Chapter One

Present

What makes you feel alive?

Condensation. For it reminds me that I still breathe.

I MEAN, I GUESS THIS is classified as talking to myself, but I'd always been this way.

The voice that always asked the elusive question seemed to have been implanted in my brain, and it wasn't me. It was a man's voice. No one familiar, I don't think. He always made me remember that I still breathed, which wasn't necessarily something I took for granted. This time, my answer floated in my head like a bubble that was about to burst. I pressed my nose to the mirror in the elevator of the glitzy skyscraper that I lived in and blew air from my mouth, creating a thick cloud of white mist. I pulled away, staring at my doings.

The fact that I was still breathing was a huge screw-you to my illness.

Cystic Fibrosis. I always tried to get all the details out of the way when someone asked. All people needed to know was that I was diagnosed with it at the age of three when my sister, Millie, licked my face and said I tasted "really salty." It was a red flag, so my parents had me checked. The results came back positive. It's a lung disease. Yes, it is treatable. No, there's no cure for it. Yes, it affects my life immensely. I'm constantly on pills, have three physiotherapy sessions a week, an indefinite amount of nebulizers, and I will probably die in the next fifteen years. No, I don't need your pity, so don't give me that look.

Still clad in my green scrubs, my hair a tangled mess, and my eyes glassy with lack of sleep, I inwardly prayed that the elevator would finally close and carry me to my apartment on the tenth floor. I wanted to undress, dip into a hot bath, and lie in bed, binge-watching Portlandia. And I wanted not to think about my ex-boyfriend, Darren.

Actually, I really wanted not to think about him.

Violent clicks of street-corner high heels echoed in my ears, seemingly out of nowhere, growing louder by the second. I twisted my head to the lobby and stifled a cough. The elevator's door had already started to slide shut, but a feminine hand with red-hot fingernails slipped through the crack at the very last second, pushing it open with a high-pitched laugh.

I frowned.

Not him again.

But sure enough, it was him. He barged into the elevator, reeking of alcohol that I suspected would intoxicate a mature elephant to the point of death, armed with two women of the Desperate Housewives variety. The first one was the genius who compromised her arm to catch the elevator—a chick with velvet-red Jessica Rabbit hair and cleavage that left nothing to the imagination, even if you were extremely resourceful. The second was a petite brunette with the roundest ass I've ever seen on a human being and a dress so short, you could probably perform a gynecological exam on her without having to remove any clothing.

Oh, and then there was Dean ‘Ruckus' Cole.

Tall—perfect size for a movie star—with moss-green eyes, almost radioactive in their sparkle and bottomless in their depth, disheveled, deep brown sex hair, and a body that would put Brock O'Hurn to shame. Sinfully sexy to the point you really had no choice but to look away and pray your underwear was thick enough to absorb your arousal. Seriously, the man was so outrageously hot, he was probably outlawed in ultra-religious countries. Luckily for me, I just so happened to know Mr. Cole was a world-class jerk, so I was mostly immune to his charm.

Mostly being the operative word here.

He was beautiful, but he was also a mess of epic proportions. You know those women who want the fucked-up, gorgeous, vulnerable guy they could fix and nurture? Dean Cole would be their wet dream. Because there definitely was something up with this guy. The notion that people in his immediate environment didn't see the flashing neon warnings—his drinking, excessive pot-smoking, and raging addiction to everything sinful and fun—saddened me. Yet, I recognized that Dean Cole wasn't my business. Besides, I had my own problems to deal with.

The HotHole hiccupped, punched the button to his penthouse five hundred times, and swayed in the small space the four of us shared. His eyes were feverish, and he wore a thin coat of sweat on his skin that smelled like pure brandy. A thick, rust-eaten wire twisted around my heart.

His smile didn't look happy.

"Baby LeBlanc." Dean's lazy tone slipped right into my lower belly, and I stilled. He grabbed me by the shoulder, spinning me in place so that I faced him. His companions eyed me like I was a pile of rotten eggs. I placed my palms on his iron-steel chest, pushing him away.

"Careful. You smell like Jack Daniel's just came in your mouth," I deadpanned. He threw his head back and laughed—this time sporting an honest smile—thoroughly enjoying our bizarre exchange.

"This girl." He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and squeezed me to his chest. He pointed at me with a hand that held onto the neck of a beer bottle, looking at the girls with a dazed grin. "Is fuck-hot and has brains and wit that would eclipse Winston Churchill in his finest hour," he gushed. They probably thought Winston Churchill was a Cartoon Network character. Dean turned to face me, his brows dropping low all of a sudden. "That puts her in a high risk to be a condescending bitch, but she isn't. She's also fucking kind. That's why she's a nurse. Hiding that fine ass under scrubs is a crime, LeBlanc."

"Sorry to disappoint, Officer Pothead, but I'm just volunteering. I'm actually a barista," I corrected, ironing my scrubs with my hand as I wormed out of his touch, offering a polite smile to the girls. I volunteered at a NICU three times a week, monitoring incubators and cleaning baby poop. I wasn't as artistically talented as Millie or as lucky as the HotHoles, but I had my passions—people and music—and I didn't think any less of my aspirations than what they did for a living. Dean had an MBA from Harvard and a New York Times subscription, but was he really better than me? Hell, no. I worked in a small coffee shop called The Black Hole between First Ave and Ave A. The money was bad, but the company good. I figured life was too short to do something I wasn't passionate about. Especially for me.

Jessica Rabbit rolled her eyes. The petite brunette hitched one bare shoulder and turned her back to us, messing with her phone. They thought I was a salty bitch. They were right. I literally was. But if we were being literal here, they were in for a rude awakening. I knew my neighbor and my sister's ex-boyfriend's ritual by heart. In the morning, he'll call them a taxi and won't even bother to pretend he saved their numbers.

In the morning, he'll act like they were nothing but a mess he had to clean. In the morning, he will be sober, hungover, and ungrateful.

Because he was a HotHole.

A privileged, unhinged, egomaniac from Todos Santos who thought he deserved everything and owed nothing.

Come on, elevator. What's taking you so long?

"LeBlanc," Dean barked this time, leaning against the silver wall and pulling a joint from behind his ear, fishing for his lighter in his tailored, dark jeans. The bottle was discarded and passed to one of the women. He wore a designer V-neck tee—the kind of lime green that made his eyes pop and skin look even more tan—an open black blazer and high-top sneakers. He made me want stupid things. Things I never wanted from anyone, much less from a man who dated my sister for eight months. So I bottled them up and tried to be mean to him. Dean was like Batman. He was strong enough to take it.

"Tomorrow. You. Me. Sunday Brunch. Say the word, and I'll be eating more than just food." He dipped his chin down to exhibit his emerald eyes, a sinister expression on his face. No question marks with this guy. Brat, the bitter thought crossed my mind. He is going to have a threesome in a few minutes, and he's standing here hitting on his ex-girlfriend's sister. They can hear everything, too. Why are they still here?

I ignored his less-than-stellar advance on me, warning him about something else entirely. "If you light that thing in the elevator," I pointed at his blunt, "I swear I will sneak into your apartment tonight and pour hot wax all over your groin."

Jessica Rabbit gasped. Petite Brunette shrieked. Well, they would be in the fire line if that happened.

"Geez, get some chill." The brunette waved a hand at me, ready to explode. "Like, creepy much?"

I paid no attention to the woman with the crayon makeup. Instead, I simply stared at the red numbers above the elevator's door, indicating that I was getting closer and closer to a bath, wine, and Portlandia.

"Answer me." Dean ignored the girls he was about to pork, returning his glazy eyes to mine. "Brunch?" Hiccup. "Or we can just skip the whole thing and fuck?"

Hopeless romantic, I know, but sadly, it was still a no for me.

In all honesty, I wasn't just turned off by how he tried to drag me into his bed, but also by his poor timing. It had been three weeks since Darren packed his things and moved out of the apartment we had shared for six months—we had been together for nine months, after a short stint I had with a greasy monkey, metal music enthusiast named Hal. Dean hadn't wasted any time trying to accommodate the casual rebound position. The fact that Dean was essentially my landlord and that I only paid him a hundred bucks a month for legal reasons didn't make it easier to reject him. He co-owned my apartment with Vicious, Jaime, and Trent, and while I knew he wouldn't kick me out—Vicious would never let him—I also knew I had to play nice with him.

But the notion that he could possibly give me every STD listed on WebMD did make it easier to turn him down. A lot easier, actually.

The red numbers crept up on the display.

Third.

Fourth.

Fifth.

Come on, come on, come on.

"No," I said flatly, when I realized he was still staring at me, waiting for my response.

"Why?" Another hiccup.

"Because you're not my friend, and I don't like you."

"And why is that?" he pushed, smirking.

Because you broke my heart and I pieced it back together all wonky and wrong.

"Because you're a hopeless manwhore." I gave him reason number two on my ‘Why I Hate Dean' list. That thing was long with a capital L.

Instead of feeling embarrassed or disheartened, Dean leaned in my direction again and pressed his index finger to my cheek with the hand that held the unlit blunt, his face cool and collected. He produced an eyelash he had picked from my face, his finger so close to my lips I saw the round pattern of its print swirling around my curly eyelash.

"Make a wish." His voice was satin wrapping around my neck, squeezing softly.

Closing my eyes, I bit my lower lip. Then opened them. Then blew the eyelash, watching it rock back and forth gradually, like a feather.

"Don't you want to know what I wished for?" My voice came out hoarse. He leaned into my body, his lips pressing against my cheek.

"Doesn't matter what you wished for," he slurred. "What matters is what you need. I have it, Rosie. And one day—we both know—I will give it to you. In spades."

I was coming back from a six-hour stint volunteering at a small children's hospital downtown, which I ran to right after finishing a full shift at the coffeehouse. I was tired, hungry, and my feet had blisters the size of my nose. I shouldn't have felt a thousand little fingerlings swimming in my chest, but I did. I did and I hated that I did.

"Brunch," he murmured into my face, his hot, stinking breath fanning my skin. "You've been living in my apartment for almost a year. It's time to reevaluate your rent. My place. Tomorrow morning. Ready when you are, but you better be there. Capiche?"

I gulped, averting my gaze, and when I looked up again, the elevator door slid open. I leapt forward, practically sprinting out, pouring myself into the hallway, and fishing my keys from my backpack.

Space. I needed it. All of it. Now.

His laughter still carried to my door all the way from the twentieth floor, his penthouse, where he ended his journey for the night with two gorgeous women.

After I bathed, poured myself some wine, and had a healthy, balanced dinner consisting of Cheetos and an orange-colored dip with an unknown origin I'd found in the back of my fridge, I parked my ass on my couch and started flipping channels. Even though I wanted to watch Portlandia, because it made me feel a little more sophisticated than my dinner had suggested, I somehow got sucked into watching What to Expect When You're Expecting.

Awful, and not just because it scored 22% on Rotten Tomatoes.

But because it made me think of Darren.

And thinking of Darren made me want to call and apologize to him once again.

I stared at the phone for long seconds, debating, mulling the scenario in my helplessly tired brain.

He'd pick up.

Try to tell me I made a terrible mistake.

That he doesn't care. He still wants me anyway.

Only he does. He cares a lot.

And I'm not good enough.

Not for someone like him.

Another thing I should mention: despite my sarcastic nature and motor mouth, I was all bark and no bite. I wasn't interested in ruining lives. I'd much rather save them. That was why I'd given up Darren.

Darren deserved a normal life, with a normal wife and an appropriate amount of kids to start a football team. He deserved long vacations and open-air activities outside the hospital walls. When he wasn't working there, that is. In short—he deserved more than I could ever give him.

I tucked myself into bed, pressing my back against the headboard as I gaped at my bedroom door, willing it to open, pushed by a god of a man who was going to keep me warm for the night.

Dean Cole.

Jesus, I hated him. Now, more than ever. He wanted to reevaluate my rent. He couldn't. I was dirt-poor as it was. Especially by Manhattan standards. Besides, he made in a day what I made in two years. Was it really necessary, or did he want to get back at me for not giving in to his advances?

Closing my eyes, I envisioned the world-class douchebag eating out Jessica Rabbit, who was straddling his chiseled, perfect face, while Petite Brunette sucked him off. Appalled, I snaked a hand into my already-damp panties, the crease between my eyebrows deepening, and coughed softly.

Dean Cole was probably the filthy kind. The type to flip Jessica Rabbit over a second after she came and pound her from behind, pulling at her scarlet hair.

I pushed my forefinger inside my sex, then the middle one, looking for that spot.

Disgusted, I imagined Petite Brunette being grabbed by the neck and thrown into position on her back when he was done with JR. Now he was screwing her, too, pinching her nipples. Hard.

I arched my back, revolted.

I moaned, repelled.

Then I came hard on my fingers, repulsed.

I hated everything about Dean Cole.

Everything…but him.