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table. I watch as she shudders, and an electric tingle courses through me—excitement? anticipation?—at the rush of her pulse under my fingers. I push with my mind just the tiniest bit. “You know, I’d much rather talk about you. Tell me something I don’t know about Mary Francis Cavanaugh.”
    She swoons a little and stares back for a long moment before saying, “I hate my name,” through a haze.
    “Then why don’t you go by Mary?”
    “ ’Cause that’s my sister’s name.” The fog starts to lift, and she leans onto her elbows on the table, accentuating certain curves and seriously distracting me.
    I force myself to breathe deep and look back into her eyes. “Your sister is Mary too?”
    “All of them are, but only my oldest sister goes by it.”
    “How many sisters do you have?”
    “Four.”
    “And all five of you are Mary? That sounds like it’d be confusing.”
    “That’s why we don’t all go by it.”
    “What are the rest of your sisters’ names?”
    “Well, there’s Mary Theresa—she’s Mary. And Mary Katherine—Kate. Then me—Mary Francis. Mary Grace—she’s just Grace. And Mary Margaret—Maggie.”
    I bite back the chuckle. This is
sooo
rich. “A good Catholic family,” I say, trying to sound sincere.
    “I suppose you could say that.” Hmm . . . vinegar. Guilt? I’ll have to explore that later.
    As she sips the last of her coffee, she tips her head back, arching her long, fair neck and pulling her shirt tight across her chest. The wave of desire I feel is almost incapacitating. I close my eyes against it and try to clear my head.
Focus.
When I open them, she’s staring at me.
    “I probably should be getting home . . .” she says, sounding a little disappointed.
    “As you wish,” I say, wanting to take her anywhere but home.
FRANNIE
    We pull up to my house and Luc kills the engine. The family room light cuts a yellow swath across the front lawn. Dad’s waiting up, as usual.
    Saving Abel’s “Addicted” is blasting out of Luc’s stereo, telling me about things happening between the sheets, sending my heart pounding right out of my body and my imagination reeling. I’m no angel; I’ve been with guys before. Well, not with them like
that
, but almost. Third Base Plus, I call it. But it’s always been me keeping score, and none of them have ever wreaked havoc on my imagination the way Luc does. It’s like, without ever touching me, he’s climbed right into my head and is looking around in there for my dirtiest thoughts and fantasies. And when he finds them, he brings them to life. I’m talking full-color, 3-D sensivision. But what I hate is, I kinda like it. No boy has ever made me feel so totally out of control. It scares the hell out of me—in a giddy-tingly-wild and not-altogether-bad way.
    I turn back to find him staring at me, and all of a sudden there’s no oxygen in the car. I draw a ragged breath. “So, thanks for the coffee,” I say, wanting to bolt out of the car but also wanting to stay all night.
    “Was it hot enough for you—coffee hot? Because next time we could try something a little hotter, if you want.” Mmm . . . that wicked grin. . . . But I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. Is he making fun of me?
    “That was . . .” and I don’t know how to finish, ’cause what’s going on inside is a whole hell of a lot hotter than coffee. It’s everything I can do to resist the urge to reach out and touch him. “So, I’ll see you Monday.” I reach for the door handle with a trembling hand, and suddenly his hand is there, on top of mine.
    He leans into me and, with his other hand, he sweeps my hair back from my ear. I feel his lips brush my skin as he whispers, “I’ll be waiting.”
    His hot breath in my ear sends a shiver through me, and I’m mortified when I realize the soft moan I just heard was mine. Embarrassed, I pull at the door handle, but his hot hand is still there, keeping me from opening it.
    “What, no goodnight