Page 55 of The Love Syllabus

“You can’t sit here and tell me Outkast didn’t change the game,” I argue, throwing a dramatic hand in the air.

Vic glances over, one hand on the wheel, the other resting dangerously close to my thigh. “I never said they didn’t. But you’re delusional if you think they can out-bar Nas or Biggie.”

I scoff. “Sir, Nas had Illmatic. Outkast had a whole era. A movement. They were a cultural reset.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And you love it.”

He hums, like he’s not about to agree with me, but I can see the smirk tugging at his lips. And even though I’m gearing up to hit him with another solid point, the song changes, instantly shifting the vibe.

Oh no.Not a freaky, deeky, panty-dropping, between-the-sheets love song.

The sensual bass, the slow, pleading lyrics—it’s the kind of song that ends with warm hands and tangled limbs. My breath catches, and I feel Vic shift beside me. His fingers drum against the steering wheel.

“I guess R&B ain’t dead after all,” he murmurs, voice low, contemplative. “But you gotta admit, it went dormant for a while. I guess people are ready tofeelsomething again.”

I nod, sinking into the sound and letting it settle into my skin. “Mmm. I missed this. Real love songs. Real feelings. Real yearning. Slow, sexy, make-you-tremble, make-you-wet kind of songs.”

I open my eyes, shocked by my own words, and notice Vic’s grip on the wheel tightening yet again, but I pretend not to notice.

Somewhere in the mix of it all, between the teasing and our effortless conversation, our hands graze on the console. Just a light touch—a small, passing moment, nothing deep, nothing that requires a closer look, just a light, gentle, wanted touch.

However, the next time it happens, it’s not an accident. His fingers slowly skim over mine. The weight of his touch is barely there, but it’s enough to make my skin tingle. Enough to send something warm and slow curling through my stomach.

And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his hand drifts further. Lower. And suddenly, his palm now rests on my thigh. His touch isn’t urgent or demanding. It’s just there as a calm, unshaken claim. It’s like he’s done it a thousand times before. Like he should’ve been doing it all along.

His thumb brushes my thigh once. Just once. That’s all it takes for heat to pool between my legs so fast that I swear I should be embarrassed. But I’m not. Because I know thatheknowsexactlywhat he’s doing.

And the worst part? I want to spread my thighs. I want to let him slide higher. I want to feel his fingers inside me.

Instead, I shift in my seat and ignore the ache, but when I glance over at him, his jaw is tight, and he’s smirking.This smug bastard.

“You good over there, Ms. Kind?” His voice is smooth. Amused.

I roll my eyes and cross my arms. “I’m fine, Mr. Grimes.”

But just like that, the moment slips away. The spell breaks as the car slows to a stop, and I blink, pulling myself out of the haze to take in the sight ahead.

Hundreds. No,thousandsof people stretch across the sand with coolers stacked high, towels spread out everywhere, and water toys strapped to backs like artillery. The energy is electric as people run into the ocean, some already dripping wet, others gathering in groups plotting their next move.

Vic steps out of the car, and his face immediately twists in suspicion. His arms cross over his chest as he eyes the scene like he’s been set up.

“Kerry…” he says slowly. “What kind of parade is this again?”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing, then reach into the backseat, sling my oversized bag over my shoulder, and turn to face him with a smirk.

“Oh, it’s not just a parade,” I say sweetly, pulling out the biggest, most ridiculous Super Soaker I could find. “It’s a water fight.” I declare.

Vic blinks. “Excuse me?”

I grin wider, tossing him his Super Soaker, fully locked and loaded. “Now,” I say, adjusting my bikini top and stretching like an athlete before game time. “Get ready to have some fun.”

Vic looks angry and grumpy as usual, but I see that little smile trying to poke through.

“Come on!” I yell, laughing as we weave through the madness. “I gotta make sure our spot isn’t taken. The pier is the perfect hideout for a counterattack.”

We push through the crowd, but of course, we can’t get anywhere without being stopped by dozens of fans.

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