Chapter 1

Thirteen-year-old me would be screaming, crying, throwing up.

I've only been at the bar a few minutes, waiting for my sister and her roommate. Just enough time to get a drink from the bartender, Riley. He's wearing a crop top and as soon as I tell him I'm Bex's sister he gives me a discount and starts calling me "hunny."

The bar is dim. Toward the back people dance in the anonymity of the dark to the barely recognizable techno-remix version of a pop song.

A figure emerges from the shadows to my left and joins me at the bar. Something about it—big, male, all in black, the faint musky scent, the body heat—makes my heart rate increase.

I see his hand first.

Long fingers wrapped around an empty glass. A stag is tattooed on the back of his hand, only partially visible as it disappears into his long black shirt sleeve. The sharp tips of the antlers follow the sinewy lines of his hand, pointing to his fingers clad in silver rings and knuckles tattooed with roman numerals.

And then, his deep, velvety voice. "Gin and tonic."

A chill trickles down my spine, goosebumps rising along my neck.

Daring to glance up, I'm met with more black tattoos that spill out of his shirt collar. A skull on his throat. Black roses up the side of his neck, cutting along and highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw.

His face is all hard lines, cheekbones, a sloped nose with the tiniest bump on the end. Thick brows with dark, sunken eye sockets that make his eyes look black. Lifeless. And yet, his lips are full. Soft.

It's the most hauntingly beautiful face I've ever seen. But I've seen it before. Fitting, really. Since it's haunted my dreams for the last eight years.

Noah Dixon.

He's older, obviously. Still tall. But before he was long and lanky, and now he's filled out a bit. Muscular. His neck is thicker. Jaw squarer. He didn't have tattoos when he was a senior in high school, but he was still the kid from the school across town. Mysterious.

But even though he looks different, older, and is now covered in tattoos, I'd still recognize him in a second.

My heart pounds wildly, loud in my ears. The same reaction I'd have had as that thirteen-year-old girl with the biggest, dumbest crush. Dumb, not only because he was hot and mysterious and eighteen, and I was—well—a little girl he never even noticed, but also because he was Bex's boyfriend.

They dated her junior year, his senior, and every time he would come around our house, I would spy on them. Make up imaginary scenarios where he was secretly in love with me and just dating her to get close. Go write in my diary about our future and all the times I thought he looked my direction and that one time he said "hey, Little Livvy" to me. I'd practice signing my name in cursive, Mrs. Olivia Dixon, and make lists of our children's names. All the stupid things you do when you're young and have your first big, major crush.

The kind of crush that changes you, that stays with you, that you still think about from time to time.

The crush that's now standing directly next to me in a crowded bar. That perfect, yet menacing face—I'm staring at it.

I'm staring at him.

And now he's looking directly at me, seeing me staring.

His lips part, the sharp edges of his white teeth showing as he smirks.

Fuck.

I turn away instantly, my face going hot.

You're not going to do this. You're not going to be the silly little girl gawking at the gorgeous, unobtainable Noah Dixon. Not again.

"Hey," he says in that rich, low voice.

Is he talking to me? He's talking to me.

I slowly turn back, holding my breath to keep from hyperventilating. Trying to play it cool but my heart is thrashing in my chest.

I meet his eyes, those dark eyes unlike anyone else's. A deep blue, like the darkest part of the ocean before it goes black or the night just before the stars come out. I've sketched them over and over. Dreamt of them. Wished for them to see me. Really see me.

And now they are on me. Pointedly so. Sharp enough to pierce.

His gaze trails down my collarbone to my tight-fitted tank top then further to my crossed legs, clad in my favorite pair of jeans with the rips in the thighs.

He's taking his time, looking me over slowly, not even hiding it, like he doesn't even care—no, that he wants me to know he's looking.

I didn't think I was showing that much skin, but with Noah Dixon's eyes on me, I'm painfully aware of every single exposed inch, now burning red hot.

He's looking at me—like a woman. Like he likes what he sees. And then his eyes are back on mine. Full, unrelenting eye contact.

Okay, twenty-one-year-old me might scream, cry, and throw up, too.

"Hi," I manage to squeak out. Fuck.

His smirk grows. "Can I sit here?"

I nod, immediately reaching for my drink and sucking on the straw. Maybe if my mouth is busy, I won't embarrass myself by letting anything else come out of it.

Noah's gaze drops to my mouth. My pulse quickens.

"Can I get you another drink?" he asks.

I let the straw slip from my lips, realizing my drink is already almost empty.

"Sure." I'm really killing it with the whole conversation thing.

Get it together, Livvy.

Noah Dixon is buying me a drink. If it were any other man in this situation, I'd have the upper hand.

He obviously doesn't know who I am, which isn't a surprise. Eight years is a long time, and I don't look anything like I did at thirteen, thank god. I was a bit of an ugly duckling—in the middle of growing out bangs, full braces, chubby—not at all helped by my awkwardness and being severely introverted.

It took years to come out of my shell and gain confidence in myself and my appearance.

And here I am, reverting to that lovesick teenager the second I see him.

Riley slides a newly poured drink across the bar to Noah with a little pop in his hip. "A gin and tonic for my favorite customer."

"You say that to all the guys."

Riley scoffs.

Noah chuckles. "I won't forget your tip."

"See, that's why you're my favorite, Noah." Riley winks at him.

"Will you get the lady here whatever she likes?"

"Certainly." Riley leans toward me. "Do you want another of what you're having or something new, hunny?"

"Same, please."

"You got it."

I turn toward Noah, uncrossing and recrossing my legs and taking another sip of my drink. "So. Noah."

His eyebrow quirks when I say his name and my stomach flips.

"The bartender knows you by name. I'm guessing you come here often."

Did I just ask if he comes here often? I want to smack myself.

He turns his body toward mine, licking his upper lip. "I do." He shifts closer. "Now that you know my name, can I have yours?"

My heart pounds at the same time all the air escapes my lungs, and my chest tightens. The thoughts swirling in my head making me dizzy—or maybe it's the drinks. What if I give him my name and it jogs his memory? What if he realizes who he's been flirting with and he's mortified? Or worse. What if my name stirs nothing in his memory because I was truly that inconsequential to him?

"You'll have to work a little harder for that," I say. Good one, Liv, stay aloof. Mysterious.

"Gladly." His smile widens, showing more of his teeth. It's a wicked, wolfish smile. And I'm the sheep.

Oh.

Riley places my drink in front of me, removing my empty one.

"So, A Girl with No Name." Noah plays with his straw, twisting it between his teeth. "Why haven't I seen you around here before?"

"How do you know you haven't?"

"Trust me, I wouldn't forget your face."

The irony that he has already done so is not lost on me, and I laugh loud enough I'm pretty sure half the bar hears it and almost choke on my drink. But it was eight years ago. I was embarking on my first of two emo phases and had yet to experience the gift and curse of puberty. So, I'll give him a pass.

He tilts his head, his thick brow furrowing. "Why was that funny?"

Still smiling, I suck down my drink, trying to think of what to say. "I don't know. I've just always had a forgettable face, I guess." Bex was always the prettier one, the fun one, the outgoing one.

Noah clenches his jaw for a second, the hard line of it only drawing more attention to his throat tattoos. "Anyone who would forget that face, that smile, that laugh"—the tip of his tongue grazes his upper lip then teases the edge of his straw, his gaze falling to my mouth—"is a fucking idiot."

I think I might melt. Just cease to exist. Or that I've blacked out and this is an elaborate hallucination. Noah Dixon is flirting with me. Hard. My slightly inebriated brain cannot comprehend it.

I glance toward the doors just as Bex and Macy walk inside. It's a sign that I should quit while I'm ahead. The longer I talk with Noah, the higher the probability I'll say something silly or embarrassing.

"Thank you for the drink, Noah." I slide from the stool.

"You're still not even going to give me your name? What am I going to put your number under in my contacts?"

I smile. "I didn't give you my number."

"We should fix that."

"You said you come here often. I'm sure I'll see you here again. If you still want it next time, I'll give it to you."

His grin is devilish. "Deal."

I turn and walk through the growing crowd toward my sister and Macy, before my legs give out, my heart beating so hard it's about to burst out my chest, not daring to look back at him.

Holy. Fuck. What just happened?

"Livvy!" Bex squeals and scoops me into a hug like she hasn't just seen me a few hours ago. She takes my hand and leads me around to the far side of the bar.

Macy trails after us, her curly red hair bouncing against her rosy cheeks.

I glance over to where I had been sitting, but Noah isn't there anymore.

Riley spins behind the bar. "You're late," he says through a closed-tooth smile.

"Sorry!" Bex says.

"It was my fault," Macy pipes in.

"Is Chad here?"

"He's in the back somewhere." Riley shrugs then goes back to taking drink orders.

"I'll make sure to snag him for you," Bex says to me. "Sometimes he's sneaky."

"Great." My enthusiasm is implied.

It's not that I'm not grateful for Bex helping me out, I am. It's just not what I envisioned doing after graduating. I don't know exactly what I imagined doing. Graduation always seemed like a far-off thing in the distance, a problem for Future Livvy, until, well, it was here.

Because what sort of job does one get after graduating with a Fine Arts degree?

Bartending, naturally.

Bex's long, blonde hair shines in the neon pink lights behind the bar as she pours shots and pints of beer, all with a smile on her face while random men ogle her cleavage.

She bartended here through college. Worked as a paralegal for six months after graduating, then promptly returned when she realized that it was better money, better hours, and that she absolutely did not want to be a fucking paralegal.

Maybe I should have listened to my mother when she tried to talk me out of my major and into something more practical. She didn't really care what I did at school, though, as long as I found a potential husband. An absurd expectation, when factoring in I was painfully shy, awkward, and too self-conscious to even speak to a guy until this past year.

"Blueberry mojito," Bex yells over the loud music as she slides the drink across the bar to Macy on my right. "And a vodka-cran for you," she says, winking at me. "I made them both doubles, on the house."

My third drink. Exactly what I need—to be sloshed before a job interview.

"Relax!" Bex says. "Jupiter is in Taurus, and it's a new moon. A prosperous new beginning is practically guaranteed for you."

I nod and smile, even though my insides are performing some type of Cirque-du-Soleil act in my stomach, and take a big gulp of my drink.

"You'll be fine," Macy says with warm brown eyes. When she smiles her nose scrunches.

"Oh, Chad!" Bex yells, waving to a guy in a black button-up shirt who looks to be in his mid-forties. He's just emerged from the back of the bar and is now heading our way. She flashes him a big smile. "This is my sister. She applied for the open bartender position." She motions toward me. "Livvy, this is the owner, Chad."

Oh fuck.

I lean over the bar, narrowly avoiding knocking over my drink as I put out my hand. "I'm Olivia Bishop, nice to meet you."

I'm not sure he even hears me over the crowd around us.

He looks me up and down, scratching the salt-and-pepper stubble along his jaw. "If you vouch for her," he says to my sister, "she'll do. Tell Trish to get her on the books." He looks back at me. "You start training Monday. You're on your own next weekend." And then he saunters away.

That's it? On my own next weekend? I guess it's a real sink or swim situation.

I shouldn't use that analogy because I'm a terrible swimmer.

Bex shrieks. "Yay!" And then she's off pouring more drinks.

"See, what did I tell you?" Macy gives me a reassuring nudge with her elbow.

I guzzle my drink, slurping air through the straw when I hit ice.

Macy raises her eyebrows. "Goodness. Let me buy you another drink."

I start to say she doesn't need to do that—I'll get my own, but my throat is burning, and she's already flagging down Riley.

He replaces my empty glass with a new, pink vodka spritzer just as I start to really feel the buzz kicking in.

"Thank you," I say, my cheeks warming. "You didn't have to buy me a drink," I say to Macy.

"You deserve to celebrate a little," she says, waving it off.

She and Bex have already been so generous since I moved back to Seattle after graduation, letting me crash on their couch for free while I look for a job. Thank you doesn't seem like enough.

She and my sister have been best friends and roommates since their freshman year in the dorms. She's the level-headed yin to my sister's impulsive yang.

Macy's phone buzzes in her purse and she pulls it out. "Oh biscuits, it's Spencer, I need to take it." She smiles apologetically as she answers. "Hey, babe." Her smile quickly falls. She covers her other ear with her hand. "I'm sorry, it's loud in here I didn't hear your last call."

She looks at me and mouths "sorry."

"I told you I was going out with Bex and Li—" She's quiet, mouth downturned as she looks down at her lap. She nods as she listens to whatever he's saying on the other end. "Yeah, okay. I will." Another pause. "I've only had one drink, I'm not going to—" She stops abruptly then says, "Yes, you're right. Okay. Talk to you later."

She looks at her screen for a moment after the call is ended then back up to me, like she forgot I was here. Her expression back to a big smile. "Sorry about that. Where were we?" She reaches for her drink, blinking rapidly.

"Do you want to dance?" I ask. "I wouldn't mind dancing."

Macy scrunches up her face and shakes her head, but then she looks over my shoulder and shouts, "Wood!" waving someone over to us.

A blond guy in a white T-shirt walks up to us, looking like he just walked out of a damn J. Crew catalogue. He's got that muscular jock, all-American, boy-next-door thing going on with the blue eyes and tanned skin and a big smile with perfectly straight teeth. The only quirk to his ridiculously handsome face is his slightly lopsided smile.

"Mace, bro! I didn't know you were here!" He goes in for a one-armed hug. Macy dodges left and he quickly recovers, smoothly transitioning his outstretched arm up for a high five which she returns.

"Do you want to dance?" she calls out.

Wood's eyes light up, his smile widening so that dimples appear in his cheeks. Of course he has dimples, too. "Oh, heck yeah, girl. Let's go!"

"No, not with me. You know I don't dance. With her—" Macy gestures to me and he looks my direction for the first time realizing I'm here. "This is Bex's little sister, Livvy."

The smaller, lopsided smile is back on his lips as he takes me in. "Well, hi, Bex's little sister, Livvy. Nice to meet you."

He lifts a fist to me, and I bump his knuckles. Then he does a hand exploding thing and I try to copy it but end up doing a weird little jazz hand move instead.

"We'll work on that later." He winks at me then turns back to Macy. "You sure you don't want to join us? I've got two hands. I can totally handle both of you."

Macy rolls her eyes. "I'm sure you could, but I'm good. Keep her company and keep her safe and don't let any weirdos near her."

He shoots finger guns at her with a wink. "I'm your guy."

Wood and I head to the dance floor, his hand lightly on my mid-back as we weave through the crowd.

Under the flashing lights, we dance to the pulsing music, melting in with the other dancers, drunk and letting loose. He keeps a respectable distance from me, not automatically going for the rear grind like so many men do. He's making me laugh with every random, dumb dance move he can think of—the sprinkler, the shopping cart.

But the dance floor is crowded so we end up closer and closer. I'm still buzzing. The music is good. It's hot and sweat beads at my temples.

Then past Wood's shoulder, he's there. In the distance, leaning back against the wall, half in shadow. Noah. He's watching us. No—he's watching me.

His eyes are completely obscured, the hollows of his sockets black and empty. But I can feel his stare. The sensation sends a chill down my spine. A feeling of dread. Excitement. My skin heats. My pulse races.

Wood puts his hand on my hip.

Noah steps forward out of the shadows, brows furrowed, mouth set in a scowl. His eyes are, indeed, on me—and Wood's hand. If a glare could cut like daggers, his would cut to the bone. Cut to kill.

He looks like he wants to come over here, punch poor Wood in the face and take his place. I wish he would. Not the punching part, just the dancing part.

I keep dancing, trying to push the thought of Noah's hand on me out of my mind.

But the next time I glance in that direction, he's gone.

Wood taps my shoulder as he leans in, lips close to my ear. "Do you want to take a break? Maybe go grab another drink?"

"Sure."

He takes me by the hand and leads me through the throngs of people and toward the bar. Giggly and sweaty. I don't think anything of it until we squeeze up to the bar and then Noah is there. Tall, looming over me, black sleeves pushed up to his elbows revealing his tattoo-covered forearms, jaw clenched, eyes on Wood's and my entwined hands.

Wood drops my hand to clap Noah on the shoulder. "Sup, bro!"

Noah nods, his expression softening ever-so-slightly.

Are they friends?

Bex hands two bottles of beer to the guy on our right. She's put her long, blonde hair up and is almost out of breath when her bright eyes land on me.

"Oh, good," she says, "you found each other. Another drink?"

Noah glances between me and my sister, eyes darkening. "You two know each other?"

Bex laughs. "You remember my little sister, Livvy, right?"