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There are only a scattering of patrons and Bree keeps one eye on them while we work, her blond braids bobbing.

Bree has my back on scheduling, and if Dad called The Junction looking for me, she promised to let me know so I can call him back.

I finish pouring the coffees, wincing as my right hand stings. I turn over my palm to the red burns that have faded but not disappeared.

“Shit. What happened?” Bree demands.

I glance around to ensure no one’s in earshot, then lower my voice. “Jameson Ashford hit me with his Porsche.”

“You met Jameson Ashford!” She blinks. “I mean. Please tell me you’re okay.”

“Fine.” I laugh, and it eases an ache in my chest. I didn’t even realize how much I needed the relief before now.

Bree inspects me, satisfied I’m not irreparably damaged. “Is he as gorgeous as he looks online?”

My mind’s already conjuring an image of him, tall and dark and welcoming as a storm cloud. One with a square jaw and accusing eyes, and sure, the kind of body it was impossible not to appreciate when I was forced onto the Ducati.

“He’s an asshole.”

“Not what I asked.”

My phone buzzes with a text and I glance at it.

“Is that the prick who ran you over?” Bree’s knuckles flex.

“No. It’s”—Theo’s name flashes up at me, and my heart speeds up—“his brother.”

I reread our message chain, right up to the newest one.

Theo: Thanks for coming Friday night.

Shay: I should have brought a birthday present.

Theo: Your presence was enough of a gift.

Theo: Actually, scratch that. I want to see you again. That’ll be my gift

Bree gasps. “Theo Ashford has your phone number.”

Without waiting for an answer, she pulls out her phone, typing furiously before turning the screen. A social media account that can only be described as a shrine to Theo Ashford boasts dozens of photos.

His golden hair and that eighth-wonder-of-the-world grin. His lean, strong body and easy charm. That unbuttoned shirt and just-fucked look in nearly every photo.

“This Theo Ashford? Sexiest man under twenty-five Theo Ashford?”

“Didn’t realize you were a stalker.” The way her eyes are shining, I’m only half joking, but she has a point.

“No, I just don’t live under a rock.” Bree shakes her head, bewildered. “You’ve slept with two guys in your life. Your idea of a date in high school was talking some boy through repairing his car in the movie theater parking lot. Now one Ashford hits you with his car and you’re practically dating the other. Who are you?”

“I’m nobody,” I insist. “Same as last week.”

But that’s not entirely true. I feel different—more alive. As if for the past year or more, I was going through the motions until I was shaken conscious.

I start toward the door but pivot as I have a thought.

“On Friday, I saw pictures I’ve never seen before of Dad with Luca Ashford.”

“So?”