Page 9

I try to stand, but the room tilts violently, and I stumble backward, falling onto the couch.

Onto him.

I’m half in his lap, the solid wall of his chest against my back, his muscled thigh between my legs. He makes a growling sound that vibrates against my back. In my head, I’m screaming, but my body isn’t catching up. I’m paralyzed. To push myself up, I’d have to place my palm against his other thigh, and I can’t do that. His breathing changes, speeding up, hot exhalations that move the little hairs on the back of my neck. The tickling sensation is too much.

After a few deep breaths, I’m finally in control of my body. Slowly, I slide off him, onto the couch, and wait for him to shove me to the floor. To push me off violently, the way he does on the shinty field.

But he doesn’t.

He watches me with a serious expression. His dark brows pull together and his lips constrict into a tight pout, like he’s carefully considering something.

He leans over me, and I instinctively pull my head back, stopped only by the curved wood of the armrest. His face is close to mine now. My heart is racing, and I’m sure I look terrified.

And then his lips are on mine. My heart rate spikes from the shock.

It’s not a kiss, not really.

Just…contact.

His mouth stays pressed against mine, his lips closed and still.

Is this happening? Everything slows down, taking on an underwater quality. To my horror, my body relaxes, like I’m accepting him. I want to open for him and feel the soft inside of his mouth with my tongue. But I’m not doing anything to further embarrass myself. I’ll wait for him. He has to open first.

The bottle slips from my hand and clatters to the floor, the sound breaking the silence.

And then he calmly lifts his mouth from mine.

I move as fast as I can, like prey seizing the opportunity for escape, except that I can only stumble to my feet. My blood thumps thickly through my veins and I don’t look back. I don’t stop until I’m back in the main part of the house, surrounded by noise and people and light.

My hands are shaking. I can still feel the warm, smooth velvet of his lips. I don’t know what it means. Why did he do that? I can barely even think the word kissed because it doesn’t seem right. It doesn’t fit. But I can’t think of another word for it. And I can’t ignore how good it felt. How it brought everything inside me to life.

I find Liam in the crowd and grab his arm. “We need to go.”

“What?” he asks, smirking. “It’s not even midnight.”

“I don’t care,” I say. “We need to go. Now.”

He must see something in my face because he doesn’t argue.

We leave.

And the whole way back to St. Silas, I make a vow.

I’m never getting drunk again.

PRESENT: HAYWORTH UNIVERSITY, SEPTEMBER

3

CAMERON

Hayworth University is beautiful in the fall, the stately maples and their copper leaves color the campus. The admissions brochure is full of photos of students walking across an autumn dreamscape, backpacks slung over their shoulders, smiling like they’re living their best lives.

I’m not smiling as I walk across the quad toward class. I’m thinking about how much I hate this place. Not the campus itself. This is my second year here and the campus is fine. It’s Ivy League, prestigious, exactly what my parents planned for me.

It’s the fact that he’s here.

Today, I see him before he sees me.