“I don’t kiss on the first date,” I say. I would glare, but I can’t seem to fully control my face. I’m slack-jawed and stupid, surprised that words even came out in a coordinated sentence. “That’s okay. You said nothing about your policy for kissing at dinners.” The smile on his face is so smug, so self-satisfied, so handsome, that I just want to thread my fingers in his hair and kiss it right off his face. I want to go to battle with my lips, to conquer him, to make him cry uncle and wave a white flag of surrender.
