Definitely, Maybe in Love by Ophelia London Page B

spent most of June complaining about how my father had refused again to pay for any of my tuition. Not that I was surprised…I hadn’t expected anything from my father in years. My two brothers and I decided ages ago that the sooner we forgot about him, the better. The rest of the summer, Mom delved deeper into her crystals and tarot cards. My brothers came home for only one visit. I was working two full-time jobs, anyway—no time for dating or fun. Maybe that was why I was so into Alex’s kisses.
    His hands slid to the small of my back, still rocking us to the beat of an unheard rhythm.
    Julia had a theory about there being two kinds of kisses. The first kind of kiss is when you want to experience the purely physical pleasure of kissing. There can be heat and excitement and plenty of sparks during this first kind of kiss, but it’s mostly just doing whatever will bring personal gratification. These kisses are fun and freeing and preferably non-committal. The first kind of kiss is corporeal, touching only your body and the shallowest of senses, but never deep emotions, and never your soul or your heart.
    What I was experiencing in that dimly lit parking lot was the first kind of kiss. Obviously so, since I was cognizant enough to realize that Alex was merely filling a physical desire and nothing more. My emotions, soul, and heart were all fully intact. Perfect.
    According to Julia, however, there is a second kind of kiss. This kiss comes with a whole list of prerequisite regulations. There is commitment, caring, giving, sacrifice, compromise, relationship, and especially love. Apparently, all of the above-listed rules make the second kind of kiss something more magical and earth-shaking than even the steamiest first kind of kiss.
    As Alex’s hands moved up and down my spine like I was his bass fiddle, I couldn’t imagine a thing like that were possible. But Julia did have her harebrained theories.
    First kind or not, Alex was a great kisser. Very creative. I probably could have kept it up for the full fifteen minutes—that was usually my limit before I grew bored—but when a valet attendant tried to push past us to get into the blue SUV Alex had me pressed against, we pulled apart.
    “Well, you’re full of surprises,” I said, a bit breathless.
    He touched my chin with one finger, then ran it down my neck. “Want to go back to my place?”
    “What?”
    Almost as if he were snapping out of a trance, his intense expression dissolved and his lazy smile was back. “Come on, gorgeous.” He took my hand, linking my arm through his, and we walked out of the parking lot. “You pick the restaurant.”
    “I can’t believe you stole your moves like that,” I said, thinking what a pervy beast Woody Allen must be in real life.
    Alex laughed and shot me a sideways glance. “If that’s what gets your engines blazing, I’ll be sure to talk about Henry more often.” He put his hand over mine and squeezed.
    Knightly? I almost tripped over my own feet. Why on earth would Alex be thinking about him? Or assuming that I would be thinking about him while we were kissing?

Chapter 7
    “I’m sorry. No more empty tables.”
    I moaned and glanced over the hostess’s shoulder at the unusually, overly packed café.
    “It’s the rain,” she explained with a shrug. “No one wants to be outside.”
    “Yeah,” I agreed, perturbed that all of Stanford apparently chose to eat at Oy Vey Café that morning.
    “You can get your order to go,” she suggested, then pointed behind me at the dozen or so people already standing in line. I guessed that was my only option.
    “She can join me.”
    Henry Knightly was sitting at a small, round table by a fogged-up window, gesturing at the empty chair across from him.
    “Is that okay?” the hostess asked me.
    “Um, well…” I looked over my shoulder to the queue at the To Go counter. Had it doubled in the past five seconds?
    “If not,” the hostess continued, “I could really use