I don't have a lot of time for Andrew Robinson. He's obnoxious. His intelligence is sub-par and he's a terrible kisser.

(No, I don't want to talk about how I know the thing about the kissing).

The one thing that Robbo does have going for him is that he throws a truly excellent party. He throws them well and he throws them often. And for that, we are all eternally grateful.

I love a good party. Not because of the dressing up (don't mind it), or drinking (could take it or leave it) or being the centre of attention (no thank you). I love the anticipation and the people watching and the ability to get lost in the crowd. The thing is, at a truly great party – when the bass is thumping and the rooms are heaving – no one is really paying any attention to you. They're all too busy paying attention to themselves. Which is just the way I like it.

Will it be a good night? Does my hair look okay? Should I have worn this skirt – maybe it's a bit short? I wonder if she can see me standing here, against this wall? Do I look nonchalantly cool, or a bit loser-ish? Did I remember to put on deodorant? If I raise my arm to check, can I pass that off as a dance move or will everyone realise that I'm trying to sniff my own armpit?

See. No one is paying attention to little old me. They're all too worried about their own ability to fit in, or stand out, or catch the eye of the eye that's caught theirs. I can sit here, on this kitchen bench, eating all these corn chips and analysing other people's social interactions to my heart's content, and no one will think anything of it.

(Also, my hair does look pretty good tonight, my skirt is quite short but I totally have the legs to carry it off, and who cares anyway – I have corn chips).

"Are you willing to share those or will you bite my hand off if I try to take one?"

Trav Riordan stands before me, interrupting my solo room perusal and chip consumption with his wonky smile and arched eyebrow. It's only been two and a half hours since Cass and I left his house. Last time I saw him we were all crusted with chlorine and sweaty from competitive hip-hop dancing. Since then, Trav's got serious with the private school boy hair styling and a navy and white checked shirt. He looks particularly pretty tonight, damn him.

"Do you want the polite answer or the honest, vaguely threatening one?" I ask, ignoring the golden-boy charm and placing a protective arm around the chip bowl on my lap.

"If you start being polite now, I'll worry that you've poisoned the chips. Let's just pretend you've done the threatening thing, we've bickered, you've fallen under my charm spell, and we are now sharing the chips."

I roll my eyes but hand the bowl over.

Trav hoists himself onto the island bench next to me and takes a swig of his beer. He offers me some but I shake my head.

"So, what are we looking at?" he asks as he eats my corn chips.

Robbo's kitchen is elevated a few steps above the large, open-plan living space. From the bench we have an uninterrupted view across the heaving crowd and out into the equally busy backyard.

"Anyone. Everyone," I say vaguely.

"Like who? What are we looking for?"

My instinct is to shut down the line of questioning because my chip bowl and I were perfectly happy hanging on our own. But then I remember this afternoon – Trav's Dad and Trav's tears and I figure he is looking for a distraction.

I know what that's like.

"We're looking for the small moments that matter." I half expect him to laugh at me. He doesn't.

"Give me an example."

"Okay, see that couple down there. No, not there. The guy in the grey tee-shirt talking to the girl in the pink pants."

"What about them?" Trav asks, once he's worked out who I am talking about.

"He really likes her. He's been following her around for the past hour. He's trying to be subtle about it, but every time she moves groups, he waits five minutes and then he moves too."

"Admittedly, a little stalker-ish, but what's the big deal? The guy likes the girl and he's trying to make it happen."

"By itself, nothing. But pink pants girl is actually after the dude in the cap standing on the wall over there. She keeps throwing him looks over her shoulder. She kissed grey tee-shirt guy at Robbo's Christmas party. But I'm pretty sure she only did it to make cap dude jealous. It didn't work though. Cap dude has just started going out with someone else."

"How do you know all of this?"

"Because I eat chips and pay attention," I shrug.

"Travvy, there you are babe."

Before Trav has a chance to respond and with no regard for the fact that he is clearly mid-conversation with me, Bethany Cartwright inserts herself between his legs and drags his mouth down to meet hers. Which is kinda impressive (considering their height difference) and kinda gross (cause I am still sitting close enough to Trav that our thighs are touching).

"Right. I'll, ummm, see you guys later..." I slide off the bench and make my escape. Trav waves at me over Bethany's shoulder but doesn't break the kiss. I reluctantly leave them the chip bowl. They might be in need of sustenance if they ever come up for air. Consider it my community service for the night.

Having lost my prime people-watching spot and my food, I go in search of other entertainment. In the back garden, in the shadows, I find it.

He's standing against the wall of the house with a few of his mates. Black jeans, a well-worn, baby blue tee and a black denim jacket that I know from experience is a lot softer than it looks. He looks good – a little bit naughty; far tastier than corn chips.

Ahhhh, Felix Darver. Felix of the excellent kissing. I bet you'd forgotten about him, hadn't you?

"I think you're being paged, mate." One of Felix's friends smirks at me but I meet the guy's eyes and stare him out. He looks away first. They always do. "Let's go have some fun boys. We'll see you later, Darver." They each clap Felix on the shoulder as they walk away. Solidarity in boyhood.

"Hey sexy, I wondered where you were. I was just about to come looking for you." Felix's greeting is accompanied by a grin as he pushes off the wall and walks towards me.

I roll my eyes at him. Guys say some really dumb, clearly untrue things to girls. What's worse is that those dumb things are often taken at face value.

"No, you weren't."

Most of the time I enjoy flirting with Felix. He's quick-witted and he doesn't take himself too seriously. But I'm not in the mood for flirting right now. It's been a weird few days. All I want tonight is a silent, mindless escape.

"No, seriously I..."

I don't let him finish his sentence. Placing my hands on his chest I back him up against the wall and crash my lips into his. I am in absolutely no danger of loving Felix Darver. But I do love his lips. They're full and firm and very, very skilled.

I also love the fact that he catches on quick, relaxing against the wall and taking me with him. Our bodies are aligned hard against each other. He slips one hand into my hair. The other trails lazy patterns across my lower back, fingers edging beneath my camisole and across the top of my denim skirt. When he leans down to kiss my collarbone, I feel it everywhere.

I tangle my hand in his dark hair, holding him steady against my neck. My other hand is still resting against his chest and I can feel his heart thumping hard and fast.

I pull his mouth back to mine and bite his lip.

He groans and pulls me harder against him.

Felix tastes of bourbon and chocolate. Of casual and uncomplicated. Of all the things that give a great party the sort of buzz you wake up thinking about the next morning.

"How about we go and find a room?" he mumbles.

And just like that he has to go and throw a bucket of cold water over the whole thing.

"We've talked about this Darver, I'm not a 'let's find a room' kind of girl," I say against his mouth.

"We don't have to do anything," he sucks my bottom lip in a way that makes my knees tremble. "We can just do this but be more comfortable while we do it."

"I'm perfectly comfortable here." He's annoying me now. I don't want to have to debate locations or comfort levels or how handsy is too handsy.

I. Just. Want. To. Kiss.

"C'mon Frankie, it'll be fun."

"Don't 'C'mon Frankie' me, Felix." I step out of his embrace and readjust my clothes.

"Fine," he says, stepping off the wall. "You don't have to treat me like I'm being an arsehole. All I asked was if you want to go and find somewhere to fool around in comfort. I'm not try to take advantage of you, Frankie, and I'm a bit sick of you acting like I am. You're the one who always initiates this," he gestures between the two of us. "So, don't act like I'm trying to trick you into something."

"I think we are done here." I give him my best steely glare, mad that he had to push things tonight.

"You know what babe? I think you're right." He glares right back, shoves off the wall and walks away.

Aggggh! Why can't kissing ever just be kissing?