"Next week."

He turned to me. "Really?"

I nodded.

He yanked out the cork with an audible pop and poured me a glass. "Then happy early birthday."

I took a sip, painfully aware that Dylan was watching me, just like he had the night we'd met at the Cornell party. Watching me as if my reaction to what I was putting in my mouth was the only thing in the world that mattered. On second thought, I didn't need wine. That thought alone was enough to knock me sideways.

Dry white wine with just a hint of pine hit my tongue and brought me back to the moment. "Not bad," I said.

"You'll love it with the food." He turned back to the pans on the stove, and I tried a large gulp of wine this time, just to fortify myself.

Maybe it would be better if I put some space between us. His kitchenette was just too crowded. I circled around the bar, into the main living space. His futon was in sofa-shape tonight, all evidence of its use as a bed tucked away somewhere. Textbooks and pens lay scattered across his coffee table, and his shelves were lined with cookbooks, DVDs, and video games.

"I don't know how you have any time for these," I said, pointing at the games and movies. What with all his labs and trips to the gym and cooking experiments...and Hannah.

"I'm an excellent multi-tasker," he called from the kitchenette. I turned to see him poking his head out over the bar. "Plus, you know me. I never sleep." He winked and went back to cooking.

Don't wink at me, Dylan Kingsley. I'm trying my hardest here. I continued my self-guided tour around his studio. There were pictures of his family hanging on the wall above the bed-I mean, above the futon. There were no pictures of Hannah out. I knew because I checked as I circled the place, studying everything and, as it turned out, finishing my wine. By the time I made it back to the kitchenette, my glass was empty.

"More?" he asked, holding out the bottle.

I stared at the glass in my hand, my heart pounding. How had I consumed an entire glass of wine already? I hadn't eaten since lunch. This was a bad idea. Coming here had been a bad idea. Drinking while alone with Dylan Kingsley in his apartment was quite possibly the worst idea I'd ever had.

"Sure," I said before I could stop myself. I watched the green-gold wine splash into my cup and I raised my eyes to his and he smiled and I smiled. Then, my eyes never leaving his, I had another sip. He watched me drink, the movement of my jaw and tongue and throat, blatant and unmistakeably an invitation. "Mmmm."

Here's the truth, unvarnished and inalienable: I wanted him. I'd always wanted him. I could pretend otherwise, I could walk away, I could avoid him for two years, but it didn't change a thing.

Dylan was mine. First, last, and always. I stood there in his apartment and I looked into his eyes, allowing the full force of my desire to shine out, raw and intense. I didn't care that he was dating someone. I didn't care that she was Hannah Swift. For perhaps the first time in my life, I understood what my parents thought about when they did the things they did.

"Tess..." Dylan's voice was pained.

I blinked at him, slow and languid. "Hmmm...?" I was the daughter of seduction; I was the product of lies. I was born for this.

"Stop."

I stopped. I looked down. His hands were fisted against his sides. "You poured the wine," I mumbled.

For a long time, we just stood there. I didn't know if he was looking at me or not. Blood rushed in my head. I shouldn't have come here. I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't, I shouldn't, I shouldn't.

I was so sick of all the things I shouldn't do.

"I...can't...I can't take this anymore," he whispered at last. "I think about you all the time. Where you are, what you're doing, why I'm not with you. I go to Verde on Sundays because two days without seeing you is two days too long."

I turned away and put my hands on the counter, pressing down as if I could somehow leave marks on the granite. As if I could somehow imprison my hands here and keep them from grabbing him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he said from behind me. "Be honest. You feel it too, don't you?"

"Dylan..." I hung my head, in agony as every nerve tingled, and I forced myself not to turn around. If I saw his face, I was a goner. "I don't know what you want."

"Isn't it obvious?" He came up close behind me, his chest against my back, his hips against my butt, his voice in my ear. "I want you."

Oh God, it was obvious and I wanted to melt against him. I shouldn't. I shouldn't.

His left hand gripped my waist, his fingers curling into the hollow of my hip. "Tell me," he pleaded. "Tell me you want me too."

I gasped. I shouldn't. I wasn't that kind of girl.

"Tell me." His fingers felt like a brand against my flesh, holding me hard, forcing me to acknowledge the truth.

I swallowed, and when I spoke, my voice was a breath. "I want you too."

I felt his forehead rest, ever so gently, against the nape of my neck. His sigh of relief sent cool air rushing across my fevered skin. He brushed my hair to the side with his free hand, stroked my neck.

"Tess," he said now, cupping my chin in his hand, running his finger over my bottom lip. "Tell me to stop."

I turned in his arms. "No."

ELEVEN.

When particles collide, they explode, strewing pieces of themselves in waves across the universe and combining to make something entirely new.

And when I kissed Dylan in his dorm room kitchen, the universe expanded. It had to, because this-this-was not something that had belonged to our reality before.

It was two years ago and it wasn't, all at once. It was right, it fit, as it had always fit, from the first moment in the elevator at Cornell. And at the same time, it was so much better. We knew what we were doing. He knew what he was doing. Oh, God, did he ever. His fingers stroked my jawline, lifting my mouth to his, his lips and tongue moving against mine until I surrendered to the simple realization that my mouth had been made for Dylan to kiss. How could I ever have doubted it?

He tasted like white wine and pine needles. He tasted like two years of waiting. I wanted to breathe for him, I wanted to swallow him whole. I ached with a sudden, pulsing need, an overwhelming desire I'd never felt before.

His hands slipped to my waist, holding me firmly against him as I wrapped my arms around his neck. I needed him closer, closer. He pushed me against the counter, arching me backward until the edge of the granite cut against my spine, but I didn't care. Nothing mattered but never moving my mouth off his. I wrapped my legs around the back of his calves for leverage.

Dylan's fingers dug into my hips and lifted me until I was sitting on the counter. Instantly, we were even closer. My thighs circled his waist, my skirt riding up around my hips. I felt his hands under my shirt, moving across the skin of my stomach, grazing upward to cup my breasts through the satin of my bra. I rocked against him, teasing us both, the edge of his belt pressed against the center of my panties, so close, so close.

There were wordless moans coming from my mouth and I could tell they were driving Dylan crazy. His fingers dug into my thighs as if to mark me as his, first, last, and always. I rocked faster, feeling him, hard and ready and trapped beneath layers of clothes. It wasn't enough. I wanted this. I needed this. I didn't care about anything else.

I was just like my parents.

"Stop," I choked out. "Stop!"

Dylan pulled away from me, breathing hard and staring at me, hurt and confusion overtaking the raw lust in his deep blue eyes.

I yanked my skirt down and ran my hands across my heated cheeks, smoothing my hair. "I can't be the girl you cheat on Hannah with," I blurted out. It may have been the most honest thing I've ever said in my life.

His eyes widened. For a single horrible second, I thought the truth was written on my face. I slid off the counter. There wasn't enough room in this kitchenette. There might have not been enough room in the country, but I'd do what I could. I escaped to the living room, then turned around and took a deep breath.

He'd followed me, standing a respectable few feet away, his arms slightly out as if to catch me if I ran. As if to reach for me again.

"I don't want to be the other woman," I admitted. I couldn't be. Not with Hannah. Not with anyone. I wasn't that kind of girl.

"I don't want you to be, either," he said at once. "I want to be with you, Tess. Just you. That's all I've ever wanted." Dylan came forward and brushed his fingers gently across my cheek. There was reverence in that simple touch of skin on skin.

"But...Hannah..." I gestured futilely at some imaginary Hannah, somewhere beyond these walls. If he wanted me, why was he dating her?

"I like Hannah very much," he said now. "She's a sweet girl. But she's not...you. Tess, I love you." His voice broke on the words.

I broke, too. Don't love me. You have no idea what an awful person I am. You have no idea I'm standing here, stealing my sister's boyfriend.

"For two years, I've loved you. I'm not afraid to tell you that."

No, he wouldn't be. Dylan was always forthright. He'd never had to keep secrets, never had some innate part of him be too dangerous to speak aloud. And he loved me. My heart was pounding again, but it wasn't lust this time. Fear, hope, wonder that this could remotely be true. That a man would stand here and choose me.

"Now you're here, and I want to be with you. I love you. Nothing has changed, except I'm not going to let you get away again."

Each declaration rang like a wrecking ball against my resolve. I wanted to throw myself at him again.

"Tell me you want to be with me, too. I'm breaking up with Hannah the next time I see her. I don't want to hurt her, but I can't be with her anymore. Not when I feel the way I do about you."

His eyes were clear, pleading. This wasn't lust talking. This wasn't a single glass of wine. Dylan was being as frank as he always was. Hannah was nice, but she wasn't forever. They weren't married, no one was pregnant, and this wasn't the end of the world. He wanted to be with me; I wanted to be with him. It was as simple as that. We were lucky, in a way, that we'd caught it so early, when it could be simple, when we could make this decision and get it over with and no one had betrayed anyone else. It was unfortunate, but sometimes things happened this way.

I stepped backward. "You'll break up with her tomorrow?" I asked, hardly trusting my voice. How does one say something like that without sounding like a total bitch?

He gestured between us. "I'm pretty sure I have to."

"Okay." I gave a curt nod, then wrapped my arms round my torso, squeezing tight because Dylan couldn't be there. I would not start our relationship with a betrayal. "Tomorrow."

He understood immediately. I gathered my things and went to the door. I couldn't stay here. I couldn't eat his shrimp and feta and drink his wine. I couldn't trust myself with Dylan tonight. As I went to turn the knob, he put his hand on the door jamb. Not on me. He couldn't touch me, either, or we'd both fall apart. I turned to him and his blue eyes burned with questions.

I smiled. It was all so very clear. "I love you, too," I said.

"Good." He breathed out. Relieved. Satisfied. Happy. "Tomorrow."

It was the only word in my head as I left.

So here's a funny story: Dylan skipped class Tuesday morning.

My first thought was that he'd slipped in his shower and was lying on the floor of his apartment with a broken neck. Because that was the only possible reason Dylan Kingsley wouldn't show up at Transport. He was a guy who went to class, barring a life-threatening emergency. A significant part of me wondered if I should call 911, but instead I texted him the second that class ended, before I'd even packed up my books.

Where are you?

The answer came flying back: Something came up. Talk later?

Okay, so at least his texting hand was operative. But I was baffled. Something came up? Something. Came. Up. Things that might make Dylan skip class did not just "come up."

Unless it was me and our very-near miss last night. Unless it was the words we'd said to each other, the promises we'd made. Maybe retsina was some kind of crazy hallucinogenic Greek wine. Maybe it was the Mediterranean equivalent of eating a mezcal worm. Maybe he regretted every single instant of last night and was avoiding me...

"No little boyfriend today, Tess?" I looked up to see Elaine standing over me. "Drop/add's going on for one more week. Maybe he realized he's in over his head here."

"You really need to let it go," I said. "This isn't high school anymore. I never did anything to you." I thought about the way Dylan had dealt with the Todd situation. "And you might not want to be on Dylan's bad side either. You're biochem, right? Well, Dylan's got some really good friends over at Canton Chem HR."

"Oh, yeah, real charmer, isn't he?" She rolled her eyes. "He doesn't even want to work there and he hogs all the attention, makes all the friends. He knows full well he's never going to take a job at Chem."

"He lets a bunch of rich alumni give him beers at a tailgate?" I pressed my hand against my chest in mock shock. "Call the cops. What an outrage."

"You don't know him," she repeated. "He takes everything and he doesn't care who else might want it. He made sure you were off the market the second you arrived here, but don't get too cozy. When he has what he wants, he'll ditch you, too."

Boy, did this chick have her wires crossed. It was really the exact opposite.

"He used me freshman year to get to my roommate."

"That's not the story I heard."

"Oh, and you believe Dylan!" she scoffed. "Figures. Are you in love with him or something? Because you can talk to my roommate about how well that works out."

My jaw tightened. I didn't want to listen to this anymore. I didn't give a shit about Elaine's bitter, petty view of Dylan, the situation freshman year, the entire world that was apparently arrayed against her. Her poison couldn't touch us.

And yes, Elaine, you snide bitch, I do believe Dylan. And so what if I'm in love with him? He loves me, too. And he wasn't in class because of...something. Something, just as he'd said.

Maybe he was in the middle of breaking up with Hannah even now. You never knew.

By two o'clock, I still hadn't heard back from Dylan, and I had finished all my homework and course reading in the bioengineering library. Since I had no lab access today and no shift at work, I found myself at loose ends. I didn't want to go home. I didn't have any friends on campus.

God, it was November and I didn't have any friends on campus.

Before I let myself spiral into some sort of pity party, I packed up my things and drove out to Sylvia and Annabel's apartment. Who needed friends on campus when you had friends off it?

The Warrens lived in a two-bedroom apartment smaller and dingier than ours. Annabel had done what she could to brighten the place up, and the walls were covered with photographs of Milo as well as his childhood artwork in cheery, cheap frames. When I arrived it was "reading time"-Milo was in the big armchair with a chapter book, and Annabel had stuck a bookmark into one of her nursing school textbooks to mark her place.

"Kitchen?" she said when she saw my face.

I nodded. "Coffee."

Crowded around the little card table in the kitchen, I gave Annabel the short, PG-rated rundown of the events that had transpired over the last few days.

She still fanned herself. "Holy shit, Tess. You're a femme fatale."

"No, I'm not."

She gave me an incredulous look over the rim of her coffee cup. "You made out with him on his countertop, then insisted you weren't going a step further until he dumped his princess girlfriend? And he agreed? The CIA should hire you."