There's no logical explanation for what happened yesterday in the lake, and neither of us seems to want to figure one out.

After Warren and me...I ran; I left him and my pile of clothes behind, and headed straight for the cabin to lock myself in the bathroom. I turned on the shower as hot as my skin could handle and stood beneath the steady stream until steam fogged-up the mirror.

My mind was a circumvolution of confusing thoughts and my heart was racing as the realization sank in slowly and then prodigiously.

I kissed Warren Ashford willingly, and I enjoyed it. The feeling of his rock-hard body, his calloused hand on my face, and the fiery touch of his lips against mine – I enjoyed it all.

I'm a damn fool.

My unwanted roommate. The campus man-whore. I kissed the guy who irritates me; the one who makes my blood boil; who sleeps with a new girl every weekend and then kicks her to the curb; who drinks enough whisky on Friday nights to smell like his own personal distillery.

My stomach flips uneasily as I stir milk into the waffle mix. I feel sick. And, as my bottom lip trembles, I deeply inhale, reminding myself that I'm not the only one who...felt something. I may have kissed Warren, but he initiated it.

As I think back to previous semesters, I mentally do the math, adding in the years he attended before I arrived. Warren has slept with more girls than my fingers and toes can count. There's no way he could possibly have feelings for me. Old habits die hard, and knowing Warren, the only reason he's displaying interest is that he wants me in his bed. Feelings are foreign to him – nonexistent.

But the emotion that was there...It was so existent and demanding. It's a hard thing to forget.

Exhaling, I pick up the ladle and spoon some of the batter into the waffle machine while telling myself I need to sort myself out. Summer is going to end eventually, and we're both going to fade back into our old lives. I'm going to be in a different dorm room in the fall. This is just a bump in the road; an obstacle that we need to get around. I can handle this. I have to.

But given the fact that Warren is going to be by my side for the next two months, I doubt it's going to be an easy task.

While the first batch of waffles cooks, I begin to cut up some strawberries that will pair nicely with the apricot syrup. My hands are still shaking, and they only worsen when I hear the faint vibration of footsteps against the hardwood floor getting louder and louder. I focus my attention entirely on the strawberry I'm cutting.

My stomach clenches when I hear Warren enter the kitchen. I take several deep, calming breaths to stop myself from panicking.

Once half the strawberries are diced, I turn around to face Warren. I notice his clothes first; the ripped jean shorts and his grey sweater, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His dark brown hair is tousled to perfection, falling lazily across his forehead. He's helped himself to a cup of coffee and is staring at me over the rim of a chipped mug.

Warren's eyes pierce mine the moment we make eye contact. My eyes widen slightly at the disarray of emotions that flicker in his eyes. They dilate with something stronger than desire for a fraction of a second, and then he looks away.

"Morning," he mutters, setting his coffee down. He runs a hand through his hair and then turns to the waffle maker I forgot about.

I watch attentively as he picks up a butter knife and levers the waffle from the machine, and then places it on a plate. He then repeats the prep routine, spooning way too much batter on before closing the lid. Without so much as looking at me, he turns to the fridge and jerks the door open.

"What else did we buy yesterday?" he asks.

My stomach muscles clench – his voice is still raspy with sleep, and I can see the waistband of his Calvin Klein boxers peeking out from under his shorts. I bite my bottom lip and look away.

"Food?" I offer.

I can practically feel the grin radiating through the room as he investigates the fridge.

"You're wasting energy," I say, turning back to the strawberries. I can't handle looking at the symmetrical lines of his body and the way his muscles flex whenever he moves.

"Don't suppose we bought a watermelon?" he asks.

"That'd be a no," I reply.

He closes the door and joins me at the countertop, grabbing a handful of diced strawberries and then stuffing them in his mouth.

Warren reaches for another handful. I swat his hand away. "Be patient! Those are for the waffles. Why don't you be useful and grab the whipped cream we bought?" I jerk my head in the direction of the fridge.

When he doesn't reply, I turn to face him. Big mistake. Warren's dark blue eyes are honed in on me and there's a devilish grin on his face. He cocks an eyebrow. "Depends what I'm doing with the whipped cream."

My cheeks heat up and a rush of adrenaline sparks in my veins. I blink rapidly to keep calm, and then I pick up the paring knife. I feel like a fool. All he's doing is toying with me; teasing me until I decide to run. But I'm not going to run. Not because of him.

"I could list off the options for you if you'd like," he drawls. "It would involve –"

"Okay!" I exclaim, cutting him off as I slam the knife down. I turn to face him. Of course, he's leaning against the counter and grinning like a smug jerk. "You know what? You can finish cooking breakfast while I go change." As soon as the words are out of my mouth, my self-consciousness spikes to a level I've never felt before. I feel extremely exposed, wearing my short cotton shorts and a low-cut shirt. I suddenly want to cover myself up and hide away from Warren.

"Sure thing, sweetheart," he says. "Let me know if you need any help."

I spin on my heel and head for the bedroom, my cheeks burning so hot my skin feels like it's melting from my bones. Once I'm in the room, I focus all my attention on getting dressed, completely avoiding any Warren-related thoughts.

There's something wrong with me – he's never made me feel so flustered. Usually, I can brush him away like a stray crumb. But right now, he's invading me like a drug. Every time I close my eyes, all I can see is last night and the past few days.

This side of him is different, and I think I'm beginning to like different.

By the time I'm finished dressing, Warren has finished making the waffles. I look to the sink – the bowls have been washed and dried, and the machine has been put away. Above the sink and out the window, I catch a glimpse of the dock we jumped off of last night.

I quickly look away, sneaking a glance at Warren as I refill my coffee. He's sitting at the breakfast bar, a plate of waffles in front of him. I bite back a smile. Seeing him eat something so unhealthy is rare. Despite his bad habits, Warren eats well and stays fit for volleyball, save for a few slips here and there.

I'm just about to grab a plate when I notice one in front of the empty seat beside him. It's filled with plain waffles, the syrup, whipped cream, and a bowl of strawberries is adjacent to it.

I point at the plate. "Is that for me?"

"Anything for my girlfriend," he winks.

My muscles lock in place. I know he's joking. I know we're a fake couple. But the aftereffects of the kiss are still pulsing through me. Him being considerate enough to do something like this for me brings the emotions to the forefront. Does he actually care about me? Or am I turning into a psychopath?

He notices my hesitance because he shrugs. "Gotta put in the effort and make it seem real, right? You said so yourself."

Disappointment shoots through me before I can stop it. I honestly don't know what I was hoping for, what I was thinking. He's Warren Ashford. People don't change unless they want to. On top of the disappointment, his comment irritates me. He's the one who lied to his parents about having a girlfriend. He's the one who asked me to play the role.

But you agreed.

I let out a huff of frustrated air. I hate how my stupidly logical inner voice lacks the ability to sugar-coat the facts.

I walk over to the breakfast bar and take my place beside Warren. I'm spooning the strawberries over the perfectly made waffles when he says, "Wow, Scotia – you're really going to town with this fake-relationship shit."

I drop the spoon and look at him, confused. "What?"

He gestures at our outfits, and I follow his hand, studying what we're both wearing. Grey sweaters and jean shorts. My eyes widen – we're basically wearing the same outfit. What the freaking hell.

"I...I..." I stutter, feeling bewildered. "I w-wasn't trying to do that."

Warren laughs. "Oh my God, Nova. Calm down. You're always so uptight – let loose for once and stop making yourself seem like you have air stuffed up that sexy ass of yours. I was joking around."

I have the sudden urge to slam his handsome face into the mess of syrup, strawberries, and whipped cream in front of him. And I would if my mind would stop obsessing over the fact that he thinks my ass is sexy.

I will never let him know, but being around him is intimidating on many levels. First of all, he's always been extremely confident – it practically oozes off of him. Secondly, he knows how to talk; he knows what to say and how to say it. Finally, he's experienced. So the thought of ever getting into bed with him makes my nerves jittery. He must know how to put on a good performance when he wants to. What scares me most, though, is what he expects from a girl. His standards must be pretty damn high. And the very thought is disheartening. It hurts because it reminds me about how much I miss having Carter around – he was never one to care about stuff like that. As long as it meant something to both of us, he enjoyed it.

We enjoyed it.

Shaking my head at where my mind has wandered off to and the sudden heaviness my heart is bearing, I quickly change the subject. "How long is the drive to Halifax?" I ask, taking a bite of my waffles. I'm mildly surprised at how well Warren did making these – I didn't expect him to be good at cooking.

"About fifty minutes or so," he replies. "Why?"

"Honestly? I'm getting tired of staying in motels and cabins and eating out. I want to get situated and stay in one place for more than a day. Your family wouldn't mind if we arrived a day early, would they?"

Although I'm nervous as hell about meeting his family, I really do want to get situated. Exploring is a lot of fun but I prefer having a space to come back to when I'm done. Warren's house will be that place for the summer. It'll be weird at first, but I'm bound to get used to it eventually.

I glance at Warren, who is staring at me. I stare back, and our gazes stay locked for about five minutes before he sighs. "Haze is gonna lose her shit."

"So is that a no?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "Haze is going to love that we're coming early; she's going to shit rainbows and act like a hyperactive child when we arrive."

I try to hold back a snort. But I fail because he's trying to act annoyed when I can tell he's excited that I've brought up this idea – I can see it in the grin on his face, which makes me wonder how long it's been since he last saw his family.

Getting to his feet, Warren grabs his now-empty plate and mug. He looks at me and says, "You really ought to start doing that more."

"Doing what?" I ask.

"Smiling," he replies softly. "You don't do a lot of it. And you know what I think?"

I shake my head.

"I think something happened to you, and that's why you push me or any other guy away. That's why you only let very few people into your life. And you know what else?"

I shake my head again.

"I plan to figure out exactly what happened."

With that, he heads for the kitchen sink, leaving me alone with a million thoughts running through my mind.