The broken remnants, particularly the long, clear stem, suggest it’s from a wine glass or champagne flute, and we both freeze as howling fits of laughter come from overhead. Hearing those voices get closer as their owners no doubt make their way down the stairs to the courtyard sends Michael and I scrambling for the side of the alcove.
The absence of his fingers leaves me throbbing and close to delirium, but I muzzle down my frustration enough that I straighten out my dress and run a hand over my hair just in case we’re spotted.
I relax almost instantly as the drunken couple comes stumbling into the courtyard. Honestly, I’m surprised they made it down here at all. Between their blood alcohol level and the fact they’re completely preoccupied with sucking each other’s faces, I’m pretty sure Michael and I could walk out doing the FunkyChicken in front of them, and they wouldn’t notice, even as they’re within ten feet of us.
Neither sees the broken glass on the ground until it cracks under their feet. Yet, they’re still contemplating if the spilled liquid on the cobblestone is still salvageable. Trying not to laugh, Michael snatches up his suit jacket as I grab my shoes, and we tiptoe right past them.
Only once we’ve made it back up to the terrace doors of the banquet hall do I chuckle, but the sound is immediately eaten by Michael’s lips as they recapture mine. As easily as butter on a hot pan, I melt into him, my fingers brushing the nape of his neck.
I go still instantly at the contact.
His skin is perfectly smooth, save for a thin two-inch line of puckered flesh.
He must know where my attention has gone, because he grimaces, trying and failing to hide the expression with a thinly veiled smile. All I want at this moment is to hear that it’s fresh, that he just got it from a broken beer bottle during a bar fight last year or from falling off his motorcycle or something. Anything but—
“I got it as a kid, when I tried sneaking beneath a chain link fence. There was a tear, and it caught me pretty good.”
Recognition hits me like a roaring freight train, and it takes everything in me not to stumble back as I take in the sight of him, because he doesn’t need to elaborate.
I may not have known where it came from, but I sure as hell have felt that scar before. From the last time I kissed him.
Michael.
MichaelJasonRivers.
Jase.
My high school tormentor.
Son of a motherfucking bitch!
CHAPTER 4
I KNEW YOU WERE TROUBLE
PRESENT
What.The. Fuck?
What. The. Fuck?
What the fuck?
What the fuck?
What the actual fuck?!
Jase.
No.
No, no, no, no!
This can’t be him. Itcan’tbe!
The Jase I knew had a painfullyperfectface. Not a pimple, mole, or even a freckle to speak of, let alone a scar. And his nose was straighter than a number two pencil. Jase was good-looking in a “pretty boy” sort of way, like a young Jared Leto or Zac Efron. He wasn’t rugged or battle-scarred—at least hehadn’tbeen the last I saw him.
My gut instinct has my fingers balling into fists, consumed by the overwhelming desire to punch out his lights, but I can’t bring myself to do it, no matter how tempting.
