“Lane Cooper was in my bed. IN MY BED!” I howl at Sophie. “I realize that morphine and who knows what other big pharma street drugs they pumped me full of had played a hand in this malfeasance—but I woke to find him wrapped around me like an anaconda, and I want answers.”

Sophie’s face is piqued with color, glowing even, and her eyes have that faraway sparkle that lets me know she’s still flying high off Rowen Garret’s colossal love fumes. She gets like this for days after they’ve spent the night together. It’s pretty clear Sophie and Rowen are lifers at this point. Everything between now and their wedding night is simply an inconsequential detail. And it’s also pretty clear she cannot hear or comprehend a single thing I’m saying.

“And then I chopped his dick off and fed it to him for breakfast.” I nod, and she giggles as if I told her we found a litter of puppies tucked between us. “Knew it. You’re too stoned off your boot knocking-fest with Rowen to comprehend the natural world.” I pull over my favorite stuffed elephant, Ellie, and let out a primal scream right into her belly. I’m pretty sure I’ll be thirty and still doing this very same thing, lamenting Lane Cooper and appreciating how good my fabric softener smells in Ellie’s fur while screaming in an effort to rid my body of the rage that’s infiltrated it.

A hard knock comes over the door and in storms Wen, followed by my mother. And just as I’m about to sit up straight to face the infantry—my father comes barreling in, too.

“Oh my God,” I wail as their voices go off all at once in a detonation of questions, one after the other, rapid as machine gun fire. After several minutes of shouting up over the cacophony of voices, the three of them settle down, and it’s only then I notice they’ve chased poor Sophie away. She’s probably taken off for Ember’s room in hiding. And, believe me, I would have followed if my walking cast would have allowed it. The last time my parents were in a room together was this past Thanksgiving, and it wasn’t pretty. Turkey went flying, colorful words were exchanged, and it was all over a missing turkey baster. Once upon a time, my parents got along great. Then something mysterious happened, and it was as if World War III broke out in our living room. Of course, there were far more hushed arguments than there were public displays of non-affection, but Wen and I quickly got the gist. Our parents were warring, and we were going to be the casualties. I’ve asked my mother on a few occasions what went wrong, and she assured me it was years of miscommunication. But I figured it had to be way worse than that. Who destroys a twenty-nine-year marriage over a few disagreements? My money is on another woman, or secret bank account—something far more sinister than just an argument over the fact my father could never put the toilet seat down after using the restroom.

“What happened?” My mother’s tone is sharp and caustic as if I had been arrested for robbing a bank. “Wen says they suckered you into a black diamond run. Is that true?”

“That show?” Dad stammers in anger, looking every bit the older version of my brother. I happen to have his brows. Wen and I called them the Hathaway brows because these bushy facial tresses have been traced back all the way to my great-grandmother. “We’ll sue. They’re not going to get away with hurting my baby. And you’re not going back.”

Mom huffs as if it were a given. “Certainly not. Vi would never do such a stupid thing as that.” She hooks me with that gaze that insists I agree with her. There are very few options to choose from once my mother’s anger gets ahold of her.

“I forbid it.” Wen folds his enormous arms over his chest, and I scowl at him the longest. It’s one thing for my parents to say it. Heck, it’s monumental that they’re agreeing on something for the first time in forever, but Wen? What gives him the right?

“You forbid it?” I spit it out with disdain. “How about I forbid you from seeing Carrie anymore?” It took way more willpower than I have not to call her a ditz. I’m betting the residual effects from those tranquilizers they doped me up with are still running strong.

His features soften, and his shoulders sag a moment. “I mean it.” He takes a seat on the edge of my bed, and the mattress depresses, right along with my heart. It’s not like I want Lane back, but I certainly don’t want Wen dictating who I can and can’t see. “Look”—he winces hard, and it actually looks as if he’s in excruciating pain—“I spoke with Lane. I told him this goes nowhere. And he’s good with it.”

My stomach sinks right down all three stories of Canterbury Hall. “He’s good with it?” I balk. If my foot weren’t in quasi-traction, I’d track him down and shove this boot down his throat. That boy held me like nobody’s business last night. I was warm and safe, and it felt deliciously familiar. I hate how easily my body caved to his demands. It’s always been that way around Lane.

“Yeah”—Wen tucks the covers around my sides as if I were five—“he’s just going along with it until this social setup is over. He understands the fact that there is someone special out there for you, and it’s not him.”

A quick flash of heat spears through me. “Oh—right. Got it.” I glance to my mother and father, both with their mouths agape still. “I’m sorry you had to witness that entire nightmare. I wish I never got mixed up in any of that to begin with.”

“Sweetheart”—Dad bows down and gifts me a kiss on the nose—“life is all about ups and downs. You’re just in a downswing right now, that’s all. It sounds like things will pick up again once this experiment you’ve gotten yourself into wraps up. Maybe if you tell them you’re not able to proceed with things they’ll let you off the hook?” He motions to my foot currently elevated on three pillows. Lane made sure I was comfortable as soon as I woke up.

Dad gives a wistful shake of the head. “We can always threaten them with legal action.” His chin juts out the way it’s prone to do when he’s serious. Dad and Wen are like carbon copies of one another, same slight hook on the nose, same sinewy muscular frame, same dark hair and evergreen eyes. That’s where I got my green eyes from, too—my father. Dad has never sued a single soul in all his life, nor has he been a part of any legal action against him. Once someone threatened to lawyer-up after Dad unknowingly overcharged them for his freelance advertising services, and he ended up giving them the entire project for free. Now he works for a mega advertising firm in Denver, just a hop and skip from Snow Valley. After my parents split, he purchased a condo near the slopes. He said he appreciated the fact he could ski from his front door to the lift. I’ll admit, it is a pretty cool feature.

“We can’t sue,” I lament. Not that I’d want to. “I signed my life away. I could get killed during one of their daredevil dates, and my life would be worth zilch financially. They’ve covered themselves with an ironclad agreement. Anything that goes wrong goes straight to arbitration.”

Mom shakes her strawberry blonde hair. That’s where I get my crimson locks from, although Mom has been steadily adding peroxide to lighten hers for as long as I can remember. Even though she owns the Cut ’n Curl, she doesn’t bother with expensive procedures when it comes to her own hair. Instead, she washes it with the hydrogen peroxide they sell at the drugstore for fifty cents, and she swears that it not only softens her tresses it brings them to the exact shade she desires them to be, time and time again. Ironically, Mom does charge an arm and a leg for a color procedure at her shop, so she swore me to secrecy when she filled me in on that tidbit. Mom and Lane’s mother, Laura, are great friends. They weren’t always close, but once Lane and I started dating, they really hit it off. Ironically, they are still together. Lane’s mom will always be Mrs. Cooper to me, my high school guidance counselor. It was weird sitting in the office with her discussing AP classes while secretly lusting after her son all those years. Laura and her husband, Dane, combined their first names in order to gift their one and only son with his beloved moniker—Lane. I always thought that was a fun little tidbit. Although the fact he was an only child did make me a little sad.

Mom holds up a hand. “Have either of you bothered to ask Vi what she wants?” Her powder blue eyes land over mine. “Honey, are you going to keep up with this mess you’ve gotten yourself into, or are you going to put every damn one of us out of our misery?”

A groan comes from deep within me, and I don’t bother hiding the fact I’m annoyed. My mother has always cut to the chase without using a filter, so I don’t know why I expected anything different this time.

“I’m going to go on with it.” I glare over at Wen a moment for bursting all romantic notions I might have had concerning the fact that Lane Cooper was secretly pining for me. “And yes, there is someone special out there for me. Who knows? Maybe all the publicity the show gets will land me straight in his arms.”

Dad grunts, “If it does happen, I want to be the last to know about any of the details. But introduce him to me first.”

Wen nods in agreement. “Bring him around,” he says it like a dare.

“Oh, you two!” Mom tosses her hands in the air with great exaggeration, and I wish she had expended her energy far more wisely by conducting a double smackdown. “Violet is a grown woman who can make decisions all by her lonesome. Especially when it comes to love.” She gets that sky look on her face like she does when she’s up to no good. “Marty McNeal’s son, Jenson, is back in Snow Valley.” She leans in with unmitigated glee. “And he’s a dentist! Marty says he’s single and ready to mingle.” Her shoulder does an awkward little dance. “She even brought you up in conversation about going for coffee with him sometime.” Marty is one of my mother’s friends from her naughty book club. I’ve heard one too many Marty stories for me to know the woman is dicey.

“A dentist.” I nod as if accepting my fate.

Mom claps up a storm as if I had just agreed to an engagement. “Oh, this is so exciting! I’ll have to tell Marty right away. She’ll be thrilled to hear it.”

I open my mouth to say something, but Mom and Dad are already involved in a conversation about auto insurance and something about not setting the pipes right for winter, and before I know it, they’re talking about hitting the Underground for burgers as they whiz out the door.

“I’ll call you every day!” Mom blows me a kiss, and Dad does the same as the door closes softly behind them.

“I hate it when she threatens me like that.” I make a face at Wen. I’m only partially kidding. I’m pretty sure I’m the only girl at Leland who is still required to do a nightly check-in with her mother. Thank God my father is way more laid-back. He only requires a text.

“You really sure you want to go through with this thing?” Wen frowns as if the distress of The Social Experiment were his to shoulder. “I’ll head to Dexter Houston’s office right now.”

“Good luck with that. He’s a ghost. I’m starting to think he’s a publicity stunt himself.” That’s not entirely true. I’ve seen Dexter a handful of times. I just know that Sophie and Rowen tried their hardest to get in touch with him when things were falling to shit in their world, and he was nearly impossible to track down. I’m sure he plans it that way. I think on it for a minute. All of our lives, Wendell has come around cleaning up my messes without me asking him to. The time I was in fourth grade and a couple of sixth graders were harassing me for my lunch money? Wendell to the rescue. You’ve never seen two twelve-year-old girls cry like little bitches so hard and run so fast in all your life. And the time I drove myself insane to try to grow the world’s biggest squash so I could enter it into the county fair—and then it went suspiciously missing and seemingly turned up on Harriet Lubbock’s table as her own? Wendell went to bat for me, and the judges disqualified her. I could go on and on. It seems every time there’s been an injustice done to me, it’s been Super Wen to the rescue. But I’m older now, and I should be able to clean up my own dung heaps. “On second thought, no,” I say it sharply as I meet up with my brother’s surprised eyes. “You do not have my permission to speak with Dexter. If I want out, I’ll handle it myself. And if you must know, I’m pissed at you for speaking to Lane.”

His eyes grow twice their size. “I’m always speaking to Lane. I speak to Lane more than I speak to you some weeks.”

I cringe at the thought. A thousand different memories from last year crawl to the surface, and I’m quick to repress them. “And I wish it were reversed. Look, I know he’s your friend, but I’m your sister. Please don’t have any conversations regarding me when the two of you are together. I forbid it.” There. Let’s see how much he loves someone throwing his own gag-worthy medicine right back at him.

He smacks his lips, looking every bit guilty. “I don’t know what to tell you. If you come up, you come up. But how’s this—I won’t be the one to initiate the conversation.” He gives my leg a gentle pat, and I wince. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. I should have never followed him up to that lift.”

“Lane is the one who dragged you up Widow’s Peak?”

“He may have led, but I sure as hell didn’t have to follow.” A heavy sigh comes from me because, quite frankly, the truth is exhausting. I glance to Wen a moment, and my stomach spikes with heat because he happens to know another far more damning truth. “I hate that I’m such a lemming.”

He growls as if he were rabid. “He could have gotten you killed. Look, if you really want to be a ‘free thinker’ like you say you do”—how I loathe the label free thinker, especially when he says it with air quotes—“the next time those idiots who head up this social disaster ask you to do something, evaluate what it is beforehand, and if you deem it acceptable, not humiliating in any fashion, and for God’s sake, safe—then by all means, proceed. Will you at least promise me that?”

“Deal.” I hold out my little finger, and we pinky shake on it.

Wen takes off, and I think about those soul-crushing words he let out into the universe like a coven of angry bats.

Lane is just going along with The Social Experiment until it’s over. He understands the fact that there is someone special out there for me, and it’s not him.

Words I will grow to hate. But I’m not sure I could ever really hate Lane again—not after the kindness he extended me last night. I can still feel his ghostly arms wrapped around me.

I wish they still were.

---

The week ambles by with Lane sending me strangely encouraging texts about getting on with life while my foot does its best impression of a fifty-pound bag of dog food. Honestly, it’s the only thing I can liken it to. It feels worse than dead weight in this stupid boot. The bruises have changed from red to purple to yellow, and according to the bruise chart Ember printed out for me, I’m well on my way to healing. Each time I had to go anywhere this week, Dexter’s minions showed up with a golf cart. So getting to and from classes has been a breeze. There’s far too much snow on the ground for me to ever be safe with crutches, but I’ve got about three beefy football players ready and willing to sacrifice their biceps to go along with that golf cart. Who knew an ankle injury could make all of my football fantasies come true? By the time Saturday rolls around, both Ember and Sophie help me get ready for my next social date with Lane. Seth emailed and said to dress warm but comfortable and to meet him at the base of the Tower at seven, and I do just that.

“You look great,” Seth muses as he glances at me with a quick once-over. “Can you sit on the floor with that?” He shakes his head at my bloated footwear.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“It’s fine.” He looks to a small army of interns. “We’ll need the sofa. Lots of pillows. I need her comfortable.”

“Oh, goody. Are we shooting the porno today? I haven’t shaved my legs in a week.” I can’t help but let the sarcasm fly. All this secrecy makes me nervous. Why does Seth need me comfortable? So many medieval scenarios, so little time.

Seth barks out a laugh but doesn’t bother answering the question. Instead, I’m rushed through hair and makeup—touch-up and touch-up—and then hoisted into the elevator where I ride all the way to the top.

Oh my God, I’m going to have a date at the top of the Tower with Lane Cooper! This really is going to be a porn video. Well, it would be if it were anyone else but Lane and me. I’m pretty sure I’m not hooking up with Lane for some ratings grab the TSE seems to think they need. They’re the top-listed new show according to Neilsen ratings, that and the per millions viewership leads me to believe they don’t need Lane or our faux hookup. In fact, if I injure another body part during tonight’s fiasco, I’m out of here. They’ll have to find another able-bodied fool willing to ride a golf cart for the rest of the semester.

The elevator doors whoosh open, exposing us to a night sky filled with stars—also filled with the threat of a windstorm and possibly rain in the forecast, but the scent of warm vanilla fills the icy night air, and I’m immediately transported to some other realm where Lane and I aren’t visceral enemies. I’ve been to the top of the Tower before, and I can never get enough of the glittering city lights view this place affords. Although most students who traverse their way up here aren’t all that interested in the views as they are in becoming one. It’s a well-known fact that at any given time there are at least a half dozen high-powered telescopes trained on the building because of all the sexual rendezvous it’s hosted. It’s been free porn at its best for the last half a decade at least. Heck, the way some frat boys are prone to shout top of the Tower to one another you’d think it were a cordial greeting.

“Don’t worry”—Seth wraps a plaid blanket over my shoulders as if my foot injury qualified me to be cared for like a ninety-year-old granny—“you’ll be in the chamber this evening.” He nods behind me, and I turn to find an enormous white tent, glowing from the inside, with the flicker of what looks to be a thousand candles.

“Wow, it’s so beautiful.” I marvel at the paper lantern magic of it all as he helps me to the entry, and I gasp at the sight of what waits inside. An entire Pottery Barn-esque living room appears with tons of throws and oversized pillows. There’s an easel set up, and dozens of paints in tiny little pots, and brushes blooming from vases. “Is this the part where he paints me in the nude?” It seems all of my references to the date lying in wait seem to be rife with sexual innuendo. Projecting much? I can’t help it, though. Lane is handsome as hell, and I’m pretty sure if I wasn’t passed out cold last night, a part of me would have been tempted to pull both our pants down.

Seth inches back with a laugh. “You do realize you’re miked up. Anything you say and do from this point forward can and will be held against you.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

Seth helps me hop onto the navy velvet sofa, and it all feels so very surreal. A million candles are set around the periphery, adding a magical glow to an already enchanted evening, and the alarmist in me can’t help but note the fact I’ve been seated in the middle of a bonfire without the ability to run properly should the fiery need arise. God, if I end up in the burn unit, I’m really going to be pissed. Arbitration, my ass. Forget my father. I’ll be the one threatening legal.

Seth and the interns do a disappearing act, and it’s just me and a couple of cameramen trying their best to blend in with the scenery. A moment bounces by and then another and finally someone whispers, “Where is he?”

My stomach thuds. My body explodes with heat as I begin to panic. Oh my God, my worst nightmare was never me doing a cartwheel off the side of Widow’s Peak—it was being stood up in a public forum. And although it feels rather intimate in this Pottery Barn inspired tent, I’m pretty sure the three million plus viewers who will be gawking at me once this airs, count as a public forum.

Petra appears at the opening of the tent and whispers something to Seth.

Shit. My instincts say tear the mic off and run for the elevator. Be the first to quit. Do not let him do this to you. Do not allow Lane Cooper to rip your heart out and stomp on it one more time. A mean shiver rides through me because I may have had something to do with our initial breakup as well.

Both Petra and Seth look to the elevator at once, and I hold my breath as the worst thought possible comes to mind. Dexter Houston himself is on his way over to tell me that Lane is never coming back again. That after a thoughtful conversation with my idiotic brother, he’s come to the conclusion that he’s just not the one for me. Stupid, stupid Wendell.

The frame of a man steps out of the shadows holding something behind his back. A Cheshire Cat’s grin is plastered on his heavily dimpled face, and it’s not Dexter Houston. It’s Lane Cooper looking every bit as swoon-worthy as ever.

He whispers something to Petra and nods to Seth before making his way over.

“Violet”—he pauses, drinking me down with thirsty eyes—“you look beautiful.” Lane is looking gorgeous himself in his red and blue checkered flannel, his dark inky jeans, and boots. This has always been my favorite look on him, sexy casual I called it, and he lapped it up every single time. He may not get those words to leave my lips tonight, but my eyes sure as hell have sung a chorus of them. He drops to one knee and grins, and for a second I think he’s going to propose. “These are for you.” He produces a huge bouquet of lavender roses, my favorite color and he knows it. “I had to go to two different florists before I found them. I needed to get it just right.” He leans in and brushes a kiss just past my ear. “It’s killed me not to see you.” He takes a seat on the sofa next to me, and I carefully take the flowers, burying my nose in the butter soft petals.

“Thank you, Lane.” I look up at him, blinking back tears. “That was really nice of you to remember. You didn’t have to do this.” But the way my heart is slamming against my chest, it’s as if maybe he did. Romantic gestures like this have always meant a little too much to me, but I can’t help it. The fact he went to two different flower shops to make sure he got the color just right lets me know he cares. Wendell may not appreciate that fact, but I sure do.

“And cut,” a nebulous voice shouts as an army of interns swarm the room along with Seth.

“Place those flowers in the vase behind them,” he orders, giving me a sly wink. I’m totally convinced that Seth knew I was near a total meltdown just a few short minutes ago. He looked just as relieved to see Lane as I was. He steps forward and looks from Lane to me. “The object of tonight’s task is to do three paintings. You’ll work on one canvas together. The first will represent how you felt about the beginning of your relationship, the second will represent the middle, and the third—the end. The audience will be cued in on what you’re doing with text, so no need to explain any of this. Just be sure to talk through each phase. How you felt, what you remember doing, the good times and the bad. We want it all.” He claps his hands as the interns clear out. “Above all, be natural. The audience loves you.”

I look to Lane. “At least someone loves me.” I give a little wink, and he offers a playful frown back.

Lane helps set up the gargantuan-sized canvas that must be at least about three feet wide by four feet tall. He and I get right to work with me splashing the canvas with bright orange and pinks—the happy colors that exude best how he made me feel, and him dousing it with lemon yellow and reds.

“Do you remember going to that ice cream shop on Main after our first official alone date?” I ask with a gleam in my eye because it was pretty disgusting what happened next.

“Yup.” He gives a curt nod as he continues to slash the canvas with color. “You and I both ordered a triple chocolate chip fudge brownie. We went outside to eat it, and a fly landed on yours.”

“It was so hot, a giant goop of brownie fudge melted over that thing, and if we hadn’t been looking, I would have unwittingly eaten a horsefly without knowing any better. But you tossed it for me and bought me a new one.”

“That’s what I was there for.” He gives my shoulder a friendly bump.

“You’re the one who noticed it. I was too busy talking to you about how much fun that party was the night before, and you were looking out for me—protecting me.”

He stops with his hand mid-flight. “I wasn’t able to protect you last week.” He casts a heavy glance to my boot, and his affect grows hard as if he were pissed at himself.

“That was my fault. I’m forever trying to prove that I can do things that I’m clearly not qualified to do. Case in point, Widow’s Peak. I’ve successfully avoided that place for two solid decades. I should have gone for three.”

Seth pops up near the mouth of the tent and points to the second canvas, and we take the hint.

Lane moves the first one to the side and sets its successor in its place. “Middle of the relationship.” He scoots in and wraps an arm around my shoulder as natural as gravity. “You’ll have to forgive me. I have no clue what the middle could have been.”

“Are you kidding?” I lean back, pretending to be wildly insulted. “That would have been summer, Fourth of July?”

He tips back his head and winces.

“Otherwise known as the beginning of the end.” I smirk as I hand him a fresh brush. Lane and I get started in a mosaic of colors, utilizing every shade, as if our lives at that point were filled with everything we could have ever wanted, and in a strange way they were. Yes, we were close to the abyss, but we hadn’t set our feet over the edge yet. There was still hope for us. We might have been fragile, but we didn’t know it. There was still so much beauty around us.

“You know”—he starts, his voice warm and low—“when I think of that time in my life, I still feel like I did back then, satisfied and happy.” He says that last bit so low you would have thought it was a secret. “I was thinking about it the other day—how we used to go to the lake. The air was warm that summer. My favorite part was holding hands, just you and me, hanging out until the sunset.” His pale eyes meet with mine with an intensity I’ve never seen in them before. “I thought they’d last forever. I remember thinking about spending the rest of our lives like that. It was the only thing I thought possible at that time.”

Tears come to my eyes, and no matter how hard I bite down on my lower lip, I can’t stop them from falling. A smile comes to me, despite the agony, and I give a soft nod. “I told you I would have said yes if you asked me to marry you. It would have been an easy answer.”

His gaze hangs heavy over mine as we sit there a moment too long, lost in a game of what-if. The reality is we didn’t choose the matrimonial path. We chose the separation, the sting of rejecting one another with words and actions.

The third and final canvas makes its debut, and both Lane and I sigh as we stare at how stark it looks, naked without any of the horrible marks we’re about to stain it with. Lane and I choose a dark palate of umbers and grays, navy and deep purple. We paint long slashing strokes over the girth of it as if we were doling out a punishment. I despise that dark period in my life, marred with hurt feelings and broken hearts.

“I hated you that night,” I whisper without bothering to look at him. Instead, I keep my focus intently on the broad strokes my brush leaves behind. Blood red is the color of the moment for me.

“I hated me that night, too.” He dips his brush into the water aggressively and abandons it for a fresh brush instead. “I hated what I did. Still do. I was stupid and acting on anger. I should never have gone to the party that night.”

I glance to the camera with a flash of anger. At the moment, I loathe the fact Lane and I can’t have a decent conversation without five million eyes trained right on us. And I also hate the fact that I’m letting Lane take the blame for our downfall. That night on stage I wanted nothing more than to vomit up what really happened, but instead I let Lane take one for the team. I haven’t been good at many things in my life, but I have always been a master of self-sabotage. And as much as I want to clear the air, set the record straight, I’m not going there. Some things are so ugly, so vile, they demand to be kept under lock and key. Wendell knows the truth, though. Wen has never even considered throwing me under the bus, and I’m sure as hell not throwing myself under it either.

“What are you thinking?” I ask to fill the silence with just about anything.

Lane sinks his brush in the giant tub of water, leans back in his seat with his hands behind his neck as he inspects our work of art with a blank expression.

“I’m thinking I like the other two better. Not enough light and color in this one. It was a real shit ride, wasn’t it?”

“It was.” I dip my brush back into the caustic red I’m using, or abusing as it were, and paint a giant red X over the entire canvas. “There. It’s like it never happened.” I abandon my brush and scoot in close to the warmth of his body as we stare out at the catastrophe before us. “Wow, we really suck.”

“We were in pain. That last leg of our relationship is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

“Violet, Lane,” a deep voice strums over the speakers, and for some reason I find its anonymous presence comforting tonight. “There is one more canvas to your left. We’d like for the two of you to depict what the future holds for you. When you’re through, I’d like for the two of you to share your thoughts.”

Lane and I look to one another with apprehension. Lane and I are over. Our story ended in the Dark Ages. But of course, the TSE forever chasing a happily ever after demands roses and rainbows, so Lane and I get right to work. He chooses a lime green to wash the lower half of the canvas while I choose a pale celadon, the exact color of his eyes. We paint with happier shades, pastels, pinks and blues, a bright vibrant tangerine that reminds me of a sunrise. Once every inch is covered, Lane wraps an arm around my waist, and I lean against his chest as we examine it from a distance.

“It feels like we’re watching the sun rise,” I say. A nod to his burst of color on an otherwise pale Easter egg of a canvas.

“The first color I chose was the color of your eyes.” He presses his lips over the top of my head and sears my scalp with a heated kiss. I feel the burn long after he’s gone. “I hope you’ll let me see more of them in the future.”

I look up at him to ascertain exactly how platonic that statement was meant to be.

“And I chose the color of your eyes,” I say, trying to sound like a smartass for no reason, even though it was the truth. “I’m hoping I’ll get to see them around sometime, too. It didn’t feel good trying to avoid you.”

He gives a slow nod. “It’s like we took avoiding one another to a whole new level.”

“It was pretty epic. Hall of fame stuff.” I swallow hard. “But I was convinced you hated me toward the end.” A dull laugh comes from me, because deep down, I know he should. “I remember that day we were screaming at one another, after the party incident. And you said the reason women lived longer than men was because they didn’t have to live with other women.”

We share a dark laugh. “Some of them choose to,” he corrects. “I’ll admit I was wrong.” He winces. “And I’m sorry. That was a terrible thing to say. I was pretty upset all around.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I said all of your Swedish furniture was pretty much fire starter material and called you cheap.”

“That you did.”

We share another quick chuckle.

He shakes his head, his thumb warming me over the back. “It wasn’t so funny back then, was it? But we had good times, too. Remember the music festivals? We must have gone to at least a half a dozen.”

“Yes!” My spirit soars at the mention of them. “God, how can I forget?” I lean my head over his shoulder and give a gentle scratch at his chest. “How I miss those lobster red hippies that would roll around on the grass amusing us for hours.”

“And the wannabe bikers who would pour vodka straight into their eyeballs?” He groans at the memory. We almost upchucked our dinners the first time we witnessed that unholy event.

My stomach churns at what comes next. “And then after the big fight, we downgraded all communication efforts to our social media accounts.”

He groans as if I had injured him with that one. “You do realize that Facebook interactions with an ex is the sewer of communication.”

“We were pretty brutal.” It’s easy for me to admit that now. “I remember blocking and deleting with the best of them after making my feelings known in a drunken texting spree. Facebook and alcohol should be outlawed in all fifty states.”

He gives a steady nod while coiling my hair around his finger, and my body yearns for his touch. “I was pretty torn up over some of those things you said.”

I look up at him with a devious smile. “Just some of them?”

“Full disclosure, all of them. I went to bed at seven every night after practice. I didn’t want any more of the day than was necessary.”

“At seven?” I can’t help but giggle while scratching at the scruff over his neck, and my fingers come alive with the sensation. “You were a good little grandpa.”

He makes a face, and something deep inside of me aches to touch those lips of his. Lane always had the softest lips. I used to love running my finger over them, outlining them over and over again. So I do. I brush my finger over his mouth, and a rush fills me as if touching Lane Cooper was enough to get me high. Lane always was the most potent drug, and here I had accidently taken another hit.

Lane pierces me with those candle-lit eyes and gives a dark smile. “You always were a nymphomaniac.” He takes a quick nip of my finger, and a laugh bubbles from me.

“Yeah, but admit it. At the end of the day, the nympho left me, and all you got was the maniac.”

Lane barks out a laugh. “That might be true, but you missed me. Admit it.”

“I do miss you.” I give his cheeks a quick squeeze between my fingers. “But watch your back because my aim is getting better.” Someone offstage laughs, and Seth calls cut.

The interns come in and remove our mics. Lane holds out his arms as if they were frisking him, but he never takes those eyes off mine. They burn right through me like torches. Once we’re free from the wires, and spyware in general, Lane comes over and offers a quick embrace. He buries his lips in my ear. “Meet me at Coffeeology in ten?” He pulls back, and I give the slight hint of a nod.

Lane takes off, and Seth has a couple of beefy interns help me to the elevator.

“Oh, and Violet?” Seth calls after me. “We’re bumping the dates to two a week from here on out.”

“Can’t wait,” I shout back as the elevator takes me down, out of the Tower, away from anyone associated with the TSE, and to Coffeeology where Lane Cooper is waiting for me. Lane and I are about to jump the gun and have our second date for the week right this minute.

Alone and in private.

---

It doesn’t take much to ditch the frat brats escorting me to the well-lit coffee shop. I could tell by their conversation about the kegger at Alpha-Something-Something that they were eager to part ways themselves. I’m just about to make my way in when I hear a whistle coming from across the way and, sure enough, Lane sprints over under the cover of darkness. His bright eyes shine like a lantern, and if I didn’t know better, his cologne calls to me a bit more pungent than it did at the Tower. If I were a betting girl, I’d lay down some cold hard cash over the fact that Lane was trying to impress me.

His dimples dig deep as he nods over to his waiting truck in the distance. “How about heading to my place instead? I don’t feel like being the center of attention anymore tonight.”

“Are you kidding? That sounds like heaven.” I move my crutches in the direction of the lot, and the left one slips out over the icy terrain.

“How about I make it simple?” Lane snatches up my crutches and hands them to me to hold. He scoops me up in his arms and trots me across the main thoroughfare of campus, across the snow-covered field, and toward the spot where his truck is creating a fog of its own from the purring engine. I laugh all the way there as he settles me into a waiting warm seat.

Lane drives us down the street over to Leland Heights, an exclusive apartment building just a stone’s throw from campus. It’s a high-rise, so it gives off a big city feel, and I’ve always admired that about it. I looked into it when I was exploring my housing options and was quickly put off by all the zeros at the end of the wild number associated with the rent. Lane once lived in the dorms when he moved to Leland, but during our breakup, he was in the process of breaking up with his dormitory as well.

Lane helps me out of the truck and into the warm building, with its marble flooring, its large paint-splattered canvases decorating the entry.

“Looks like we’ve already been here,” I tease.

Lane belts out an easy laugh. “Honey, those were done with full bodies dipped in acrylics.”

“Are you saying we’re not at that level yet?” I tease as we get onto the waiting elevator, and the doors entomb us in the stifled silence.

Lane leans in, his arm wrapped around my waist for support. “If you wanted to roll around on a canvas all day, I’m sure you could convince me to join you.” He pushes out a sad smile. “We’d have to be naked, though. You still up for it?”

“Acrylics in my girl parts? No thanks. But I’m good with food, so if you ever want to get kinky.” I catch a breath and hold it. What the hell am I saying? I glance around at the tiny, confined space, and sheer panic sweeps through me. What the hell am I doing?

We get off on the nineteenth floor, and he leads us to the room at the end. Lane opens the door, and my next breath does a disappearing act as I catch the view from a giant picture window that showcases the sparkling lights of Leland University glittering below.

“Oh my goodness!” I do my best to hobble toward the expansive window. “It’s so beautiful.” The world looks so small from this perspective. It’s as if every problem is shrunken down with it. It’s always amazed me how fragile humans look from a high vantage point like this one. We look dispensable, innumerous as ants, and just as fragile. A sigh escapes me as I turn to inspect his apartment. Dark wood floors, large chocolate sofa, a TV the size of his ego, and secretly I love it. He’s got an all stainless eat-in kitchen with a round glass table and white granite counters. It screams both modern and underutilized all at the same time. “It’s lovely.” My voice wavers because it suddenly hits me that I’m standing in his apartment.

Lane steps in, his arms finding a home around my waist once again, and I lean my crutches against the wall. I don’t think I’ll need them tonight. I slide in close to him until our chests touch. His eyes are as round as mine, and my heart detonates every other second like a bomb. I want to say something, say anything, but a part of me doesn’t want to break the magic this moment brings.

Lane closes his eyes a moment, his shoulders sagging with defeat. “I’m sorry, Vi. About everything.”

I land a finger to his lips and shake my head. Some words just aren’t allowed in this moment, and the words he just spoke have the potential to cast a pall on the good that could come of this evening.

“Lane,” I whisper. “I don’t want our first kiss to be out there.” I nod toward campus, toward the TSE and all of their cameras trained on us like snipers. “Kiss me.”

He gives a hint of a nod, those serious eyes still pinned to mine. Lane comes in slow and easy as his lips brush gently over mine, and we both let out a hearty groan. It feels like heaven, like hell, like some nebulous place in between to revisit the feel of his lips over mine.

My fingers dig into the hair at the base of his neck as I pull him closer to me, forcing him to do it again, and my chest explodes with heat.

This time he lingers. His mouth moves over mine softer than I remember it to be, his lips fuller, his desire far more palpable. My stomach drops to my feet, my knees feel as if they could go out at any moment, and my thighs shake so hard I’m half-afraid he can feel the vibration. My mouth opens for him, slow and careful, as if offering him an invitation. My hand fans over his back as I press him in close to me. Lane plunges in with his tongue, his warm mouth suddenly enveloping mine as he makes one violent revolution after the other, scoping me out, memorizing the landscape, making sure no stone is left unturned. Lane and I make love to one another with our kisses, his strong arms supporting me as he holds me there for what feels like hours, weeks.

His fingers dig into my sweater, alive and wild, and I can feel his lust for me growing by the minute. My adrenaline soars as my hands slip up the front of his shirt, and a moan rips through me at the feel of his heated flesh over mine for the very first time in one solid year. Lane is skin over steel, always has been. For a basketball player, Lane was always far more ripped than the other guys on the team. It was the curves of his biceps that have had me mesmerized for so long. Lane has always been strong. He could tear this building from its foundation if he wanted. I have always held him to impossibly high standards. It turns out that wasn’t such a good thing after all. But this moment, the hunger of these explosive wild kisses have the power to erase our haunted past and bolster us to that next phase of who we can become. That’s what this feels like. Something altogether new.

I don’t know what the future holds for Lane and me, but I’m willing to bet there will be many, many more of these delicious fiery kisses.

There has to be.

Life without Lane Cooper’s mouth fused over mine would be downright criminal.