“I’m not.”

“You are. And apparently you’ve always been one. Voted Best Kisser your senior year.”

“As well as Most Likely to Succeed,” he added.

“A truly talented man.”

He held up his hands. “To be fair, the vote could have been rigged. My girlfriend was the yearbook editor, and there was some speculation after the results were announced that she stuffed the ballot box.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I can’t think of anything sexier than a beautiful woman with a great vocabulary.”

She laughed because she had to. There was nothing else she could do. “You’re also impossible.”

“I’ve heard that. And for your information, I have always liked book girls. Smart girls. Newspaper editor. Yearbook editor. Girl with the highest GPA. Girl with the perfect SAT score. Girl with the biggest brain.”

She laughed and pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “Book girls, huh?”

“Book girls with glasses.”

“Stop.” But she was smiling and feeling easier, better, than she had all day and she was looking forward to the ball Friday, more now than she ever had. “And I should go. We have an early morning staff meeting tomorrow—it’s every Thursday—but tomorrow I’m supposed to present a report on the books I’m recommending we purchase this summer.”

“That’s exciting.”

“Yes, except that Margaret will say we have no money so we can’t buy any of them.”

“Not as exciting.”

“No, but I can try.”

“Where are you parked? Can I walk you to your car?”

“No. I’m just down over a block. I’m good.”

“I think I should walk you there.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary. Marietta has a population of what? Ten thousand?”

“Give or take a few.”

“I’m safe.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m positive.”

“Text me when you reach your car.”

“I don’t have your number.”

“Then we need to correct that immediately,” he said, fishing into his pocket for his phone. He scrolled through contacts, typed a message and hit send. “Now you do.”

Taylor’s phone buzzed in her satchel. She opened her satchel and took out her phone, reading the new text. Save this number, it read.

Smiling, she added the number to her contacts. “Saved.”

“Don’t you feel better now?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, and it was a lie, because she felt positively fizzy and warm and wonderful on the inside. “And how did you get my number in the first place?”

“Jane.”

“Ah.” She blushed. She couldn’t help it. “Good night, Troy.”

“Good night, beautiful.”

Troy watched Taylor leave, her long dark hair hanging halfway down her back, her brown coat hitting at her hip, giving him an excellent view of her legs. She had great legs. He liked her very much in jeans.