1. Hayden

ONE

HAYDEN

Six months ago, my buzzkill of a father gave me an ultimatum. Clean up my act or kiss my trust fund goodbye. Let's just say...

My act could go for some bleach.

A perky blonde stands between my legs, clad in fishnet stockings and seven-inch, clear platform heels. She bends over in a way that honestly has me questioning if she has a backbone. But before I decipher my answer, she pops back up, long locks cascading down her bare shoulders.

Taking another drag of my cigarette, I let the nicotine cloud my brain, draping an arm over the backside of the couch. When dollface twists and faces me, flaunting the Benjamins dangling off her G-string, whistles and hollers erupt in the private room. A rowdy concoction of raging testosterone, silver spoons, and self-proclaimed fuckboys, all brought to you by ten of my Sigma Alpha Epsilon alumni brothers.

One of them being Jeremy, who sits to my left in a similar, relaxed state, as another stripper sways her hips over his lap in a serenading dance. Through the red haze in the air, he eyes me above the rim of his Whiskey Coke.

"You got that look again," he says, his voice hardly audible over the R&B thumping throughout the room.

"What look?"

"Like your dick's here, but your head isn't. And not in a good way. Got something on your mind?"

Christ, am I really such an easy read for him? Well, we have known each other our entire lives. Since first grade, to be exact.

I shrug, smoke pluming past my lips. "Ol' Pops has caught on that I'm not actually getting my real estate license."

He snorts into his drink. "You don't say."

I shoot him a look.

"Sorry, sorry." He clears his throat, suddenly wearing a serious expression. "What makes you think he knows? Aside from the fact that it's two months past the date when your alleged class should've finished."

I roll my eyes.

Jeremy fucking Brooks. Even though we're both the ripe age of twenty-four, literally born two days apart, he's always been like the older brother between us. The wiser of the two. Maybe it's because he has his life in order and his shit figured out. While I... well... don't.

Dollface—Candy, is her stage name—runs a hand down my chest. When she notes my lack of interest, she struts over to the pole positioned in the center of the room, earning another round of cheers and tips. Seeing the commotion, Jeremy's lady follows suit.

"Oh, come on, Hayden. You knew he wasn't going to fall for that. You'll have to be a bit more convincing."

I exhale sharply. "And how the hell am I going to do that?"

"For starters, maybe don't host orgies at his house."

"That was one time ."

And the main reason for my intervention six months ago, I don't add. Jeremy's already well aware.

My father's reaction to the whole thing was completely excessive. It was just one party. So what, I and a couple dozen of New York City's top models and A-listers banged on the couches, the guest beds, the kitchen counters, the dining table and... other places... and the cops were called... and the whole thing ended up plastered all over popular gossip sites...

Big deal. Boo-fuckin'-hoo. The way I see it, he should thank me. That party was the most interesting thing that's happened in his and his dull business friends' lives in the past decade or three—and they weren't even in attendance.

But, there's no matter. Sex party or not. I'm still the shame of the Kingston family—his words, not mine. Guess I'm just doing my job by living up to the hype.

"I don't know, man..." Jeremy rubs his chin, pondering. "Oh! I got it—maybe you can start attending church."

What the fu—

My head snaps to him, prepared to berate him for his outlandish joke. But I find his eyes unwavering. I blink, waiting for a smirk, the gotcha. Then blink again... He's... serious? From the corner of my eye, I catch a self-identifying "frat lord" wielding a money gun, raining an unknown sum of cash over Candy's head. Knowing this crowd, it's probably in the thousands.

Meanwhile, Jeremy thinks I—admittedly, the worst of us all—should go to church? Confine myself between the four walls of a confession booth? That's like asking a fox to guard the henhouse, then acting surprised when the hens wind up nestled between my sheets.

I'm irredeemable.

"Dude, you can't be seriou—"

Jeremy busts up laughing, and that's all it takes for the butt end of my dead cigarette to go flying his way. He topples over in a fit of hysterics, shoving my shoulder playfully. Tears brim the corners of his eyes, the whiskey on his breath potent.

"Oh! You should've seen the look on your face. Bro, come on. You? Hayden Kingston—the most infamous Casanova in Princeton's Greek life history, maybe in all of New York City—in a church?" He pries a devilish grin from me. "What're you gonna do, take a vow of celibacy? Settle down while you're in your prime? Your father would have an easier time believing you were struck by lightning on your way to cash in a winning Powerball ticket."

"Alright, alright," I silence him, downing half of my mojito in two gulps, hoping the vodka will ease the sense of dread trickling into my veins. If Jeremy can't come up with a solid solution on how to dupe my father, then I might be shit out of luck.

"I'm sure you'll figure something out."

He folds his arms across his chest, leaning back into the couch, his eyes gravitating to a new lady entering our private room. Skimpy black leather adorns her figure, bunny ears protrude past her locks, and diamond beads sway along her thighs as she struts. Like a siren's call to a ship of drunken sailors, she steals the attention of every man in the room.

Yet, I still can't curb the feeling of impending doom.

With a sigh, I pull out my phone, letting muscle memory take over. It doesn't long before I'm swiping left and right on my favorite app, Charmr. The best part about this particular online dating app is you really don't have to charm anyone, as the name might suggest. Not when it's flooded with singles who want nothing more than casual hookups and no-strings-attached relationships.

So, in such a playing field, my strategy is simple.

If my dick likes what it sees, swipe right.

Otherwise, swipe left.

Propping an ankle over my knee, I click the large button in the center of my screen: See Singles Near You. After a couple of spins of the loading symbol, I'm met with a long-haired brunette.

From the snapshot of her profile, her name is Leona. She's a twenty-two-year-old yoga instructor. And is, by mere coincidence, twenty-two miles away from my current location. Her bio reads Roses are red, lemons are sour, spread my legs and I'll give you an hour. I snort, even though I've encountered the exact same bio about a hundred times.

Nursing my drink, I study her selfie. She stares straight into the lens, pouting her red-stained lips. My gaze inches down the screen. With her elbows drawn inward, she pushes her breasts together, accentuating them beneath her low-cut top.

I swipe right.

Only to meet Jordan, who's twenty-four years old. Works as a social media manager. Is fifteen miles away. And has the bio My tits and I have one thing in common. And that is, we're a lot to handle. My eyes descend once more, confirming her words.

Another right swipe.

Alessandra. Studies biology and nursing. Twenty-one. Forty miles away. And apparently, she really likes pizza and anal.

Right. Fucking. Swipe.

Kourtney. Single mom. Thirty-three. Works as a—

"Hunting your next conquest, aye?" a drunken Kyle slurs behind me and grabs my shoulders with vigor. His eyes squint into slits as he peers over, smelling of aftershave and expensive cologne. "Ohh, man, she's hot! And a cougar, too? Fuck..."

Nodding in agreement, I chuckle. Kyle hoots and hollers in tune with each swipe, every new profile showing more skin than before.

Christie... Right. Addison... Right. Naomi... Right. Lucy... Right. Juliana—

My heart stops.

Plunged into a state of disbelief, I stare into a pair of familiar eyes. Round glasses shield their unique shade of green, a captivating blend of emerald and juniper, with golden flecks dotted around her pupils. A rare combination I've seen only on one other person—Jeremy. My best friend. And this is his little sister.

Who he's very protective of.

I eye him over my phone, watching him tilt his whiskey glass skyward. Every internal instinct screams at me to sink low into my chair, in hopes the fabric might swallow me whole. I should lower my brightness, switch to the Bible app, or slip my phone between a stripper's ass cheeks and call it a tipsy donation, just to rid myself of the evidence.

Because here's the thing about Jeremy Brooks.

Don't let that freshly pressed polo and those Prada boat shoes fool you. Jeremy's not like the rest of these clowns—myself included in said group. No silver spoon fed him. Nor did familial donations grant him acceptance to Princeton University. Meaning, my boy's scary smart. Like, works-on-Silicon-Avenue-fresh-out-of-university-as-an-electrical-engineer kind of smart.

But that's not what has my pulse racing. The dude was an all-state and division one tight end, who might as well sleep on a bench press and probably seasons his four-daily chicken breasts with protein powder. Which is a whole lot of words to say... Jeremy would kick. My. Ass. If he suspected I was pursuing his sister. Hell, if I even looked at her for too long.

To him, I'm a serial playboy. An all-male dog with only one thing on my mind. The womanizer who plucks upon women's heartstrings, until they're offering themselves up like a three-course meal to my insatiable ego, oblivious to the wreckage I leave behind. Their names forgotten the next morning.

What can I say? He knows me better than anyone.

Wetting my lips, I return to my phone. To innocent... nerdy... Juliana. The most forbidden of fruit.

Wearing a basic white tee beneath an apron labeled The Caffeine Cove, Juliana smiles shyly at the camera in the midst of coffee machines and bakery sweets. Aside from a modest coat of mascara, she doesn't wear a lick of makeup. Wispy bangs frame her soft features, while the rest of her dark hair flows from a ponytail.

I stifle a groan, my boxers suddenly suffocating. Then all I can smell is her rosy perfume. A scent I can't seem to forget, one that should be left five years in the past. From the last time we were truly alone and—

"Borrrinnggggg." Kyle yawns in my ear, pulling me from my near out-of-body experience. "She'd have your kids named by the end of the first date."

Coming to my senses, I slip on a fully fledged poker face and read her bio. Juliana. Part-time barista. Twenty-three. Fifteen miles away. With a bio of... No, I blink away, unable to read whatever bullshit, suggestive play on words she has readily available for any fuckboy who stumbles upon her profile.

I mean, look at her.

Why the fuck is she on this type of app?

I'm seconds from snitching to her older brother, only so he'd blow a fuse and make her delete the profile, until I'm struck with a realization. Struck hard. I didn't just find the Charmr profile of my best friend's younger sister... I found the solution to my problem.

Jeremy's words replay in my ear. You'll have to be a bit more convincing...

And here lies my golden ticket: Juliana Brooks.

Sweet, sweet Jules.

For as long as I've known her—which is, well, her entire life—she's been the furthest from my type of girl as she could possibly be. Introverted. An overachiever. The classic teacher's pet, with her head chronically buried in a computer screen. No one in a million years would pair her with someone like me, the last on that list being my father. While he was listening to Jeremy's valedictorian speech and then Juliana's the following year, he was simultaneously praising my older brother for merely existing and naming me the pit stain of our family.

But if he thought I was serious with someone like her? That she was mine? Then I'd wager that stain might lift.

So, in the throes of half-naked strippers, bachelors with pockets brimmed with cash, and lines of suspicious white substances decorating our tables, I swipe right. A sliver of my soul aches as I anticipate her rejection. But much to my surprise, I receive an immediate match, with a message already sitting in my inbox.

A message that has me questioning everything I thought I knew about innocent Juliana...