Chapter 1

ONE

T he first time I saw Evan Shaw, he was walking with his preppy, rich friends, dressed in designer clothes from head to toe as he strolled toward the sprawling buildings that made up the university my sister had joined.

Pine Valley College.

I was dropping her off for her first day, and his laughter pierced my music-filled car. He didn't see me. Why would he?

It immediately pissed me off. Actually, all these pretty fuckers here annoy me. They dripped with wealth and privilege, and I hated it, hated that my sister was going there, but I knew it was the best place for her.

The second time was when I picked her up from a party. He had a guy pressed against a wall on the side of the house, his tongue deep in his throat, and his hand shoved down the guy's jeans. They weren't even trying to hide what they were doing.

The third time is right now, at this low-rent diner where I'm eating dinner . . . where I'd thought I was safe.

I was wrong.

I don't know what the fuck a rich boy like him is doing in a place like this, but it pisses me off. Can't I have any peace from the loaded motherfuckers who go to that uptight school? The only reason I moved here was to be closer to my sister so I could keep her safe, yet I'm always surrounded by them.

They make me so angry, and Evan? He's the worst.

A bright smile curves his plump lips, showcasing perfect white teeth I bet his mom and dad paid a fortune for. His skin is golden and perfect—no doubt it's been stretched and perfected by the best doctors in the world—and his blond hair, almost the color of ice, is perfectly styled, with two long pieces hanging before his ears, the rest slicked back, falling just above his wide shoulders. He's flawlessly clean in an oversized button-down and slacks, the latest designer bag thrown carelessly over his shoulder.

Basically, he's my opposite.

Fisting my oil-stained hands, I focus on my food and try not to look at him. I tell myself to breathe through the hatred and not taste the woodsy scent that seems to follow him. I need to keep my head down and remember why I'm here—for her. Everything is for her, so I can give her a better life than I ever had.

"Hey, is this seat taken?"

Of fucking course fate couldn't be that kind.

I can actually feel him next to me.

He blocks out the sun, his expensive cologne wrapping around me. "Excuse me?" he repeats, his voice deep and smooth. I hate that I glance at him. I hate that my eyes seek him out even more.

It's all a front.

Rich boys like him aren't nice, not to dirt like me.

"It's taken," I grind out, my voice as deep as thunder.

His eyes flare as he blinks, glancing at the empty seat and then at my large frame perched on the barstool next to it. He arches a brow as if to call me a liar and drops into it anyway.

"I said it's taken."

"Oops." He shrugs, pulling a sticky menu closer with a happy smile.

"Leave now," I order. Usually, that's enough to send anyone running, not to mention the glare I give him. They normally shit themselves or cry .

He ignores me, scanning the menu as my nostrils flare.

"You don't belong here."

"Says who?" he asks, tilting his head to meet my dark gaze. His hands clench the menu, though, giving him away, his biceps straining the material of the shirt. He's built like a rich boy and not with the type of muscles you get from showing off, but from actually working out.

It's probably all for the look of it, not actually useful.

"Me," I respond.

"Ah, too bad, I kind of like it here. It has a nice view." His eyes rove across me, and I slam my mug down on the counter, ignoring the liquid that splashes out. He grins, his eyes cutting back to mine. "What can I say? I like it dirty."

"Get out now," I warn, grinding my jaw. I'm so fucking angry. How dare he look at me like that and mess with me? Does this stupid prick have no sense of self- preservation?

"What the fuck is your problem?" he asks, his eyes flashing as he glares at me. I bet he's never been in a fight in his life, not to mention ever stood up to someone like me.

"You're my problem, rich boy," I snap as I stand, draining my cup. I throw extra bills down and smile tightly at Sandra, the middle-aged waitress working a double with twins at home.

"See you next time, Alek," she calls.

I storm out of the diner, but I hear his soft, expensive shoes tap on the sidewalk behind me and I whirl.

"Alek," he calls. "That's your name?"

"What the fuck do you want, rich boy?" I seethe, stepping closer and towering over him. He might have muscle and be tall for his rich boy school, but I'm much bigger, and we both know it.

"You dropped this." He hands over my worn wallet held together by tape, his eyes scanning me contemptuously before he turns and walks back inside.

He judged and dismissed me like they all do.

I fucking hate rich pricks.