I’m in a narrow space, like the restrooms at the café where Megan and Jesse work. It’s warm inside. I place my hands on the walls, and they’re pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Embers,” a low voice whispers, and then he’s there, right behind me, his large frame covering me, pushing me into the wall. I can smell him—musk and cinnamon and salt—and feel him, feel how aroused he is pressed in the small of my back. His warm breath tickles my neck as he starts moving, sliding over my backside, a slow roll that feels like it’s been going on forever. His cock pushes into me, and I gasp, bending over more.

We’re naked. The realization is fuzzy, as if I should have noticed from the start. He’s inside me, and he feels so good, filling me up, stroking my center, building up pressure.

Then his hand snakes around my hips, finds my folds and slips between them, pressing, and—

A moan fills my ears, and I twist in my sheets, hot and out of breath. Who’s moaning? And where is Jesse?

The room is empty, light filtering through the window slats. My whole body is throbbing with pleasure, and the dream flashes through my mind like a movie. I still feel his hands on me, ghostly, their weight slowly fading.

Oh God. Oh no.

The one moaning was me. Moaning and writhing on the bed like a possessed woman. I just had a wet dream about Jesse.

Yeah, my name is Amber, and I want a boy who fucks anything that moves.

Shoot me now.

* * *

I’m walking down the street, returning to my apartment, a shopping bag in one hand and my cell in the other, talking to my mom, my mind a thousand miles away.

“How are you holding up, Ams?” Her voice sounds funny over the phone, small and squeaky.

“Fine, how about you?”

“We’re not the ones who moved to another town,” she singsongs, and I wince just a little. “Are you all settled in? How’s your roommate? What’s her name, Kiera, Kate?”

“Kayla.” I drew a deep breath as I cross the street. “I’m really fine, Mom, no need to worry.”

“How can I not worry?” Her voice rises an octave, and I wince again. “You’re my baby.”

Which is the reason I left and came back here… To stand on my own two feet. Now I only need to come through with my decision to beat the past.

“Your baby is all grown up now, Mom, so stop worrying so much. Was there anything else you needed to tell me?”

A pause at the other end of the line. I can imagine my mom’s face tighten, her lips flatten, and a prickle of unease touches my spine. I hate upsetting her. I hate upsetting anyone.

But before I open my mouth to apologize, she says, “I hope you’re going out more, meeting more people, honey. Be more sociable and self-assured. It’s the only way to be happy in this life.”

I say nothing as I approach the building entrance and fumble in my purse for my keys. She has told me this a thousand times, Dad, too. They both believe I need to change so that I can beat my fears.

Hasn’t worked out well so far. I’ve tried. I’ve pushed myself to go out more, to talk more, to be more confident. Feels like I’m wearing someone else’s ill-fitting shoes and trying to tap-dance across a taut wire.

But I’ve never tap-danced in my life, nor will I ever. Which is exactly the point. Or sort of. Apparently I should learn.

Crappy metaphors, I know. At least my mom has stopped talking. And here’s my cue to reply.

“Okay,” I say. Like always. “I’ll try.”

“That’s my baby,” Mom croons, and yeah, this is getting downright painful. “You can do anything you put your mind into.”

Except magically transform into a better me, obviously.

“Have you decided what to do about your studies yet? Will you transfer to the university there?”

Another sore topic with my parents. Why would I decide to leave my studies and go to the town where I was born to decide what to do with my life? The town where I was bullied?

My answer is: why not? Better figure what I want to do for a living now, rather than five years and a college degree down the line, right? And why not in Madison, where my life sort of stopped? Doesn’t it make sense to find the pause button and hit play again?

Seemingly not. Makes me wonder if I’m crazy, and not for the first time. But despite everything, putting distance between myself and the family nest makes me feel free from my parents’ expectations. From the obligation of turning into a heroine who saves her own life by overcoming her shyness.

Don’t get me wrong: my parents adore me. They took me away from here to save my sanity, and they succeeded. Sort of. They plucked me out of the school where bullying had torn my confidence to shreds and reduced my happiness to cinders, and transplanted me into a new world where I was able to move on. I owe them everything.

So I tell my mom I love her, which is the truth, tell her I have to go, which isn’t, and disconnect the call. I stare blindly at the screen of my cell before dropping it back into my purse.

How can I become who they want me to be? How can I change if I don’t find myself first?

I prepare to open the door, when I notice a guy eyeballing me from across the street. There’s something familiar about him, something that chills the blood in my veins.

Nick? The guy who bullied me at school? Who cornered me after class and took my bag, emptied it in the trash. Who made sure to pass by me at the cafeteria every day and “accidentally” push me so I’d spill my food and drink. Who made sure nobody talked to me—except Ev because she didn’t take shit and ignored Nick and his asshole buddies.

No, no way. I’m imagining things. Nick can’t be here. Don’t be paranoid.

But as I unlock the door and hurry inside, I can’t deny the relief that washes through me. Once the heavy door is shut behind me, I hurry up the stairs to the apartment, resisting the urge to look over my shoulder.

I’m fine. This is just stress. Everything’s fine.

I have to believe it.

* * *

Summer is definitely here. It’s warm inside the apartment, and I’ve stripped down to a pair of jean cutoffs and a loose floral blouse that’s a bit too large and hangs off my shoulders.

It’s late afternoon and Kayla is sipping at some jasmine green tea—or marijuana tea? The scent is potent, that’s for sure—while I’m trying to decide what to make with the new beads and wire I bought. One thing is certain: I need to create art and lose myself.

I don’t do words. Never been good at them. Dyslexic, I had to fight them, fight language, every step of the way.

But I can do art. Tangible, beautiful things I can move and shape. Poems without words. Stories without lines.

My hands work on their own, pulling beads and coiled wire from one of my art boxes, my mind on my conversation with my mom and my studies.

Give up on architecture and take up art? I want to live off this, from this art I’m making, these necklaces and bracelets and rings. Am I being foolish? Naïve? Am I retreating from the world even more when I promised to conquer it?

Stick a flag in it, too, a voice at the back of my mind chirps, and I giggle. Amber the Conqueror. Yeah, that’s me alright. It shouldn’t be so funny.

In fact, it’s not.

Kayla shoots me a look, one brow raised. “Do share your thoughts,” she mutters.

“Better not,” I say and put my supplies back into their box.

I don’t really know my thoughts. Don’t know my path, or what I’m doing here. Maybe this was a mistake. I could still go back to Chicago, work hard to catch up on my classes for Fall semester.

I think again about the guy across the street who was staring at me. The guy I thought was Nick, back from my school days.

So you’d just leave again? Not fight this, like you promised yourself? You’d let yourself imagine bullies on every street corner and in every city you go?

“Earth to Amber.” Kayla waves a hand in front of my face. “I said, you’re going to the wedding, right?”

She’s looking at me expectantly, and I have no clue what she’s talking about.

“What wedding?”

“Asher and Audrey’s wedding. Didn’t you see the invitation stuck to your bedroom door?”

I’d seen an envelope stuck to my door when I moved in, but have no clue what I did with it. Probably tore it off and threw it away. “Shit. Shit, shit.”

“Hey, don’t get so excited. You’ll burst something.”

More frigging parties. Damn.

“Give me your hand,” Kayla commands.

I blink at her. Talk about randomness. “What?”

“Hand.” She scoots closer to me on the couch and grabs my left hand. “You seem lost. Let me have a look.”

I stare at her blond-streaked head, which is bent over my upturned hand. Why does it feel as if I’ve just landed in an alternate universe?

“Um, Kayla…”

“A bit of palmistry never hath any harm or foul caused.”

“Is that so?”

“That is so. Now look at your heart line. Look at how short it is. For shame, girl.”

I pull my hand back, but she tsks and grips it more tightly. “We aren’t done yet. Look how the heart line touches the life line. See this?”

I bend to have a look, curious in spite of myself. “What does it mean?”

“That your heart is fragile. Easily broken.”

I freeze, and Kayla takes my silence and stillness as permission to continue this charade.

“The heart line is also broken here and there. There’s some emotional trauma here. And this little bubble on the line here? That’s depression.”

“Crap.” I jerk my hand away and lurch to my feet. “This is the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Is it?” Kayla peers at me under her bleached fringe. “Then why are you shaking?”

“I’m not—” I look away from her, trying to recover my composure. “Don’t let people get under your skin,” I can almost hear the school psychologist’s voice in my memory. “It’s okay to show some vulnerability. Not everyone will betray you. In fact most people won’t.”

Yeah, right.

“You’re not what?” she asks, and the need to get away increases.

“Not shaking.”

How can I conquer when I can’t even roll over a small bump like this and keep talking? The tension rises. The air in my chest compresses. My legs shake with the need to run.

Then the doorbell rings, and I spin around, my heart pounding.

Christ.

Clearing the haze of panic from my thoughts, I stalk to the door and check through the peephole.

Clear blue-green eyes stare back at me, set in a handsome tanned face.

Jesse.

“Who is it?” Kayla asks, coming up behind me.

“Nobody,” I reply.

The bell rings again. Those stunning eyes shift up, then down, uncertain, and that long, soft mouth tightens. That flash of insecurity flips a switch inside my chest, and without warning, I grab the handle and pull the door open.

For a fleeting moment, it’s almost like opening the door to myself.

Then Jesse looks up and his face transforms. The uncertainty falls away like dried mud and a smirk lifts the corners of his generous mouth.

Whoa. I stumble back, hot and cold running through my body, and only have the time to think what a bad idea this was, before he walks inside.

* * *

“Howdy, stranger,” Kayla drawls from somewhere behind me, easy and relaxed-sounding, and I wonder how she does it.

“Hey there,” Jesse says, hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets, eyes sparkling. “How’re things?”

Standing there, talking as if they see each other every day. Yeah, I’ve often wondered how others do it. It’s just one of those things I can’t wrap my head around.

Seeing as they are fine talking to each other, I’m probably not going to be missed, so I turn to go to my room, to finally get that much-needed moment and space.

“Embers.” His deep voice catches me like a fish on a hook.

I stop, a shiver dancing down my spine. “Told you, that’s not my name.”

“But you like it.”

I turn around to glare at him. “No, I don’t.”

“Um, guys.” Kayla lifts her hands and sighs. “Sorry to interrupt the fun, but I have to go. I’m meeting with some friends and I’m late.”

I watch her skip past Jesse to get her purse and light coat, and groan inwardly.

“Traitor,” I hiss between my teeth. She didn’t seem to be in such a hurry to go two minutes ago.

Jesse’s brows climb up, then he shrugs and fixes his gaze on me. “Then I guess it’s just you and me, Embers.”

Everything in my body tightens pleasurably. Okay, how can this be? I don’t like drawing attention, but I do like having his attention on me.

“By the way, she’s right, you know,” Kayla the traitor says as she steps through the still open door to go. “That’s not a name.”

“Oh, come on.” He bends his head forward and chuckles. “You gotta admit it sounds nice.”

“It’s cute,” she says, compounding her treason, and leaves me alone. With Jesse James. Or Lee. Or whatever his name is.

I turn on him, hands on my hips. “What do you want?”

“That sounds like a trick question.” He winks.

“Does it? You barged in here, and you think asking you what you want is a trick question?”

“Hey now. I didn’t barge in here. You opened the door.” He lifts his hands much like Kayla did. I think I scare people.

Good. Better them than me.

“You’re an ass.”

He grins. “And a fine one, too.”

Oh dear God. “You’re a dick.”

He nods solemnly, but his eyes dip to my cleavage and darken to forest green. “A big, big dick.”

Crap, I walked right into this one, didn’t I? Of course, I’ve always had trouble recognizing plays on words and jokes, though nowadays I’ve more or less gotten the hang of it.

I should be upset. He’s teasing me, and teasing, in my book, is a prelude to hurting me.

But the smile lingering on his full lips takes the sting away, and what’s more, it’s hot. Way too hot. Heat rushes to my face, flames licking my cheeks, and a pulse starts between my legs.

This is so not happening. “Stop being such a jerk.”

“You say that affectionately.” He’s somehow moved closer to me while I was busy self-combusting, and his scent engulfs me, something hot, spicy and heady like mulled wine. “Like that pet name you gave me.”

What? I stare at the dark brows over his intense eyes, the faint stubble on that square jaw, that mouth and… Oh God. I’ve lost the thread. Again.

I tear my gaze from his face, glancing down at his bare arms. One of them is heavily inked with swirling colors and a snake.

A cobra, I think, done in red and green, curling on his thick bicep. And underneath the riot of colored ink swathing his arm from shoulder to wrist, faint crisscrossing lines catch my eyes, some thin and some thick, dark and raised.

Scars.

His voice startles me. “This place sure looks different when it’s not full of people.”

“You mean it looks empty.”

He chuckles, warm and delicious like a treacle of melted hot chocolate. “And nice.”

“Although there’s no blonde wrapped around you and no sucking involved?”

His eyes widen. Then he tries to speak and chokes on the words.

“You…” He shakes his head as he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “Shit.”

Yeah, I’m not only antisocial, I also don’t have any control over my mouth. Double whammy. Who wouldn’t want to be around me?

“So what do you want?” Might as well get this over with, so we can both go on our separate ways—he, back to his blonde and the sucking, and me, to my room and my beads.

He flinches, a barely there twitch that has me wondering if I even saw it. “I lost… something. A leather wrist band. I can’t find it since the party here, and I thought to ask in case you saw it anywhere.”

I remember seeing the band on his arm that night. “It was an old thing, wasn’t it?” Old, worn and starting to fray.

“It’s…” He rubs his forehead, frowning. “It’s important to me.”

He’s been an ass. Sort of. He’s been pushy. Kind of. He scares me.

But the uncertainty is back in his eyes, and now I know I didn’t imagine it. And although I’m not sure what to do with it, this glimpse beneath the sunny surface that defines Jesse Lee, I wish… I wish I could. I wish I had the courage to prod and break the brittle skin, the scab over a wound I can only guess at.

“I haven’t seen it,” I say, and his jaw tightens. Wow, this bracelet really seems important to him. “But I’ll look around. We’re still cleaning after the party from hell.”

“Thanks.” His mouth quirks. He shifts back and leans against the wall, and I try hard not to notice how good he looks in a faded green T-shirt and low-slung jeans, not to stare at the bulge between his legs.

Oh God, I’m checking out his package. Crap, no way. I have to stop.

“So…” He shifts, and damn if my eyes don’t drop again to his crotch. “Why did you hate the party so much?”

“I didn’t hate it.”

“Liar.” He’s grinning. His mouth is made for it, I think, so wide and sensuous. Sexy. Kissable.

Oh no. You don’t go there, girl. Enough of this.

I perch on the couch and bite my lip, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. “The party was fine. The problem is me. I’m not sociable and outgoing, if you haven’t noticed. I’m working on it.”

There. See if he doesn’t run from me now. The antisocial freak nobody would want to hang out with.

“Working on it?”

I shake my head. Maybe this was a bad idea, too, because I don’t want to explain. Counter-attack it is. “What’s the story of your wrist band?”

“There is no story.”

I lean forward. “Now who’s the liar?”

He grimaces, a twist of his lips, morphing immediately back into a smile. It always returns, that smile. A default setting.

Like my glare.

“I need to get to work,” he says instead of an answer to my question—and accusation—and I slump on the couch.

What did I expect, that after three minutes of conversation he’d open his heart to me? That we’d be best buddies?

Come on, Amber. Just goes to show how little you understand people. Besides, it’s not like you opened up, so why would he?

But as he turns to go, a long-fingered hand already gripping the door handle, he hesitates. Those broad shoulders tense, a ripple going through his back.

“The leather band…” He draws a long breath, lets it out. “It was given to me by someone who meant a lot to me, back when I was a kid. Later I lost her, and that’s all I have left of her.”

My heart falters, then starts again. A lump forms in my throat at the naked, raw pain in his voice. There’s so much I want to ask him, but he opens the door, steps out.

“Hey.” I hop off the couch and start after him. “Wait.”

He turns, a brow lifting. “What is it?”

I shrug. “Sorry for calling you names… earlier.”

“You may regret saying that,” he mutters, but some of the tension leaches from his shoulders. He gives me another of those faint smiles that make my chest warm. “I deserve those names. I’m a pain in the ass.”

“I doubt that,” I mumble, wondering why I’m saying this. Ten minutes ago I would’ve agreed whole-heartedly. “You’re not that bad. Goodnight, JJ.”

His smile spreads, brightening his eyes. “Night, Embers.”

I cock my head at him as he leaves, trying to figure him out. It’s not until later when I realize I called him JJ again.

Crap.