Prologue
BLAKE
TWO YEARS AGO
WYATT GRAHAM IS STARING AT me.
It’s taken my brain and me several twists and turns to reach this conclusion.
At first, we were convinced he was staring at the oil painting above my head, the weird one depicting his father playing hockey on a rink of lava. Wyatt’s twin, Gigi, said it was a gift from their eccentric elderly neighbor, and their dad felt too guilty not hanging it up.
Next, we decided I must have something stuck in my teeth (I don’t. I checked), chocolate all over my face from dessert (I don’t, also checked), or a huge zit that sprang up after I applied my makeup before dinner (no zits, only obnoxious freckles).
Until finally, we came around to the idea that the hottest man to ever walk this earth is indeed staring at me.
Which raises the question—why?
Considering Wyatt views a romantic connection between us as tragically hysterical, I’m genuinely stumped as to why his eyes are following my every move tonight.
As we’ve done every year since I was born, we’re spending Christmas Eve with the Grahams in their beautiful house just outside Boston. It’s a tradition. My dad and the twins’ dad have been best friends since college and are obsessed with each other, so our families spend most holidays together.
The game room smells like cinnamon from the gingerbread cookies Gigi’s mom was baking all day and is lit only by the glow of the fixture over the pool table, which Gigi and Luke Ryder are currently circling. Wyatt leans against the wall, his hand curled lazily around a beer bottle. When he chuckles at the taunt Gigi tosses her husband’s way, a little shiver rolls up my spine. Even his laughter gives off a dangerous energy. Wyatt Graham has always been hazardous to my heart rate.
If I wasn’t still riding the buzz from the red wine my dad had been too distracted to cut off, I probably wouldn’t be openly ogling the guy. But it’s impossible not to stare at those veiled green eyes and perfectly chiseled features, just a hint of scruff on his strong jaw. His shirt is unbuttoned to reveal a tight white tank that emphasizes his broad chest, and when he rakes a hand through his messy brown hair, the silver ring on his middle finger catches the light. He wears a few other rings too, including a chunky black one that sort of looks like a wedding band. Hilarious, because Wyatt’s never getting married.Fuckboy till he dies, Gigi always says.
“Speaking of playing hard to get,” Gigi calls, glancing my way.
I snap out of my thoughts, clueless about their conversation and how it got to me.
“What?” I say.
“Diana told me Isaac asked you to be his girlfriend, and you told him you’d—” She snorts, air quoting me. “‘Take it under consideration.’”
Ryder gives a soft chuckle while Wyatt sips his beer and watches us.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “I still don’t know how I feel about it.”
“You’ve been dating for two months,” she reminds me, her gray eyes twinkling. “Seems like you should know by now if you like the guy.”
She’s not wrong. Ishouldknow. And it’s not that I don’t like Isaac. He’s been pursuing me hard all semester. Or, if you listen to my father, “love bombing” me. Isaac comes on strong, no doubt, but I don’t believe he’s a walking red flag the way my father has declared.
The problem is I’m not sure I can picture us long-term. Isaac is outgoing, goofy, and attention-seeking. I’m sarcastic, a lot more chill, and not looking for the spotlight. I’m good spending the whole day listening to a podcast or reading a book; he’s wired to constantly be doing something exciting. Not to mention he’s going to the NFL the moment he graduates from Briar University. I know how flashy the NFL lifestyle can be. The money, the women, the attention. That’s not me.
Still, the phraseopposites attractdidn’t materialize out of nowhere. Might be a cliché, sure, but it’s statistically proven that opposites do attract. Sometimes they complement each other. Other times, those relationships explode in a spectacular fashion.
I don’t know yet which kind of opposites Isaac and I are.
“You’re taking way too long to respond,” Gigi informs me, grinning. “This poor guy.”
“Is this the football player?” Ryder asks as he leans over the table to line up his shot.
“Yeah,” Gigi answers for me. “Isaac Grant. He was the resident campus man-whore before our Blakey brought him to his knees.” She’s the only one I let get away with calling meBlakey. Anyone else would get murdered.
“I do have that effect on men,” I say, more joking than serious,but I don’t miss the way Wyatt’s gaze rests on me again. Every time I glance his way, he’s already watching.
Why is he staring? My brain and I are now revisiting the idea that there’s broccoli jammed between my teeth. Except that would mean he has a broccoli kink, because the way he’s looking at me saysturn-onand notgross. Which is inconceivable to me given what happened on New Year’s Eve two years ago.
My mind suddenly flashes back to that god-awful night. The living nightmare I experienced, a tomato-faced, trembling sixteen-year-old, drunk on one glass of champagne, blurting out to Wyatt that I had a crush on him.
