Prologue

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Freshman Year, Tiff University

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nikki thomas

If Alex tellsme to relax one more time, I'm going to punch him in the crotch. First college party is a big deal for me. My best friend has been sneaking out and slipping into parties at the Tiff frat houses for two years now. It's different for guys. Double standards somehow make it cool to be too young to be here when you have a dick. The one time I tried to come with Alex I was stamped with a huge sticker that read UNDERAGE. He, however, was allowed to play the part of twenty-one all night long.

No stickers for me this time, though. I might only be eighteen, but I'm a real Tiff student, so bent rules finally apply to me. And it's the fact all of this—the college experience—is real that has me nervous and fidgety.

"Don't you want to blend in? Or are you trying to make a name for yourself as the girl who can't stop pulling her skirt down, adjusting her shirt, touching her hair, or whatever other movement you're about to do?"

His phrasing catches me with my hand an inch away from my eyelashes. I was on my way to double check they were still there, which, yes, I relent . . . it's a little neurotic. Of course they're there. I'd see them fall off—being that they're glued atop my eyeballs and all that.

I swing my right arm out and smack Alex dead center in the chest.

"Ooof!" He grabs my wrist and clutches it as he hunches over from my blow.

"Cheap shot, Nik. Cheap. Shot."

I jerk my hand away and grimace.

"Cheap would have been lifting a knee." I bring my leg up but stop a few inches from his balls. His eyes flash wide and he flinches his body away, cupping himself.

"Whoa, okay. I'll lay off. It's just . . . you're going to be fine. Whatever you've built this whole party thing into in your head"—he taps the side of my skull, and I fight the urge to flinch or check whether he messed up my tightly pulled ponytail—"It's probably going to disappoint you. Because the version of college parties you see in the movies? That's BS, Nik. Mostly, these things are broken down by a bunch of people smoking pot by a pool that may or may not have water in it while a bunch of other people grind against each other in a living room furnished with hand-me-downs and Goodwill finds. And then there's the people who never come downstairs because they're too old for this shit, so they stay up in their rooms . . . probably smoking pot or grinding on someone."

My mouth goes flat and I blink at him. I know he's trying to make the college scene seem a lot like the high school parties we went to back home, but there's one major difference I can't get over. For all intents and purposes, we're all considered adults.

Granted, the whole drinking thing still has rules, but even that is different when a parent isn't waiting at home to smell your breath. The fact is, nobody is waiting at home, no curfew, no worried dad constantly checking the front window. And I know Alex has a condom in his wallet that he plans on using sometime tonight, which . . . I wish I didn't know about.

Strange shivers start at my neck and dart down my spine, so I cut that thought off before it takes over and simply nod a promise that I'll try to relax.

It's easier to play along. To let him play the too-familiar part of surrogate big brother. It's what he's always done. It's how he sees me, still. After all these years. This gap between us only widened the moment he grasped that high school diploma in his hands. Cute Alex gave way to something more mature. He started to look like a man and not the boy with noodle arms who I kept pitch count for in junior high and high school. He grew his hair a little longer. His jaw cut sharper and his forearms got these waves caused by tendons and burgeoning muscles. His shoulders bulked up, and his back got wider. And his thighs—good God, his thighs!

Alex Mendoza has always had the perfect smile framed by adorable dimples. That winning grin got our asses out of a lot of trouble when my abuela watched us after school. It got him a lot of girlfriends in high school, too. And over the years, it did quite a number on me. The number of times I practiced writing my first name with his last in notebooks is too embarrassing to ever let anyone, let alone Alex, see. Thank God we had a fireplace!I burned every one of those notes.

Alex was my first crush. At first, for all the reasons he was my best friend: he's kind, funny, playful, brave. Things really amped up, though, after we all went to the lake after graduation and he burst up through the water's surface all golden-skinned, ripped as hell, and smiling. Those dimples, paired with his dark, wet hair that he shook out then smoothed back with one hand, had me sunk. And I haven't been able to climb back to the surface since.

Three months of seeing my best friend with totally new eyes. And fantasizing about him in extremely unfriendly ways thanks to one very graphic dream the night after the lake. It's made hanging out together weird, but probably only for me. I don't think Alex underwent the same aha momentI did. I'm still waiting on my glow up. And I fear forcing it out with these fake eyelashes was a huge mistake. These things are miserable.

"Hi, freshmen! Welcome to Sigma!" Without warning, a blonde wearing five-inch heels with straps that wrap up her calf drops a fake floral lei over my head. The blossoms are bright yellow, and I'm about to request a trade for the pink one dangling from her palm when her attention instantly diverts to Alex.

"I'm Tiara. And you are going to come with me for drinks," she says, looping the pink lei over Alex's head and proceeding to lead him by it toward a keg propped at a table in what I guess is the dining room.

Tiara. As in royal headwear?

"I guess we're getting beer," Alex says through a chuckle over his shoulder. Damn him, even his na?ve shrug is cute.

"Hmm, I guess so."

I begrudgingly trail behind them, my heavy brow in full-sulk mode. It took four minutes for me to become a third wheel.

I follow Tinkerbell and my best friend to the keg, and when Alex hands me a full cup, I smirk at him over the rim before tipping it back and taking a big drink.

"What's that look for?" he says, playing coy.

I shake my head as I pull the cup from my lips, my puckered smile barely holding in my usual acerbic zinger.

"Nothing at all. Absolutely nothing. No look here. All in your imagination." I let the tight-lipped smile rest as I hold his gaze, and his eyes dim briefly before he rolls them and turns back to the keg to fill his own cup.

"I just wonder if there will be a coronation," I say, leaning in. He drops his chin to his chest and puffs out a short laugh. I can't see his eyes, but I know they're closed. He's also probably smiling because as snarky as I am, I'm also funny. Nobody makes him laugh like I do. Especially girls named Tiara.

"Perhaps a knighting ceremony. Ooooh! Will you give her a favor? Will there be jousting?" It's too late to stop the flood from my mouth. It's one of my flaws, but knowing it's a flaw is only half the battle. I have time to work on keeping it in check later. Besides, Tiara is talking to an older guy near the keg. Seems she's already cut Alex loose. Or maybe she simply added him to her collection.

Alex stands tall and stares at me over his cup as he takes a slow sip. I shrug, my non-verbal version of, "What?"

"You're a real dick sometimes, you know that?" he says.

Our banter has always been like this. Buddies. Bros. Familiar. Yet my cheeks are hot and I swear I can feel the prickling of tears in the corners of my eyes. His words have never burned in my chest before. But right now? I'm on fire.

"Sorry," I mutter, glancing away and turning my body along with my gaze. I blink rapidly, regretting the stupid eyelashes and wishing I wore my ripped-up jeans and Toxic Pillows tour shirt instead of this scooped-neck top that barely covers my midriff and chest at the same time.

I reach down with my free hand and tug my skirt lower a half-second before Alex's hand covers mine. My eyes dart up to his. He's standing close. It's loud in here, but I swear I can't hear a thing beyond the thumping of my heart. I'm not supposed to react this way. The thousands of times we've touched hands—hell, slept next to each other in a tent or on the living room floor, for that matter—touching shouldn't affect me like this.

He squeezes my fingers in his palm, and everything becomes . . . more.

"I didn't mean it." He blinks a few times, but his gaze sticks to mine. Somehow, the burning in my chest has changed. It's still hot, but it also vibrates with what feels like electricity. A touch of terror. But mostly electricity.

"I know." My voice is as close to a whisper as I can get it yet still be heard.

Alex shakes my hand softly then lets go, my fingers flexing with an instant hunger to be grasped again. My hand is cold. My neck is cold. I'm cold. Alex took one step back and his eyes left me, and that's all it took for me to feel his departure.

I have to keep swimming. If I don't, I'll drown like this.

"Come on," he says, nodding toward the open living room where two guys seem to be arguing over who gets to put the next song in the queue on the computer. Judging by the rancid noise nearly busting the speaker, my vote is for neither of them.

"You should probably introduce yourself," Alex says, nudging me toward the wannabe-DJs. I give him side eyes, and a playful smirk tickles the side of my mouth.

"Go on. You know you're dying to take over."

"I am," I laugh out softly before leaving my best friend to the already full sectional sofa filled with his future female fans. They gobble him up like piranhas the second he sinks into the corner seat.

Alex came to Tiff on a full ride to play baseball. He'll likely be one of the first freshmen to start at shortstop for Tiff since his dad did twenty-six years ago. He's bound for the big leagues, assuming he wants them. His dad didn't, which is something Alex has wrestled with for years. I think he blames himself—more specifically, his birth. I believe his dad chose a family life because it's what he wanted. Alex has always struggled with the idea that anything could be better than being in the game. It's where his heart beats strongest. Anyone watching him play can see it.

It"s beautiful.

And the coeds fighting over who sits next to him right now are going to have bona fide wars for his attention when fall ball starts up in a month.

"Vipers," I mutter to myself. I roll my shoulders and do my best to shake off the tinge of jealousy before introducing myself to the two guys working the computer.

"Hey, I'm Nikki. Mind if I . . ." I flash a crooked smile and lift a shoulder, and their gazes dart down to my cleavage.

"Right, so that's a yes. Excuse me." I step in front of the taller one with unkempt curly hair. He smells of cotton candy and spearmint, the new college cologne thanks to an abundance of vape stores near campus.

"Just keep it chill," his friend advises me, his breath somehow leaving condensation on my neck. Gross.

"I got it," I say, snarky Nikki making an appearance.

He reacts with the probably appropriate okay as he holds up his hands. Alex's words immediately echo in my mind.

You're a real dick sometimes.

I'm not sure that applies when guys like this breathe way too close and ogle my tits, but perhaps I snapped too soon.

"And no chick music," he adds, reaffirming my initial summation.

I don't even bother looking at him this time. But I do let his misogyny and general douchey-ness inspire the mix I build. Most people don't know how to use these music apps to their full capability, but you spend enough time hiding behind mixers and messing around loading your dad's old albums into digital and you pick up a thing or two. In about five minutes, I've built a steady RB beat that will carry on for the next thirty minutes, rotating through mixes made of Taylor Swift hits, Pink, and, because I really love the old-school stuff, Tina Turner.

"That dude enough for you?" I pat the chatty one on the chest and push past his curly-haired friend, wedging my way next to my best friend on the sofa.

"This is good," he says, pointing up to compliment the sound.

"I know." I shrug.

A soft laugh slips from his lips, private, just for me. I relish it for a second before my gaze expands to take in the crowd around him that seems to have doubled. All females. Well, almost all. One guy is sitting on the sofa arm. He's a little bulkier than Alex, with dirty blond hair, a mustache, and stubble. Clearly a teammate—he's dressed head to toe in Tiff baseball wear.

"Hey," I say, reaching across Alex's chest to introduce myself. The guy's eyes peel away from the girl sitting behind me and meet mine. His smile is nice. "I'm Nikki."

"Nice to meet you, Nikki. I'm Brayden. You . . . with Alex?" Brayden's finger swirls at the space between me and my friend.

"Ha! No, she's like my sister," Alex answers quickly.

I laugh along with him, maybe a little harder just to lay it on thick. Alex and me? Nah, that would be crazy! Right? My insides tighten the way they do on terrifying roller coasters at the state fair.

"Sorry, I just thought?—"

"Wait, so you two . . . you're not together?" the girl next to me asks, scooting in close and leaning over my lap, the tips of her long brown hair tickling the tops of my bare thighs.

"No, we are not together," I say matter-of-factly. I flick her hair away and she sits back again, huffing out a short laugh.

"Why is that funny?" Alex's tone isn't as irritated as mine. Probably because he doesn't find this irritating. Hurtful. Hopeless.

"You guys . . . I don't know, look like a couple," the girl says.

"Yeah, that's what I thought, too. Like, you guys have a vibe or whatever," Brayden adds. My gaze darts to him, and I can feel my mouth contort with confusion. I'm sure my expression looks like disgust, but it's far from that. It's more like panic that other people see the way I look at Alex and have construed it into a vibe. I'm a step away from being the sad former bestie with an unrequited crush.

"Pssshh, vibe." I glance at Alex, expecting the same amused expression I'm forcing on my face, but instead, he almost seems intrigued by the idea.

"Our moms are best friends. We basically grew up together," Alex explains, his eyes dancing over me with what feels like a sense of fondness. Maybe I simply want that to be the case. Years of play dates, slumber parties, field trips, getting grounded together, sneaking out while grounded. Our stories are intertwined. One.

"You never fooled around? Like, parents weren't home so you made out or anything like that?" the girl asks.

"Ha, no! Make out," I say, following it up with a snort-laugh like I'm eleven and embarrassed by kissing talk. My skin is hot, though, so I may be a little embarrassed. Mostly, I feel like everyone can see right through me all of a sudden.

"You should kiss now. I mean, to know for sure. Don't you think?" The girl, our instigator, sits up and tucks a leg under her body to prop herself up higher and collect more attention. My hands are pouring sweat. I rub them down my skirt then onto my bare thighs, letting my skin stick to itself.

"I don't think we need to test that," Alex laughs off.

"Yeah, I mean . . ." I look around without focusing on a single face staring back at me. I can't seem to find the off switch for my nervous laugh.

"It's college. Kissing isn't a big deal. I do it all the time," she says, promptly standing and walking over to Alex. Within a breath, she's on her knees and tugging the collar of this black T-shirt into her. I catch my friend's eyes as his gaze hits mine with a brief, panicked wideness about a half second before they close and the girl's lips are on his. Her hands snake up his jaw, the sharp tips of her ice blue nails scratching his skin as their heads shift and mouths open. The rage borne of my jealousy boils to a flash point, and my worst instincts take over.

"I mean, yeah. I can do that! Anyone can do that," I say, prompting her to pull away with a smirk just after her teeth pull at his bottom lip before parting.

Shit. I'm not sure I can kiss like that.

"Go on then. Assuming you're game for this?" She quirks a brow to Alex, who seems unable to form words. The stupid open-mouthed smile on his face and bashful laugh that bubbles from his chest is all we're going to get.

"I'm Alicia, by the way," she says, taking his hand and stepping to the side, presumably to give me her coveted position. On my knees in front of Alex.

"Alex," my friend manages to utter to his kissing buddy, his damn flirtatious dimples making an appearance. He looks drunk already. Half a beer in. Stupid male libido.

I place my hands on his knees as I kneel in front of him, drawing his attention to me. He licks his bottom lip, his smile shifting into a timid one. This is not how my first kiss with Alex was supposed to go. And though I only just met Alicia, I hate her for putting me in this spot. Mostly, I hate that I'm letting her. That I want to kiss Alex so much that I'm willing to use this ridiculous pretense simply to have the chance. That I'm watering down my feelings and possibly ruining any hope for a future us.

Or maybe . . . maybe he'll feel something, too.

I lick my lips as I adjust my balance on my knees and scoot in closer. Alex breathes out a short laugh, his lips puckering the way they do when he's holding in serious laughter. The sense that he finds this funny sits heavy in my chest.

"Well?" Alex tilts his head. His eyes lock on mine, pupils dilating as he relaxes and parts his lips. The smirk is still there, playing at the right side, inching upward to make the dimple.

I lean in and close my eyes, hoping he'll meet me halfway. I'm not sure whether everyone's holding their breath or I've lost my hearing. Either way, it's complete silence in our tiny bubble. Alex's hand cups my right cheek, fingertips gliding through my hairline as a tiny breath leaves my lips. The electricity touches my lips first, followed by the warm, soft fullness of his mouth against mine. Time may have slowed, but regardless, I firmly believe he isn't rushing this. I know I'm not. I lean in, boldly clutching the front of his shirt as he sucks in my bottom lip, his tongue grazing it. A soft whimper is trapped in my throat and I let it out, hoping it's both loud enough for Alex to hear and soft enough for our audience to not.

Alex's hand fades away from my skin, his fingertips lingering under my chin as his lips leave mine. I exhale softly and blink my eyes open in time to witness Alex doing the same. For a beat, our eyes lock, and I would swear on my soul—on his soul—that he felt something in our kiss. If we were alone, I'd challenge him and insist he prove otherwise if he didn't admit it. But we're not alone. And Alicia claps her hands together once with the force of a third-grade teacher attempting to wrangle students hyped on sugar. Her sharp interruption bursts our bubble, breaking our gaze.

"Well? How was it?" She slips into the space next to Alex, where I was sitting. My space.

"It was . . . I don't know . . ." Alex glances at me, and I can't tell whether he's waiting for me to answer or if he's searching for the right words. His brow draws in, almost as if he's searching, then his shoulders rise. "Weird, I guess?"

Weird. Not magical. Not even interesting. Hell, strange would have been better. But weird? He said weird.

"Huh. I guess you guys were right." Alicia sums up our experience without even asking me what I think. I don't dispute it, though, because my God, how embarrassing would that be? Instead, I chuckle through the utter despair settling into my chest cavity. I mutter, "Yeah, weird," the room no longer interested.

A few minutes pass and the conversation shifts. I make my way back to the computer where my playlist is still going strong and drown myself in a folder titled VINTAGE 70s. And after an hour of showing my tricks to the two hopeless music geeks who let me horn in on their space, I spot Alex linking hands with Alicia and heading up the stairs.