“Can I buy you dinner?” he asks against my lips. “Before we . . .” I shake my head. The tips of our noses brush against each other. “No need.” “I . . . I’d like to, Hannah.” “Nah.” I kiss him again. Once. Deep. Glorious. “I don’t do that.” “You don’t do”—another kiss—“what?” “Dinner.” Kiss. Again. “Well,” I amend, “I do eat. But I don’t do dinner dates.”
