Jo complained. “There isn’t a single hot guy anywhere.” “Hey,” Devin protested mildly, out of habit. We weren’t really listening; we’d heard Jo give this same speech about a hundred times, and frankly, my mint chocolate chip ice cream was more interesting. It was too hot to worry about guys. Only Jo could muster the energy to multitask a tantrum while sweating through her T-shirt and eyeing the carful of perfectly droolworthy guys currently ignoring her. Mind you, I’d seen her flirt with a photograph of Ian Somerhalder in a magazine once. A little drought wouldn’t stop her. “I’m hot,” Devin added, wiping his forehead. “Literally.” We were at the ice cream parlor where everyone hung out because there was nothing else to do in the bustling metropolis of Rowan, population 8,011. In winter we drove up and down Main Street, and in nicer weather we stood around the parking lot. It was October, and even though the sun had just set, the pavement was still warm and slightly soft under our shoes.
