1
**4 Years Ago**
“Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready?”
The crowd erupts like it’s the damn Super Bowl, whooping and hollering loud enough to rattle the neon beer signs on the walls. I glance at my friend, Amber, though tonight she’s more of the devil on my shoulder. She’s grinning like this is the best night of her life.
“Are you sure about this?” I shout over the roar.
“Hell yeah!” she yells back and then, without a second thought, lifts her top and flashes the crowd.
They lose their collective minds.
Me? I’m re-evaluating every life decision that’s led me to this honkytonk bar the night before our finals. There are a million things I should be doing, but, no, I let her talk me into coming out tonight.
The music kicks in. Something with a thumping bass and a wicked twang. And a line of women steps forward. Buckets of ice-cold water are dumped over them, soaking their clothes and sending squeals into the air. What throws me most isn’tthe water. It’s the sheer range of women standing beside me. Tall, short, skinny, curvy. Some are barely twenty, others with laugh lines and mom energy. It’s like a fever dream of feminine bravery, and for a second, I almost feel empowered. Until I look into the crowd and see Professor Wallace. Literature department. Lover of Victorian novels. And my secret crush.
My stomach hits my shoes. Nope. Absolutely not. I pivot, ready to bolt off the stage, but two bouncers step in like they’re guarding the crown jewels.
“Excuse me!” I squeak, trying to push past.
Too late.
A freezing torrent crashes over my head, stealing the air from my lungs. I spin, and the crowd roars like I’ve just scored the winning touchdown. It takes a beat to realize why. I glance down and die a little inside.
My soaked white T-shirt clings like a second skin to my equally white bra, which at this point might as well be invisible. Every dark line, every curve, every hard-peak is on full display under the honkytonk lights.
Cue the horror.
And just when I think it can’t get worse, it does. Like some kind of twisted slow-motion dream, my eyes lock on Professor Wallace’s. His mouth parts slightly. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
Amber steps in front of me, laughing like we didn’t just wreck my entire GPA. “Damn. Didn’t win. Better luck next time.”
She tosses me a towel, completely unfazed, and we hustle off the stage toward a table where a few of our friends are nursing drinks and bad decisions.
“I’m gonna grab us more shots,” Amber says, vanishing into the crowd.
I start drying off, cheeks still burning. The towel scratches at my pride more than my skin. I’m just about to sit whensomething prickles along the back of my neck. Heat. Awareness. Like someone just struck a match behind me.
I glance over my shoulder.
And freeze.
The hottest man I’ve ever seen in my life is sitting across the bar like it’s his. One arm slung over the back of a chair, the other resting casually on a thick thigh, fingers playing idly like he's got all the time in the world. And damn if he doesn’t look like sin dipped in sunlight.
His white tank hugs a chest that wasn’t built in a gym, but out of hard work and trouble. His light-washed jeans cling in all the ways that make my brain short circuit. When our eyes meet, he doesn’t smile. Hesmirks.Slow. Crooked. Dangerous. Like a dare wrapped in whiskey.
I should look away.
I don’t.
Because something about him whispers that if I blink, I’ll miss the moment everything changes.
He stands, eyes still locked on mine and moves through the crowd like gravity parts for him. Effortless. Confident. The kind of walk that belongs in slow motion with a gritty soundtrack behind it. By the time he stops in front of me, the entire room feels off kilter like the air pressure just dropped.
“Hi,” he says, voice low and smooth as aged whiskey. “I’m Liam.”
It takes a beat for my brain to catch up. “Olive.”
