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“I don't mind.”

Of course he doesn't. But I do.

Only, apparently, that isn't enough to stop my mouth from saying, “Okay.”

Ugh.

I really need to work on that.

We keep walking. My car is only three rows away.

I can do three rows. This is fine.

“So,” he says, “when are you going to let me take you out again?”

Real subtle.

“Oh, um, I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Because you licked my chin.

Because when I tried to step away from you, you held on to my waist.

Because you got angry when I wouldn't invite you inside.

Because you've called me Maggie approximately seven hundred times despite the fact that my name is literally printed on my faculty identification card.

Take your pick.

“I just don't think we're a match.”

He laughs. Actually laughs. Like I've said something adorable.

“How would you know after one date?”

“I think one was enough.”

Wow. Look at me. Practically confrontational.

My stomach only hurts a little.

“Maggie May, come on.”

We reach my car. I dig through my tote for my keys.

“One more date,” he says. “Dinner. My place this time.”

“No, thank you.”

“Maggie.”

“I really can’t.”

Okay, that one surprises even me.

His eyebrows rise. Mine probably do too.