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And people definitely notice the change in James. Including Brian, who comes out from the back and asks him if he’s been drinking, though it’s only 11 a.m.

James scowls. “You know I don’t drink at work.”

“You also don’t smile at work,” says Brian. “If you haven’t been drinking you must finally be getting laid.”

Which James, of course, is not. It’s a situation I’m finding increasingly difficult to deal with. We’ve now spent a week glued to each other, kissing, groping, moving from mouth to ear to neck, and he refuses to go farther.

Kristy is coming in to pick Matt up just as we’re leaving, and she asks me, volubly, about my date with Nick. I haven’t had a chance to tell her about the progress I’ve made in other areas.

I shrug. “I don’t think that’s happening.”

“Really?” she pouts. “I was planning to live through you vicariously. At least sleep with him before you make a decision.” James’s hand lands firmly at the small of my back, nudging me toward the exit.

“You’re not going out with him again, are you?” he asks when we get outside.

“Of course not,” I say. “I already texted him to say I was seeing someone else.” For just a moment I worry that I’ve gone too far. Are we actually ‘seeing’ each other, or is this the kind of phrase that will send James running?

He pulls me to the side of the restaurant and presses me up to the brick. “Good,” he says, finding my mouth. Our kisses, I’m finding, rarely stay G-rated for long. And, increasingly, don’t even start that way.

“It’s so hard to work with you like that all night,” he whispers, his hands sliding low. I arch against him, giving him access he doesn’t take. Sigh.

“Because I’m such a bad waitress?” I grin.

He laughs. “Yeah, there’s that too, but not what I was talking about.”

“You know, it’d probably be a lot easier for us if we didn’t enter the restaurant so worked up.”

He pulls away, tugging my hand. “Come on,” he says. “We can talk about this in the car.”

By which, I presume, he means we will go to the car and avoid the topic.

When he starts driving I twist toward him. “This is about my age, isn’t it?” I demand.

“Sort of,” he sighs. “When I’m with you I forget about the age difference entirely, but then I think about how it would look to someone on the outside. And I wonder if I’m just rationalizing, convincing myself it’s okay because I want it so badly.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I argue. “We’re both in school. We work at the same place. It’s not like you have a home in the suburbs and I’m the kid delivering your paper.”

“You know why my parents were okay with Ginny living at the beach with us?” he asks. “Because they thought she’d be okay, with three adults supervising her. That’s what they said. ‘Adults supervising’. So I know for a fact people would look at it negatively.”

I consider what he said while I shower. I can understand his reluctance, under the circumstances, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s wrong. And if I go through the rest of the summer like this I am likely to explode.

I find him in his room, waiting. His pupils dilate as they graze over me – the tiny boyshorts, the thin tank which leaves nothing to the imagination. “You can’t walk through the house in that,” he says roughly.

“No one’s home but us,” I say. I crawl toward him from the foot of the bed, and don’t stop until I’m straddling him, our faces an inch apart.

He winces. “I’m probably better off not seeing you like that too.”

I lean down and kiss the corner of his mouth, and then I move to the other side, to the corner of his jaw, to the paler skin beneath it, relishing the feel of him growing hard beneath me, the small, stifled sound he makes as I press against him. “I know what your parents said, but that doesn’t make them right.”

“I don’t know,” he replies, but there’s a wavering note in his voice. His hand moves to the back of my neck, pulling me toward him while his fingers twine through my hair. His tongue parts my lips.

I lift my hips so that I’m centered directly on top of him. Air hisses through his teeth at the contact. And then I pull my tank over my head. “Elle,” he begs, his gaze heavy-lidded and feral. “Don’t do this.” But he’s looking at me, his jaw grinding, and his hands come up to my span my rib cage. “You’re fucking perfect,” he groans. I take his hand, and place it over my breast, let him feel the way it pebbles from his slightest touch. The pad of his thumb moves over it — once, twice, and when I gasp his resolve disappears entirely.

He flips me onto my back and is above me so quickly that there’s no time to register my surprise. My mouth opens but no noise comes out before he’s pushing my arms above my head, kissing me hard, his hands everywhere.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve thought about this,” he whispers as he moves lower, taking one taut nipple with his tongue and then his teeth. The small sounds I make turn into whimpers.

It’s been a long summer, and a lot of build-up. When he moves to the other breast, when his hand glides between my legs, I begin to feel that sharp tug in my stomach, heat washing over me.