I’m lying in the bed of Ryker’s pick up, the football star beside me, as fireworks paint the sky above us in a symphony of colour. The breeze is warm, but I still shiver a little, more because of the man beside me than anything.
A blanket falls over my body as I turn to face Ryker, finding him staring at me, one corner of his lips tilted up.
‘Only you could be cold in July’ he says, chuckling as he tucks the covers around us both, cocooning us together as I shift to my side to look at him.
‘I’m not cold,’ I argue quickly, some small, lame part of me worrying that he might think less of me somehow if he believes I feel the cold because real men, jocks like him and his friends, they don’t complain of being cold . . . they run around in the snow wearing boasketball shorts and a t-shirt tha
