bringing him drinks or snacks, doting on him like he’s royalty. What started out as a look of annoyance on his face morphs into one of contentment as the party wears on.

Tabitha cracks open a bottle of wine, and of course, I’m not one to say no. On a hot, sunny day, there’s nothing better than a crisp glass of pinot grigio. The four of us—Tabitha, Skylar, Rosie, and me—all get into it, laughing and chatting.

Tripp sticks around. If he weren’t so well trained for these types of gatherings, he would be completely out of the loop. Instead, he somewhat gracefully inserts himself into conversations, makes polite small talk, and asks engaging questions.

Still, I catch him eyeing both Bash and me now and then, and I wonder if he can tell something.

As I’m sidling up to Clyde, making sure he has everything he needs, Tripp pops into the kitchen in search of another drink.

“And how was your flight?” he asks, affably holding his bottle of beer up in a toast.

Clyde scowls at him, and Tripp just smiles back. I can’t tell if he’s oblivious or being an asshole by continuing to needle Clyde with his presence. Either way, the strangest thing about the interaction is that he’s behaving as though we had no confrontation at all this morning.

I’m inebriated enough to play along. “It was great.” I shrug. “I’ve never done that before. Definitely one for the record books.”

“You liked it?” Clyde asks, turning to me with a look of satisfaction on his face.

I grin back at him. “I loved it.”

“Ah, well, good. Maybe Bash can take you up there more often.”

I take a sip of my wine, humming my assent, because yeah, I’d love to fly with Bash more often. But I can feel Tripp’s gaze burning into the side of my face.

He scoffs. “I mean, she’s here working with you. Why would my dad take her up in his airplane just for fun?”

I freeze with my glass lifted, my eyes sliding toward Tripp. Dad? He never calls Bash his dad. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I play it off casually. “I’m too busy for that anyway. Between Clyde and the yoga studio, my days are pretty packed.”

“Ah, yeah, but the two of you have forged a nice little friendship,” Clyde says. “It’s good for you to get out a bit.”

Fucking Clyde is like a dog with a bone right now. I shoot him a grim smile, inclining my head in his direction as though to say, Yep, now drop it.

But Clyde, being Clyde, does not in fact drop it.

Instead, he tips his chin toward the open sliding doors of the balcony. West and Bash both have a hip propped against the railing—the same railing where Bash kissed me for the first time. Beers in hand, they chat away without a care in the world.

I try not to let my eyes linger for too long, but there’s something so easy about the way Bash is standing out there. His usually furrowed brow is relaxed, and his typically downturned lips have taken on more of a natural resting position. Now and then, West says something, and I watch Bash chuckle.

I catch myself shaking my head at him, like I can’t quite believe the change in him. Then I snap my eyes away, realizing I’ve been staring too long. I reach across the kitchen counter for a tortilla chip and scoop up a healthy dose of guacamole. Maybe if my mouth is full, I won’t have to contribute to this conversation.

“Bash needs a little fun too, you know,” Clyde says, looking out toward him and drawing Tripp’s gaze in the same direction. “It’s nice to see him like this. He works so hard. He’s so tightly wound sometimes. Now he’s out there getting all wild. Bare feet, shirt buttons undone one too far…”

I smile and nod along with Clyde’s assessment until I realize that, without his corduroy jacket, the skin on Bash’s chest and neck is far more visible than I realized.

Clyde continues like a steam engine down the tracks. “A beer in his hand, big old hickey on his neck.”

I freeze, but only for a beat, willing myself to act as naturally as possible. Because yes, there is a big hickey on Bash’s neck, and yes, I’m the one who left it there.

I came so hard the first time that I thought I was going to scream. So in an attempt to keep my voice from echoing through the airplane hangar I bit down on his neck. I thought it was more toward his shoulder, but in the heat of the moment, I must’ve shifted up higher. And now he’s standing there, talking to his friends with a teenager-style hickey on his neck.

Tripp’s brows drop low, eyes squinting as he focuses on the exact spot.

“Huh,” Clyde says. “I wonder where he could have gotten that from.”