Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Starlet

January - Present Day

The day I turned fourteen, I created a life plan. I knew what I wanted and saw the roadmap to get everything I desired. Step one was to graduate from college with a degree in education like my mother did. Step two was to get engaged to my boyfriend, John, by graduation. Step three, start my teaching career and land a fantastic job. Then to have kids by twenty-three always seemed right.

I knew what my life was supposed to look like, and as I entered the second semester of my junior year of college, I was sure I was on the straight and narrow path to my dreams coming true.

I prided myself on being levelheaded. If there were a word to describe me, it would be perfectionist. I always did the right thing because I had an irrational fear of failure. I wasn’t one to step out of my security box, as I knew all the angles of said box. I knew the ins and outs of my protected walls of stability. I had no problem staying on the right path—I liked my safety net.

That afternoon, I stood in front of the full-length mirror of my shared dorm room, smoothing my hands over my white A-line dress. Beside said mirror was the vision board I’d created with every item I planned to accomplish. Many people updated their vision boards yearly, but I was lucky enough to have the same precise vision since I was a teenager. I knew who I was. Therefore, I knew what I was becoming, and that afternoon was bringing me one step closer to my happily ever after.

It was my twenty-first birthday, and my boyfriend, John, was going to propose to me that evening.

John wasn’t very clever when it came to surprises. When he told me I should get my nails done for my birthday and wear a white dress, it became clear what was happening. Plus, when I was at his dorm the other night studying for our physics exam, I’d opened the top drawer in his desk to find a pen and saw the ring box.

The timing couldn’t have been better, seeing as I wanted to be engaged for at least a year before marriage. If things went according to plan, we could have our first child by age twenty-three—only one year older than my parents were when they had me.

To say my parents’ love story was my inspiration was an understatement. Even though my mom passed away a few years ago, Dad still talked about her as if she were the greatest gift to the world. He wasn’t wrong about that, either. My mother was a saint.

In almost every way possible, I’d been my mother’s daughter. Every decision I’d made since she passed away was created with the idea of what she’d think about me due to said choices. I received perfect grades because I knew that would make her proud. I never cursed because she never did. I went into education because she was one of the best educators I’d ever known. I wore red lipstick and high heels because those were her two staples. I also wore her jewelry. Every single day, a piece of her rested against my body.

My mother was a beautiful Italian woman with a Mediterranean skin tone and dirty-blond hair, the opposite of mine. My father was a handsome Black man with deep-brown skin and the kindest eyes known to humanity. I had black hair that used to match Dad’s when he had hair on top of his head, and my dark brown eyes resembled Mom’s. Dad always said my skin was a golden sun-kissed tone, the perfect blend of my parents’ DNA. My hair, though, was mostly wild in its natural state. My curls were a daily task I had to deal with that neither of my parents ever experienced. Mom had mastered learning how to care for my hair, though, and before she passed away, she taught me all her tips and tricks.

When I missed her, I straightened my hair so I’d see her looking back at me when I looked in the mirror. I straightened my hair a lot. She would’ve scolded me about doing it so much because she loved my natural curls, but all I ever wanted was to be just like her.

I saw her in my eyes as I finished getting ready to meet John. The thought of what would occur that night sent a wave of butterflies throughout my system.

I wish you were here, Mom.

I wished I had been able to call her after the engagement took place so she and I could’ve gone into wedding-planning mode. Missing her during the big moments felt extremely unfair.

Mom would’ve liked John. He was like me in many ways—structured, stable, and safe. He knew what he wanted from his life and where his road map led him.

I was supposed to meet John at his dorm room in an hour so we could head out to dinner, but the nervous flurries shooting through me made me head over an hour earlier than I was meant to arrive. My mind was in a tailspin as I wondered when he’d propose. Would it be before dinner or after? Would it be after I drank my first ever sip of alcohol—which would be a glass of prosecco—Mom’s favorite? Or would he wait until late at night and do it on our walk home from dinner, on the steps of Rander Hall, where we’d first met our first year of college during our History 101 class?

The excitement of the possibilities made the upcoming proposal that much more thrilling. I knew it was coming, but I didn’t know how.

As I reached John’s dorm room, I could hear music blasting in his room. It must’ve been his roommate, Kevin’s music blasting. John wasn’t one to listen to rap music even though I told him some of the most lyrical geniuses came from rap music—I got that trait from my father.

I turned the doorknob to walk inside as I always did, seeing how the boys never locked their room, and I froze in place as I stared forward at John on his bed completely naked, with a girl between his legs giving him a blow job.

His blue eyes widened as my chest tightened from the lack of air circulating through my lungs when he saw me. Panic began to build second by second as I stared at my boyfriend and the girl on her knees before him.

“Oh crap!” John shouted, shaking the girl from his bottom half.

“Sorry,” I blurted out. Dazed and confused, I quickly rushed out of the room, shutting the door behind me. Did I apologize for catching my boyfriend cheating? My eyes stung with emotions as I shook my head, utterly dumbfounded by what I’d walked into. I started down the hallway quickly because I felt on the verge of an emotional breakdown.

“Starlet! Starlet, wait!” he shouted behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder and saw John hurriedly stepping into the left leg of his sweatpants, still shirtless, racing toward me.

My eyes bugged out at the sight of him. The hallway had a few other guys walking through it, and their eyes all moved over to John’s and my situation.

“It’s not what it looked like!” John said, sending a wave of anger shooting through me. But I didn’t showcase it. The last thing I needed was for the strangers in the hallway to know that I caught my boyfriend getting a blow job from another girl. Many people have different fears in their lives, and public mortification was high on my list. The last thing I needed was to start sobbing in front of others after learning that John was a cheater.

I picked up my pace, shooting over to the elevator. I tapped the button repeatedly as if that would cause the elevator to appear magically. Unfortunately, it didn’t, and John caught up to me. He was out of breath and panting by the time he reached me, but to be fair, he was panting in bed with her. Her. Who was she? Did it matter?

No.

It didn’t.

It didn’t matter who the cheater was cheating with—all that mattered was that he was cheating.

The elevator opened, and I hopped inside as John followed me.

“Leave me alone,” I shot his way, hitting the first-floor button nonstop.

“Starlet, it wasn’t what it looked like,” he urged. My eyes widened with shock at his choice of words. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Okay, it was what it looked like. But you don’t understand. She and I were studying for a math exam at first and—”

“And let me guess, one plus one equals your penis in her mouth?” I cut in. “I bet you love those types of equations.” The tears at the base of my eyes began to fall as he looked at me with remorse. Did he feel bad that it happened or that he got caught?

“I’m sorry, Star,” he whispered, his eyes flooding with tears.

What a jerk! What kind of person started crying when he was the one who got caught in the act of being unfaithful? On my birthday of all days! I would’ve done what she did to him later on and probably done it better! As I said, I was a perfectionist.

“How could you?” I cried, feeling ridiculous that he was getting to witness my breakdown. “It’s my birthday, and you were going to propose to me!”

His eyes narrowed. “You knew I was going to propose to you tonight?”

“Of course.” I held my freshly painted red nails in the air. “I did my nails!”

He scratched at the back of his head. “I was still going to propose to you tonight. On paper, you and I are a great match, Starlet. My parents like you. They think you’re good for me, unlike Meredith. She’s wild and fun while you’re…you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, offended by his tone. He sounded as if he was mocking me.

“You know. A bit boring and predictable. In a good way, of course!” he remarked. “I like that I always know how you’re going to act. You never step out of your box. That’s very good. You’re like Cheerios—slightly basic but good for the heart. Meredith is like a sugary cereal that leads to diabetes or something. I mean, it’s good— it’s so good —but like…bad for you. But you’re Cheerios. I like Cheerios. My parents like them more, but I think I’d be a bigger fan with age. I’d probably like you so much in our thirties.”

Was he comparing women to cereal right now? My best friend, Whitney, would have a field day with that one.

The tears kept falling, and my heart kept breaking. I wished I could’ve shut off my emotions. John didn’t deserve them, yet they were on public display for him to witness. I bet his cocky ego loved to see how he was affecting me. Whitney once told me that certain low-quality men got off on seeing how they’d hurt a woman’s feelings. I didn’t think that would ever be John, but I had no real idea of who he had been at the end of the day.

“Who’s Meredith?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s the girl who was giving me…” His words faded off. He shrugged. “If it makes you feel better, I’d never date Meredith. She’s sort of a slut and gets around.”

My jaw dropped as I began to bat him with my purse repeatedly. I didn’t know if I was hitting him for Meredith or myself. Either way, I was going to pound-town on his arm.

“You’re scum!” I screamed, feeling disgusted by his words. The elevator doors opened as I cried and beat him with my purse. “You’re scum, John, scum! And I never want to see you again!” I shouted. As I turned away from him, a group of people stood in the lobby staring at me during my breakdown.

Public mortification.

Great.

Just great.

Happy birthday to me.

***

I was still going to propose to you tonight.

John said that as if it were a compliment, and I should’ve been thrilled by the concept of it.

If I had a time machine, I would’ve warned past Starlet about the risk of walking into her boyfriend’s dorm room when he didn’t know she was coming over.

Catching John cheating on my birthday wasn’t one of my resolutions for the new year. I knew he was a lousy gift giver, but this had to be the worst present ever.

You knew you were down bad when “Angel” by Sarah McLachlan was repeatedly blasting through your dorm room, and you had Bridget Jones’s Diary on standby to watch, followed by He’s Just Not That Into You .

He’s just not that into me!

There I was in my room, emotionally spent and not engaged. I was single as a Pringle in the bottom of the can.

Alone.

Lonely.

Pathetic.

Happy birthday, Starlet Evans.

If swimming in one’s feelings was an Olympic sport, call me Michael Phelps.

“Oh my goodness. Where is the sad, starving puppy asking for a money donation?” Whitney asked as she walked into our room.

There I was, in all my glory, sitting on my bed with mascara rolling down my cheeks in complete distress. Since I used it as a handkerchief, my white dress was smeared with my makeup.

“It’s me,” I sobbed. “I’m the sad, starving puppy needing your donations.”

She quickly shot over to me and wrapped me in her embrace, stepping firmly into her best friend role. “Nope, nope, nope. I refuse for this to be a thing. You can’t be sad on your birthday. That goes against all the rules of life. What happened?”

“John was getting a blowie from another girl when I went to his dorm room!”

She narrowed her eyes. “Seriously?”

“Yes. Why would I lie about that?”

“No, of course, you wouldn’t. I’m just a bit shocked, seeing how he’s John.”

“I know.” I nodded in agreement. “Because he’s so loyal normally.”

“No, I mean because he’s ugly. How did he find a girl to go down on him?”

“What?” I gasped. “He’s not ugly.”

“Oh come on, Starlet. He’s med-ugly. There’s no denying that. And you can’t defend him after he did that to you. On your birthday!”

“On my birthday!” I cried, tossing my hands up in the air. “He is med-ugly!”

“So med-ugly.”

“What’s med-ugly?” I dramatically sobbed.

She snickered at my theatrics. After living with me for the past three semesters of our college career, Whitney wasn’t too fazed by me.

“It’s a person who isn’t completely ugly, but medium ugly. Med-ugly.”

I huffed and puffed. “John is so med-ugly.”

“And you’re hot. Like hot-hot. Maybe not right now with the whole exorcist girl makeup look you have going on, but baby, you’re a knockout. You were doing charity work, sweetie. But the problem with a hot-hot dating a med-ugly is that most of the time, the med-ugly gets cocky thinking he’s hot because he got a hot-hot, you know?”

“You should teach a college course on this topic.”

“I would save millions of women from heartbreak. The worst thing in the world is being heartbroken over a med-ugly guy. You probably had to convince yourself to date him in the first place. If anything, you’re probably feeling embarrassed right now that out of all the penises in the world, it was that one who hurt you. He had no right to hurt you, looking like that.”

“Because I’m hot-hot?”

“Yeah. All women are hot-hot. Most men are med-ugly. But they are just cocky jerks who dated hot-hots, and now their egos are out of control! It’s alarming, and I blame the patriarchy. This is a tale as old as time. Do you know why Napoleon was such a dick? Because some hot-hot girl probably told him he wasn’t that short, and BOOM! The rest was history.”

I snickered a little, and Whitney’s eyes lit up.

“That’s what I like to hear, laughter,” she sang. She hurried over, hopped onto my bed, grabbed my phone, and shut off the song.

“Hey! That’s a great song,” I whined.

“No. Do you know what a good song is? Anything Lizzo right now. Or ‘Flowers’ by Miley Cyrus.”

“Maybe Sza?”

“No! No Sza right now. There’s a time and place for Sza, but it’s not during a breakup.”

Fair.

She grabbed a hair tie from my nightstand, then bundled my hair into a bun on my head. She then wiped away my tears with her thumbs. Cupping my face, she locked my brown eyes with her blues. “You know what we’re doing tonight?” she asked.

“Eating Ben & Jerry’s and going through old pictures of John and me?”

She gave me the “don’t make me smack you upside the head” look.

I sighed. “What are we doing?”

“We’re going to a frat party.” She wiggled her hips against my bed and clapped her hands in excitement. “We’re going to a frat party to celebrate your birthday!”

“I don’t go to parties.”

I was the opposite of the “go to parties” type of girl. My college life was wrapped around class, class, and class again. Then I’d sit in my dorm room and study for hours. I didn’t let anything distract me from my goals, particularly partying. Who had time for hangovers, drama, and dressing up while pursuing their dreams?

Oh gosh. John was right. I was Cheerios!

Whitney placed her hands against my shoulders and shook me. “Starlet.”

“Yes?”

“We’re going to this party. You are going to drink cheap, bad alcohol, and you are going to flirt with men who aren’t med-ugly. And I swear, if I see you with a med-ugly, I will shout MU at you.”

“What if the guy is hot?”

“Then I’ll tip my invisible hat your way, and you shall proceed cautiously. Hot men are assholes, too.”

“Remind me why we like guys again?”

“We were programmed in our youth to find the opposite appealing, which led to us gaslighting ourselves for years to come due to society’s drive to push the past social norms onto our plates to make our parents and grandparents feel as if they didn’t waste decades of their lives not living in their truth, which, in turn, led to them wanting us to remain in their lies.”

Whitney always had the most long-winded answers for the simplest questions.

I shrugged my shoulders. “And here I was thinking it was because we liked penises.”

“Oh yes.” She nodded in agreement. “We do like the penises. Now, get showered and get dressed. We’re going out in a few hours.”

***

I stood in the kitchen of a dimly lit fraternity house, feeling completely out of place. My hair was still slightly damp from my shower, and I wore a black tank top with tight black jeans. The jeans were Whitney’s, and she swore they’d make my butt look amazing. I’d never worn such tight jeans, but my behind did look pretty plump when I glanced in the mirror before we left.

Sadly enough, Whitney didn’t allow me to bring a novel to said party because I was on a mission to be social. She even stole my headphones so I couldn’t sneakily listen to my audiobooks. I was told to engage with others instead of being my regular hermit crab. Still, I didn’t know how to speak to those in that house. My hands kept rubbing up and down my arms as I took in my surroundings.

The number of alcohol bottles littering the tables and countertops of the kitchen amazed me. Along with those were a few kegs of beer and two massive coolers with what people were calling “magic punch.” I’d never seen so much booze in my life. Music blared through the space, creating a slight ring in my ears as people gathered around, laughing and chatting. A handful of men flirted in corners with women, and many make-out sessions were going on, too.

Whitney came back over and handed me a red Solo cup. “Here you go, drink this,” she urged. “It’s the magic punch.”

I sniffed the drink, and my nose scrunched up. “What exactly is magic punch?”

She shrugged as she took a big chug of hers. “That’s the magic part of it all—no one knows. But rumor has it that by the end of your second cup, you’ll be on your way to Hogwarts.”

“Splendid.” I semi-chuckled.

She held her cup in the air toward me. “A toast. To the birthday girl. May tonight be a night she’s never experienced, filled with fun, laughter, and hot-hot guys!”

“Hear, hear!” I cheered, tapping my cup with hers before I took a sip. The second I tasted it, I spit it out. “Oh my gosh, what is that? Rubbing alcohol?”

“Look at that. Your first sip of alcohol.” Whitney smiled widely and placed her hand over her heart. “My little girl is growing up.”

“Yeah, look at me. I’m living, and I’m vibing. I’m doing the thing,” I said, trying to act cooler than ever. “John was wrong when he called me Cheerios.”

She arched an eyebrow. “He called you Cheerios?”

“Yeah.” As I thought about his words, my eyes began to wash over with tears. “Because I’m boring and basic!”

“Oh my gosh, what a dick. Screw him. He’s a lying jerk who didn’t deserve you.”

“You’re right,” I said, leaning against the kitchen counter. As soon as I felt its stickiness, I leaned forward. I was already daydreaming about my steamy shower once I made it home. “This is the perfect time to prove John wrong. I’m not boring. I’m fun! I’m wild. I can be just like Meredith.”

“Who’s Meredith?”

“The blow job girl.”

“Oh. Screw her, too!” Whitney remarked. “The jerk.”

I frowned. “I don’t know if she’s a jerk. I don’t know if she knew he was in a relationship because sometimes guys lie, and the other girl might not have known she was a home-wrecker. And can a woman wreck a home, or was the home already wrecked before she arrived? Sigmund Freud once said—”

Whitney grimaced and placed a hand against my shoulders. “Sweetie, please don’t tell me you’re about to quote philosophers because that would be a buzzkill for me. You can’t be that kind of drunk tonight, okay?”

“What kind of drunk am I supposed to be?”

“I don’t know. The kind of drunk who dances on tables, gets wild in a good way, and makes out with a stranger. Just not Freud quoters.”

“Right. You know, I wasn’t even going to quote Freud. That was me being in a silly, goofy mood.”

“Star.”

“Yes?”

“You’re my best friend, my roommate, my ride or die, so believe me when I say I know you were about to quote Freud.”

Fair.

He was fascinating, though, and had great thoughts.

“I do think it’s nice that you aren’t shaming the girl, though. That’s very kind of you,” Whitney pointed out. “I’d hate both of them.”

“What can I say? I’m a girl’s girl.” I sighed, thinking about what had taken place not that long ago.

I still couldn’t get the image out of my head of walking into John’s room. Dad told me that John wasn’t the right one for me. His reason? He had terrible tattoos. My father owned one of Chicago’s most famous tattoo parlors and judged people based on their ink—maybe not all people, but John, nonetheless.

“I’m going to dance on tables and find someone to make out with,” I told Whitney, puffing my chest out. I wasn’t going to let that boy ruin my birthday. I’d just turned twenty-one, and the last thing I wanted was for John to mess up what was supposed to be a very exciting night for me.

“Good! I want to hear that because it’s your birthday, and we will not let little pecker John ruin it!”

“John’s pecker isn’t little.” I sighed.

“How many peckers have you seen before, live in action?”

“Only his.”

She shook her head. “Then trust me, John’s pecker is small.”

“How would you know?”

“That man oozes small dick energy. Remember when he picked a rose for you, called it a rosy with a baby voice, and placed it in your hair?” She gagged. “Instant ick detected. I played nice for years because I loved you, but he’s a total small dick dick . You’re better off.”

“I know.”

If only my heart could believe that, too.

“Anyway, to me!” I cheered.

“To you!” she celebrated. Whitney downed her drink and then smacked my butt. “That’s my girl.”

“I’m going to find a boy to make out with tonight.” I said the words, but I hardly believed them.

Whitney shook her head and locked her blue eyes with mine. “No, dear friend. You go out there and find a man to make out with. Not a boy, a man.”

“Yes,” I said, hopping back and forth like a boxer about to enter the ring for their first match. “But before I go, can I tell you the Freud quote?”

She smiled. “Of course.”

“ ‘Out of your vulnerabilities will come your strength.’ ” I smiled. “Freakin’ Freud, am I right?”

“The man, the myth, the legend,” she agreed, snickering as she shook her head. “Never change, my weird friend.”

I wasn’t sure I could even if I wanted to.

Whitney headed off to probably dance on a table, leaving me to dump out the cocktail in my red Solo cup. I hurried over to fill it with the fruit punch juice on the island. Maybe I wasn’t drinking that night, but I made it to a party. That had to count for something. As I turned around, I stumbled sideways after stepping into something sticky and losing my footing. Before I could crash and fall, a person instinctively reached out and wrapped his huge, calloused, firm hands around my upper arms, steadying my position. The heat from his hold and the roughness of his hands sizzled against my soft skin. The contrast of the warmth and roughness of his touch to my smooth skin heated my blood. My eyes inquiringly studied his hands on my arms before I tilted my head to take him in. As my eyes met him, cataloging every inch of his being, he swiftly released his hold on me, tucking his hands away.

I didn’t stop my observation because I couldn’t. My heart rate intensified as our eyes locked once more. He was the most attractive person I’d ever seen, with eyes packed with such sorrow. I wondered if he knew that his eyes looked like that— so painfully sad. Still, he was beautiful—the kind of beautiful I’d only seen in magazines.

The mysterious rock-hard man might’ve been one of the most striking individuals I’d ever seen in my twenty-one years of existence. He dressed like midnight and moved like stone. Everything seemed concentrated about him. Even though his touch was warm, his spirit felt ice cold. It took a few moments for me to realize I’d spilled my juice against his shirt, but once I noticed, I couldn’t stop staring. His damp black T-shirt hugged his chest tightly, showcasing his toned arms. He towered over me, easily at least six-foot-three, and had the kind of mouth that looked as if it never crafted smiles, only grimaces or frowns. His beard was perfectly trimmed, too, making the grimace even more pronounced.

His lips were full, though, and his skin was flawless. Either he had a fantastic skincare routine or he was one of those lucky jerks who never had a day of acne.

Then there were his eyes.

I’d never met a gaze that hypnotized me, yet I felt frozen in place.

Those eyes sent a flurry of sensations straight to the pit of my stomach, creating a pool of heat as they locked in on me. Green orbs with sparks of brown intertwined within them. Or maybe they were brown with dashes of green. It was hard to tell with my semi-tired mind and my semi-broken heart. All I knew was I liked looking into them, even if they seemed cold.

No, not cold.

Maybe dejected?

Dejected eyes had a way of appearing somewhat chilled.

His looked like they were hurting as much as my heart.

You noticed that in people when you were hurting yourself—how their pain mirrored your own.

“Crap, I’m so sorry,” I stuttered.

I placed the red Solo cup on the countertop and then, without thought, rubbed my hands up and down the strange man’s chest, trying to remove the spill from his clothing. He stayed motionless, as dark and foreboding as a gargoyle statue on a parapet, his eyes locked on me. His stare was penetrating yet oddly aloof. Like he could see my every thought but didn’t wish to.

I discovered his rock-hard abs as my fingertips caressed his chest. I wasn’t helping the situation, yet I couldn’t stop wiping him down for some reason. My hands weren’t a drying machine, yet I moved them across his body as if the quickness would result in dried fabric.

“If you’re going to rub me down, you might as well lower your touch.” His voice slipped through his mouth with such ease and certainty that I almost missed his inappropriate commentary.

My hands froze against his chest as I tilted my head to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, what?”

“If you’re gonna rub my chest, you might as well rub my cock, too.”

I pulled my hands back from him, completely flabbergasted. “Huh?”

“Did I stutter?” His voice was smooth like whiskey, with the same tingling sensation when his sound hit my ears. It was low, with bass, and stable without an ounce of doubt. I didn’t know voices could be that strong, that sure when they spoke. It wasn’t as if he was demanding power. He was powerful without even trying.

Definitely not a boy.

Definitely a man.

A hot-hot man.

“Uh, no. You didn’t stutter.”

“So?”

I raised an eyebrow. “So what?”

“Are you going to rub my cock, or will you move out of my way so I can get a beer?”

“Are you always this crude?”

“I’m not crude,” he said. “Just straight to the point.”

“And what is the point, exactly?”

“You rubbing my cock.”

“Stop saying cock.” I grimaced.

“Stop asking me my point, then,” he replied.

I placed my hands on my hips and shook my head in disbelief. “Is that what you guys do? Does that work for you? Just asking women to touch your penis?”

“My penis?” He huffed, and his mouth slightly turned up into a devilish smirk. “So formal, so proper,” he mocked.

“I could’ve said phallus.”

He leaned in slightly, his hot breath melting against my face. “You can suck my phallus if you’d like. Along with my testicles for shits and giggles.”

“What’s wrong with you men and blow jobs? Anything for a blow, I swear!”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m a giver, too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you can sit on my face.”

My jaw dropped as my eyes widened. “Oh my goodness!”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Sitting on faces makes you bashful, huh?”

“What? No. Psh, please. Not fazed at all.” I shifted around in my shoes. “I’m cool with that. I’m fine. I’m hip.” Freaking Cheerios, Star.

“Hip?” He almost laughed, but I wasn’t sure his voice could make such a noise. “How old are you again?”

“Oh, shut it. I don’t go out of my way to meet strangers who tell me I can sit on their faces.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope this year brings you more face sittings. That’s my New Year’s resolution for you. By all means, I’ll be your first chair.”

My cheeks heated. “Stop it.”

“What? I was offering you a seat. What do you need? A wedding proposal?” he joked.

That wouldn’t be so bad , I thought to myself.

“No offense—” I started.

“You’re about to be offensive—”

“I said no offense.”

“That’s what people say before they are about to be offensive. But continue.”

I shrugged. “You’re kind of an asshole.”

“My friends call me Dick.”

“What’s your actual name?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, flicking his thumb against the bridge of his nose. “Because by night’s end, you’ll be calling me a dick or riding my dick. Either way, it’s Dick to you.”

“Oh my gosh, are you always this explicit?”

“Depends. Are you always such a prude?”

“Do I look like a prude?”

His eyes moved up and down my figure several times before he met my stare again. The curve to his lips almost made me blush. He didn’t hate what he saw. Hips and all. “You look like a woman who should be sitting on my face.”

I laughed and shook my head. “I’m done with this conversation.”

He crossed his arms over his broad chest and leaned in. “I get it, but I’m just trying to help you with your New Year’s resolution of sitting on some faces.”

“That wasn’t my New Year’s resolution. That was yours for me.”

“What can I say? I want what’s best for you.”

I hated to admit it, but I was enjoying our back-and-forth banter. John never bantered with me. Ugh. John. Screw you, John—stupid boy.

I turned back to the man. “I think this is where we stop talking now.”

“Yes. Less talk, more sitting.”

I parted my mouth to speak, but my mind shut down as I stared at him.

He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes as he seemingly grew more captivated by me. He studied me as if I were the Mona Lisa —something unique yet foreign to his mind. He stared as if he were trying to collect clues to a mystery I hadn’t known I’d been a part of. Why was he studying me like that? And why did his eyes on me make me feel both panicky and protected all at once?

Walk away, Star.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

We stood there, neither of us speaking as the beat of the music pulsed around us. The chatter of the other partygoers buzzed in my eardrums as we stayed in place.

Why was he still looking at me?

And why couldn’t I look away?

I pushed out an awkward smile. “Okay, well, this was…odd. Okay. Yeah. Goodbye.” I started walking past him. My arm brushed against his, and once again, I was met with the same warmth of his touch as his hand landed against my forearm.

He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “Do you want to forget?”

Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. “Forget what?”

He moved in closer, his mouth landing near the edge of my earlobe. His hot breaths melted against my chilled skin as he whispered, “Everything.”

My stomach rumbled with nerves as I looked up to meet his green eyes with specks of brown once more. I saw it again—the flash of hurt in his eyes. It was short-lived, but it was there. Hidden behind secrets and stories he’d never shared with another. A part of me almost thought I made it up, but no. It was there. I swore it was there. I felt his sadness traveling through my system as he kept his hold on me. It was as if his intensity was exploding throughout my soul. Not only did I witness his darkness, but I felt it through his touch.

“Who hurt you?” I asked in reply.

His eyes flashed once more. There it was again—the sorrow. There was no way I’d mislabeled it.

His eyes hardened as he replied, “No one.”

“Liar.”

“Liar,” he agreed. “How about we lie together as we…lie together,” he offered. His hand was still on my forearm, and the heat it sent through my system flustered my mind. I liked his touch of warmth. I liked his blinks of pain. I liked how he reminded me of a roller coaster—terrifying yet thrilling and worth the price of admission.

I also liked that he smelled like oak trees and lemonade.

As I looked past him, my eyes locked with Whitney. She raised her eyebrows and nodded as she mouthed, “HH,” in my direction.

Yup. A hot-hot man.

At that moment, I knew I had two choices. I could’ve been the safe, boring Starlet who always did the right thing. The one who always made the brain-forward choices. Who always thought about the future and the consequences of life. Or I could be unhinged Starlet. The girl who shut off her brain and stepped into her wild side. The one who let go and let herself be free—the one who wanted to climb that man like a tree and take a proper seat. I didn’t want to be Cheerios anymore. I wanted to be the bottom of a box of Frosted Flakes where all the excellent stuff settled. Sugary, fun, and delicious.

My stare fell to his hand and then rose to meet those eyes again. “Okay,” I breathed out.

He arched an eyebrow. “Okay, what?”

“I need a chair.”

He gave me a devilish smile.

I liked that, too.

I flipped my hand around so I was the one now holding his wrist and began pulling him toward a room.