My arm is asleep. I think I'm supposed to be asleep. Was I drinking last night? I don't feel like throwing up. I just feel woozy, but it's the good kind of woozy, like I've been dancing all night and now I'm just floating in a bubble of blissful exhaustion.

Something tickles my neck.

I turn my head and try to look down, but my chin bumps into a mass of curly blond hair. Peyton?

The entire night comes rushing back to me, all of it, from the stupid house to my tactless revelation and … the kiss. I kissed Peyton. And she …

I stare down at her long, golden eyelashes. She definitely kissed me back.

The biggest, goofiest smile you could ever imagine takes over my face. I'm smiling so hard, it feels like I'm getting a facelift. I wiggle my fingers and lift them up to the sunlight. Everything feels so warm and soft, kind of like my favourite cashmere sweater.

Peyton stirs and I quickly slide my limp arm out from under her back. She curls up on her side and sighs contentedly. I prop myself up on one elbow so I can look at her, retracing the delicate lines of her face and renewing my memory of them. I still can't believe she didn't bolt last night. I fully expected her to push me back and give me that horrified look she saves for very special occasions. I expected her to start babbling, to explain why it was thirteen kinds of weird and wrong. I expected her to pat me on the back sympathetically and apologise because this isn't her thing, but she'll always love me as a friend.

Not for a second did I expect to wake up with her in my arms. And I definitely didn't expect her eyes to flutter open and her hand to reach out and touch my cheek lazily as if she's done this a million times before.

"Hey, you," she says, her voice still a little hoarse with sleep.

"Hey yourself."

I bend down slowly. Is she going to freak out now, now that the sun's out and it's sobering her up, assaulting all her senses and telling her that last night was no more than a spur-of-the-moment thing?

Closer. Closer still. I can see the flecks of green in her hazel eyes. My lips brush over hers faintly. I open my eyes. She's still here. Still smiling. The air floods out of my lungs.

"Did you sleep okay?" she asks.

"My arm did."

Confusion skims across her features, and then she claps a hand over her mouth. "Oh god, I'm so sorry. I squashed your arm, didn't I?"

"A little," I reply. "But I'll let you make it up to me."

"Uh-oh, something tells me you want the whole nine yards, Brooke Davis style."

I tap a finger against my chin, pretending to mull over it. A delicious little image pops into my head, but I push it aside. I don't want to send her scurrying off this soon. Besides, if I have my way, strawberries and cream and that little silk blindfold I have will be put to good use in the not too distant future.

"I'll let you off easy this time, but let's hold you to an I.O.U., just in case I feel a little—"

"Frisky?" she interjects, cocking an eyebrow playfully.

Clearly, I've underestimated her.

"Don't tempt me," I warn her mockingly.

"Wouldn't dream of it," she says, her voice low in her throat as she tilts her chin and gives me a quick kiss.

--

We touch down at the airport at 10 PM. Aside from that bitch who refused to give us any alcohol, the plane ride was uneventful—unless you count the dirty looks that were thrown our way. Peyton's handling everything surprisingly well. Heck, I'm feeling calmer than I've been in months. I've got half a suitcase full of new clothes, an even tan and Peyton's hand resting possessively on my hip. What more could a girl want?

We grab our luggage and start strolling toward the line of taxis waiting outside.

"You know, I can just call the driver and—"

Peyton's hand jerks away from my body. Following the line of panic in her eyes, I notice a man standing a few feet away. He has brown hair. Curly, like Peyton's.

"Shit," Peyton hisses under her breath. "He's not supposed to be here."

The man starts stalking toward us and for a moment I wonder if he's going to knock me over. I've never seen him look so furious before. Okay, time for some damage control.

"Mr. Sawyer, we—"

"Peyton, you said you were on a field trip. I can't believe you went all the way to California without telling me!"

Wait, how does he know we were there? "Actually, Mr. Sawyer—"

He cuts me off again, his eyes flashing. And this time, his glare is trained on me. "Your parents traced your credit card to a store in Santa Monica."

I open my mouth to say something, anything that will placate this crazy man who is so not the Mr. Sawyer I remember. Before I can eke out a word, he jumps right in again.

"Your parents may be okay with you flying all around the country without telling them, but I don't want my daughter doing the same."

"Dad …" Peyton says softly. "It's not Brooke's fault."

A twitch and he's facing Peyton again, looking like he's going to start foaming at the mouth any minute now. A twinge of anger scrapes at my nerves. Even if he is Peyton's dad, he shouldn't be going all psycho on us. And I really don't like the way he's getting ready to yell at her.

"I don't care whose fault it is," he says through gritted teeth. "I thought you were responsible enough to let me know beforehand. Just because I'm out of town …" He trails off and the muscles in his face relax just a little bit. "Is this because I was out of town? Did you want me to stay?"

Peyton sighs and steps closer to him. "No, Dad, it's not. It was—it was a bad decision. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry for bringing up the stupid plan," I say quietly.

As Mr. Sawyer lifts a tired hand to his face, Peyton gives my hand a quick squeeze and whispers, "Don't be."

But then he looks up and Peyton drops my hand.