I think Iliked it.
God, what is wrong with me?
I sat in the back of my second class justvibratingwith anxiety, half-expecting Kilgore to bust through the door and toss me a scalpel like, "Let’s play autopsy, love."
And to really round out this dream day?
I lost my wallet.
Yup. Somewhere between making out with Brooke du Pont—who I haven’t stopped thinking about for more than seven seconds at a time—and stomping out of that frat party like I wasGod’s angriest bisexual, my wallet justpoofed.Gone. With my cash, student ID, and the last ounce of dignity I was carrying in the zippered pouch.
So now I’ve spent my morning canceling credit cards that only worked half the time anyway, filing for a replacement license that won’t arrive for three weeks, and calling the Haven University Lost & Found so many times I think I’ve traumatized the sophomore answering the phones.
I swear, if Landon makesonesmug British comment when I get off campus, I’m going to dropkick him into the ornamental fountain outside the lobby.
And maybe drown myself in it after.
I finally leave my last class of the day,Introduction to Computer Science,in a daze, mentally scraping my brain off the sidewalk like roadkill. My skull is pounding from too many acronyms, not enough air conditioning, and the soul-crushing realization that coding isnotjust dragging things into pretty boxes.
What I need—what myvery souldemands—is a pound of sour gummies, an extra-large hot mocha latte with coconut milk, and at least seventeen uninterrupted minutes of silence so I can properly grieve the death of this absolute shitshow of a day.
My backpack thuds against my spine with every step, and I’m already fumbling with my phone to order coffee when I hear it?—
That voice.
That honey-glazed, sugar-tipped,lemonade-in-Julyvoice that makes me forget I hate this school, this sun, and my entire bloodline.
“Well hey there, sugar.”
Brooke. I freeze like I’ve been caught mid-crime, turning my head before the rest of me remembers how to move. And there she is.
Painted-on jeans that hug her hips like sin. Tall brown boots with just enough scuff to make her look like she could stomp a man out andstillget asked to prom. And a low-cut, ruffled crop top thatdefinitelywasn’t made for studying. No, this top is designed specifically to incite chaos and make me forget how zippers work.
She’s leaning against a bench, twirling a straw in her iced drink, golden-brown eyes lit up as she smirks at me. One arm rests casually on the back of the bench, pulling her top even lower like a trap, while the other lifts her drink to her lips in slow motion.
I blink. Swallow. Blink again.
“Hey,” I croak out, and immediately hate myself.Hey?Really? That’s the best I’ve got?
Brooke grins, sliding her sunglasses up into her hair, and steps toward me with the kind of confidence that should be illegal on campus. “You look like you have either gotten beaten, or mugged today.”
I exhale sharply, a reluctant laugh bubbling in my throat. “Well I have been running around this campus like a lost duck. Got stuck in the rain twiceandgot raked over the coals by a demon in a professor’s suit. So yeah, pretty accurate.”
“Mmm. Poor thing,” she purrs, tipping her head as her gaze drags over me from backpack to boots. “Want me to kiss it better?”
I chuckle, and toss my bag next to her on the bench. “The way I want to kiss you, isn’t really PG-13, wifey.”
“Wifey?” She chuckles.
“I told you I was going to marry you,” I smirk, moving closer to her, the smell of warm cinnamon bakery treats invades all my senses and I feel drunk off of her. “You didn’t think I’d forget, did you babydoll?”
“Of course not,” she drawls, her hands loosely curving around my neck and drawing me even closer.
I swallow thickly. Her face is barely inches from mine now, eyes lidded, lips parted just enough to tempt sin.
“I don’t make empty promises,” I murmur, my hands sliding to her hips, thumbs slipping just under the hem of her ruffle top. “And I meant it when I said I was gonna marry you.”
Brooke grins slow and wicked, her southern accent thick like syrup as she leans in. “Then you better put a ring on it, sugar. Or at least buy me dinner before you start undressing me in public.”
