When Jake meets me at the coffee house, it's like nothing ever happened. He takes a seat opposite, then gets back up to order a drink from the counter.

I watch him from my armchair, trying to gauge what kind of mood he's in, but it's hard to tell. He doesn't seem as moody as he was back at school, but he's still a little tense; I am desperate to know what was wrong.

The seconds' tick by as he waits for his order. Ever impatient, he starts talking with Amelia, which not only breaks the coffee house etiquette but also annoys me. She's smiling and blushing like he's complimenting her–can he not go a minute without flirting?

Amelia finally serves up his drinks. He carries a tray over and takes a seat opposite, still wearing that same grin he gave her. I ignore him and look at the tray. On it are two hot chocolates topped with whipped cream and a blueberry muffin. I've noticed he's stopped drinking coffee since starting our bet, almost out of solidarity.

He reaches for his drink, and without meaning to, I glance at his lips. If I closed my eyes right now, I'd be able to recall exactly how they felt against my own–soft and supple and fruity. But I don't want to imagine Jake's lips, or any other part of him for that matter, so I keep them wide open.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" Jake asks.

I ignore his comment and grab my drink, licking some cream off the top. Jake watches like he's hypnotized.

"What are you doing, Hope?" He leans forward in his chair, his eyes bright and playful.

"Drinking my drink you freak."

He takes a sip of his own hot chocolate, getting whipped cream on his mouth. I smile because sometimes he's such a goofball.

"What?" he asks.

I roll my eyes, but the smile is still firmly in place. "You've got whipped cream all over your face."

Embarrassed, he licks his lips. "Has it gone?"

My smile lengthens. "No."

He sticks out his tongue, shifting it to the left and then the right in search of the cream. "Is it gone now?"

"If I say yes, will you stop doing that?"

He frowns and says, "Stop staring and help me."

I roll my eyes and lean across the table, using my thumb to gently wipe his mouth. His lips feel so soft that I can't help but brush my thumb across his bottom lip. When my eyes flit to his, he grins; one point for him.

I retreat back to my seat and take a breath. I have no idea what's happening, but ever since that kiss, something has changed. It's kind of like before, except now there's this electrical current between us, and every look creates a spark.

"So, we should probably get on with your essay," I say, my voice like silk. "I mean, that's the whole reason we're here." I raise my hand and indicate around us, reminding him of where we are.

Jake leans back in his chair, refusing to take his eyes off me. "You're right, we should talk about the essay."

I reach into my bag, pulling out my hard copy of The Handmaid's Tale. "So, now that you've gotten the introduction out of the way, we need to find some evidence in the book to prove your argument for why love is so important in The Handmaid's Tale."

When I look up, he is still watching me, his eyes flitting to my lips before working their way back up. His eyebrows furrow like he's deliberating something. "Fine," he says, his eyes turning wicked, "let's talk about sex."

I'm sipping my drink when he says it, so I splutter it onto the table. Jake watches me carefully, trying not to grin.

I try to salvage what little dignity I have left and bravely meet his gaze. "What about...sex?"

He raises an eyebrow. Clearly, he didn't expect me to go along with this; I am glad I've surprised him.

"Well," he says slowly, "we keep talking about love like it's only emotional, but The Handmaid's Tale highlights how important the physical side can be when it's done with someone you have a connection with."

My throat feels dry, so I take another sip and then put down my cup. "Go on."

"Well, I mean, the whole book is about how loveless sex has become, right?" He leans in closer, resting his arms next to mine. I flinch at the contact, ignoring the heat in my stomach. "Passion, romance, sparks–" he's looking me right in the eye as he says it, "none of these things exist for them anymore. Sex has become this transaction between people, a need, instead of a want. But when she finally has sex with Ned–"

"Nick," I interrupt.

"Nick," he continues, "it's like she's awakened again. See, physical intimacy can be just as powerful as emotional intimacy with the right person."

I lower my gaze and readjust my sweater. It's hot in this coffee house. Too hot. I feel like my body is on fire. "While I agree," I say, looking at anything but him, "I doubt Miss Duncan will be happy if you turn in an essay all about sex."

The truth is, talking about this with Jake is making me feel hot, and I hate it. I hate that this has turned into something it shouldn't have; I hate that I'm enjoying it.

I raise my gaze and look at him through my lashes. He watches me do it, his eyes unsteady as he tenses in his seat. "Shit, Hope." His jaw muscles twitch, and he briefly looks away. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" I ask.

"Like that." He runs a hand down his jaw before meeting my gaze again.

I have no idea what look I'm giving him, but it seems to be driving him crazy.

There are parts of me that want to reach out and grab him. Maybe it's because the taste of him still lingers on my tongue, or because he's looking at me in a way that he's never looked at me before, but either way, something about this moment has me to wanting to kiss him.

He breaks our gaze, reaching across the table for the book before he pretends to flick through it. "Do people really sit here and give their essays this much thought?" he asks.

"Those of us who care about our grades, yes."

"Hey, I care about my grades, but it's not always easy juggling schoolwork and football, you know?"

I'll admit, I imagine it's a lot of pressure to be the school's star athlete, but Jake always makes it look so easy. "I guess it must be hard," I say, "having all that pressure on you."

His smile fades, and he looks back down at the book in his hands. "Yeah, it is."

"Is that why you were upset this morning or was it because of something else?" I don't really expect him to tell me the truth, but a part of me still hopes for it, anyway. Knowing the reason behind why he kissed me this morning will help me to make sense of it all.

Jake sighs and takes a sip of his drink. "Just drop it, Hope. I don't want to talk about it."

"Must have been pretty bad if it drove you to kiss me." I mean it as a joke, but it comes off sounding awkward.

"That's the opposite of dropping it," Jake says, "and if I remember, you kissed me back, Hope. Like really kissed me." My cheeks start to warm, and that easy grin is back. "I like it when you do that face."

"I kissed you back because it would have been rude–and not to mention awkward–not to. I mean, your ego is fragile enough as it is, you know? I didn't want to add to that."

That lopsided grin is back. "Sure, Hope, whatever you say."

I can feel that he's getting to me, and I hate myself for it. I swallow hard, trying to compose myself before I speak next. The worst part about all of this isn't that Jake kissed me, it's that Jake kissed me out of anger. I was there, easy and willing–a perfect distraction.

"Look," I say. This is my chance to put an end to this madness before things go too far. "I don't know what that was this morning, but it was a mistake, okay? It will never happen again." I expect him to look upset by this, or at least a little downcast, but he just shrugs in that easy way of his. So, I was right, then.

"Fine by me," he says. He looks up now, all serious. "I mean, you're a good kisser, don't get me wrong, but it didn't wow me, you know? It didn't have that–" he clicks his fingers, "–thing. You know that thing?"

I narrow my eyes. He's trying to wind me up, and it's working. I think about disproving his theory by reminding him he'd been the one to keep kissing me, but instead, I say, "I know, I completely agree."

For a second, he falters. Ha, that'll teach him. "You do?"

I nod enthusiastically. "Yep. I mean, don't get me wrong, you were a good kisser, too, but it just wasn't really doing it for me. So, it's probably a good thing that this–" I gesture between us, "isn't happening. We can focus on tutoring and helping you to pass English."

His eyes burn intensely. I wish I could know what he's thinking right now, but he plays his cards too close to his chest. "Deal," he says, getting to his feet. "You ready to go? I'm actually supposed to be calling Alice later."

My face falls at hearing this. I have to quickly rectify it. "Ready." I rise to my feet and slip on my hat, preparing myself for the cold. The weather has gotten worse lately. Accompanying the thick sludge of snow outside is a cold, biting wind. I pull on my gloves, slipping my fingers through each of the holes while Jake watches impatiently. Good, he can wait for me for once, instead of me having to wait for him.

He takes my arm without saying anything, and together we head outside. The air hits my cheek like sharp pins and needles, forcing me to let out a breath. "Jesus, it's cold," Jake says as he pulls me into his side. "I'll walk you home."

"It's fine, really," I say, but either he doesn't hear me over the sound of the wind, or he doesn't care. He holds onto me tightly like he thinks I might slip, then walks me the rest of the way home.

We don't speak a word, but it almost feels nice just to walk along in silence–it gives me time to think. My body hums with every step, feeding off Jake's energy. I haven't drank a single coffee, but it feels like I'm high on caffeine.

We get to my house, and he lets go of my arm before turning to face me. "Don't your parents notice you being out this late?" he asks.

"No," I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets. They feel cold now that they're not hooked around his arm. "It's just me and my mom, and she goes to sleep early. I sneak out and sneak back in again. Don't yours?"

He lets out a laugh, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I doubt my parents would notice."

I want to ask what he means by this, but I can tell by his expression that it's not up for discussion, so I don't. Instead, I look up at him, through my lashes, and he looks down at me.

He frowns and says, "What did I tell you?"

"What?" I say back.

He sighs. "Don't look at me like that."

"But why?"

His eyes grow hooded. Filthy. "Trust me," he says, eyes on my lips, "you don't want to know why."

"Fine." I narrow my eyes until I'm glaring, instead. "Better?"

He smirks a little. "Easier," he says, pushing back my hair. "See you at school, Mia."

He crosses the road without waiting for an answer, and I smile.

He called me Mia.