Say You Still Love Me(93)

“No!” I drag my feet.

He grins. “Come on, humor me.”

“Fine, but no stupid dance moves,” I warn him. Claire and Simon reenacted the Dirty Dancing movie last Friday, after practicing the choreographed steps all week in drama.

Kyle chuckles, twirling me once before pulling me into him, close enough that our chests bump each other. “No stupid dance moves. Promise. Put your arms around me.”

I comply, roping my arms around his neck. He settles his hands on my hips, gripping me tightly, and we begin swaying as the tempo to the song picks up. “I can’t dance to this. It’s horrible.”

“Pretend it’s a different song, then.”

“What song?”

He leans in, pressing his mouth close to my ear—the cold metal of his lip ring tickling my lobe—and begins humming in my ear.

A shiver runs down my spine. “What is that?”

“You like it?”

I can feel campers’ curious eyes glancing our way and I know we should disentangle ourselves, but he feels too good. “Yeah. But what’s it called?”

“It doesn’t have a name.”

“It has to have a name.”

“It doesn’t.”

I pull back far enough so he can see me roll my eyes. “Just admit you don’t know.”

“Oh, I know it.” He flashes a crooked smile.

I raise my eyebrows, waiting.

An unreadable look passes through his beautiful golden eyes then. “It’s called, ‘I Think I’m Falling in Love with You, Piper Calloway.’?”

A flush of adrenaline courses through my body as I absorb those words, playing them back to make sure I heard them right.

My heart is pounding inside my chest, the blood rushing in my ears as I try to keep the stupid grin from my face. “I’m so in love with you,” I blurt out, curling my arms tight around his neck, inhaling the smell of his soap as our bodies press into each other. I knew it from the moment I saw him. Others—sane people—would call it infatuation. But I knew.

Kyle’s mouth trails over my neck and down to my collarbone.

From the corner of my eye, I spot Darian approaching us. I peel myself away just as she reaches us.

“You two like to test me, don’t you?” Her short blonde hair is damp from sweat and disheveled.

Kyle groans. “Come on, Dare . . .”

“Relax. You’re not in trouble. Yet. But here.” She thrusts a basketball into Kyle’s hands. “If this doesn’t fit between you, you’re dancing too close.”

He laughs. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” Darian points at her rosy face, her expression stern. “And do me a favor: think about this basketball tomorrow night, when you two are not doing the things you shouldn’t be doing, so you won’t remember to not protect yourself so you don’t end up with a more uncomfortable and serious ball between you. The kind that cries. Got it? Good.” With that, she’s gone.

I frown. “Did we just get a sex talk from Darian?”

“I think it was more a ‘don’t get pregnant’ talk.” Kyle cringes. “That was somehow way worse than the one my mother gave me. You?”

“Definitely. And my mother used the word deflower.”

Kyle tips his head back and starts howling with laughter just as the song ends and Christa flicks on the lights.

“Okay!” Darian claps her hands. “Cabins one through five and eleven through fifteen, it’s turn-in time. You have fifteen minutes. Go!”

I sigh. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Kyle checks over his shoulder to confirm that Darian’s attention is occupied and then leans in to kiss my lips.

“You really like taking risks, don’t you?” I tease.

“If it means getting another moment with you? Darian can whip me for all I care.” His eyes sparkle mischievously as he steals another kiss, which I happily grant him.

“I wish these nights would last longer.”

His gaze drifts from my mouth back to my eyes. “We can make tomorrow last forever if you want.”

Forever in our memories.

I swallow. And nod. Because I know I’m ready.

I’m still smiling as one of my campers, a little redhead named Suzie, slips her hand in mine and tugs me toward the door.




I walk along the path toward Cabin Seventeen at three in the afternoon, with that same exhilaration coursing through my veins that always does when I’m about to see Kyle. The faint sounds of shouts and splashes carry from the beach, as most counselors—including Christa—cool off in the water. There’s not a sound on this end of the camp.

“Kyle?” I call out, knowing that if he’s there, he’ll hear me through the open window.

“Yup,” comes a croaky response.

I step into the dim, stuffy cabin, to find him shirtless and stretched out in his bed in his swim trunks, his arm cast over his forehead, a sheen of sweat coating his skin. “Were you sleeping?”

“Trying to. It’s so hot.”

“Everyone’s out in the lake.” All the rain from the past two weeks has moved on, a heat wave trailing in behind it. Christa, who has taken it upon herself as “lead counselor” to know the seven-day weather forecast at all times, promises temperatures of close to 100 for the next week.