Memory-soaked—and I mean that exactly how you think I mean that.
Before I can make a sound, he reaches up—effortlessly—and pulls down the spray paint.He places it gently into my outstretched hand, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest, traitorous moment.
The metal can is freezing.
I am not.
I wrap my fingers around it and dip my chin, waiting—praying—for him to step back so I can breathe again.
He waits a beat.
One heartbeat too long.
Then he steps away.
And God help me, I feel cold now.
Cold and aware and utterly disbelieving as I slowly turn around.
Sixteen years.
Sixteen freaking years is a long time.
I’m not in high school anymore.I’m not the girl with big eyes and bigger dreams who thought music could save the world.
I’m a woman now.A baker.A guardian.A niece’s mother in all but name.
And suddenly, all I can think is—is he going to notice the twenty pounds I’ve gained?
That my hair is duller?
My eyes crinkle at the corners?
My thighs could crush a watermelon?
God, I hate that I feel this way.
I hate that he can still make me feel this way.
I force myself to look up.
To meet his gaze.
And what I find there nearly buckles my knees.
Nathan Thorn is staring at me with blue eyes I’ve seen in magazines, on billboards, in music videos—but not like this.
Not in years.
So full of heat.So full of something I can’t even let myself name.
“It’s good to see you, Ad,” he says.
Just like that.Soft.Too soft.
It’s the same way he used to say my name when it meant something.
Nathan Thorn—rockstar, heartbreaker, demigod—stands in front of me looking like the universe decided to be especially rude today.
