It started with a glimpse. That’s all it was.

The big bang was the connection with eyes I’d met a thousand times before, what seemed like a thousand years ago in high school.

I’d seen them a thousand more in my mind’s eye when I perused the shelves I kept them on.

All my Sam memories.

My traitorous eyes locked with his in a bold rebellion from my mind. I didn’t make eye contact. Not with grown-up people, at least. The miniature ones were fine, but certainly not men standing in the same breathing distance as me. Certainly not attractive men. Who just happened to be one of the most beautiful on the planet, as decided by People magazine and who also happened to be in one of the most famous rock bands on the planet. Oh, and the man who used to be the boy I was irrevocably in love with in high school, who didn’t even recognize me.

Yeah. I so should not have made eye contact.

There was a reason I taught tiny humans and avoided the bigger ones. And certainly avoided the ones who I was unrequitedly in love with for my entire high school career.

Why I came to this wedding was anyone’s guess.

Why I came back to my hometown, which I hadn’t set foot in for half a decade, could only be attributed to temporary insanity. There was nothing here for me in Amber.

This place held only personal demons and a family that made it their mission to emotionally distance themselves from me as much as humanely—or demonly—possible.

Maybe it was that romantic part of me that the events, the disasters of my life, had yet to kill. That part that still harbored a little hope for a slice of some sort of fairy tale in this cruel and ugly world.

That’s why I came. So my friend could help bolster my hope in a way my books couldn’t. Not even the Brontë sisters.

Lexie and Killian, they were perfect. And imperfect.

All the classics I’d poured over couldn’t hold a candle to watching her walk down the aisle while Killian stared at her like there was nothing else on this planet that could make his heart beat.

Even in high school, he looked at her like that.

Everyone knew it. That they were meant to be. Destined.

Even I did when he broke her heart so she could take Unquiet Mind to the top of the world.

Didn’t all the great love stories have obstacles? Didn’t every single great couple have to go through almost unbearable amounts of pain in order to be together? Wasn’t it the watermark of true love?

So I couldn’t be so cruel as to say the day all of those obstacles disappeared to let marriage happen was a disaster.

For them, at least, it wasn’t.

For me it was. Standing awkwardly in a dress that I’d bought because the mirrors at Macy’s had lied and showed a svelte and slimming cut that smoothed over my curves. Now, in the sunlight, I was doing a great impression of a potato squeezed into silk. Sweating because I was nervous, and because I was in a biker compound that not only housed men who looked like they had a few bodies in their closets, but also who were hands down the most attractive people I’d ever seen.

Ditto with their wives.

Runway models, Playboy centerfolds, frigging actresses, all strutting around the dirty club like it was a five-star hotel.

Okay, they weren’t, but they looked like that. Airbrushed and beautiful, all uniquely and utterly stunning. And nice. You expected women that beautiful to be evil. Like they’d made a deal with whoever created them that they’d insult their lessers, just for fun. But no, I didn’t think there was a cruel perfectly structured bone in their bodies.

Even being a short distance from them highlighted just what an utter disaster I was. It didn’t help that I was standing beside Emma. She was another beauty, albeit a little more unconventional. Her look certainly fit in with the biker/rock-star vibe the wedding had. She was wearing a black lace, skintight dress with ripped fishnets underneath and scuffed combat boots. Her hair was tumbled into a messy bun, the rings of last night’s makeup on her eyes somehow managing to be better than any smoky eye I could attempt. Her trademark red lipstick was just the tiniest bit smudged, but she still looked like a cover girl. She fit right in with all the rest of the cover girls, otherwise known as the members’ wives.

And me? I was the potato in the light pink dress, that in the mirrors of Macy’s had implied made my pale skin look flawless and delicate. Now it brought out the pink splotches that emerged on my arms and chest when I got nervous.

I was distracted from most of that during the ceremony. It was as if time itself stood still; even the rough bikers looked like they were sucked into the magic of it all. Lexie’s stepdad, who scared me more than fluorescent lighting, even smiled.

It was after the ceremony when the magic snapped away, replaced by the reality of a booming stereo, pumping music that grated to my ears, and the bitter smell of beer in the air as people toasted congratulations.

My breathing almost became nonexistent at that point, unsure of what to do with myself, how to stand, how to structure my face so it didn’t look like I was going to pass out.

“Come on, let’s find something stronger than beer but weaker than cocaine,” Emma decided, snatching my splotchy arm in hers, emphasizing the difference between her iridescent and skinny biceps and my so not skinny nor iridescent ones.

I let myself be dragged through the crowd, thankful that I at least wasn’t alone. I didn’t want to educate her on the fact that I didn’t drink, scared that this confident and loud girl whom I’d only met a handful of times might abandon me. She seemed nice; plus she was Lexie’s best friend, and Lexie was one of my best friends, of which I didn’t have many. Now she was a rock star who performed in sold-out arenas and graced the covers of every glossy magazine you could think of. But she was still the same. Even in high school, she was the most beautiful and interesting one in Amber, could’ve owned the school and settled herself on the popularity throne. But no. She didn’t even blink at social hierarchy and became my friend, despite the obvious gaps in our social status. Even now, when they were actually real, not made up by whoever decided high school needed to be like a jungle, she acted like they didn’t exist. Like she wasn’t the bohemian, beautiful, famous rock star married to a sinfully delicious and scary outlaw biker and I wasn’t the bookish, chubby, and unremarkable friend who, even now at twenty-three, couldn’t say boo to said husband, nor his friends. Or her bandmates, one of whom I’d carried a candle for these last nine years.

One who was leaning on the bar that we were approaching.

I tried to pull my hand from Emma’s grip. “You know what? I’m not really thirsty,” I said, trying to keep the desperation from my voice.

Her grip didn’t even loosen; even though she had waifish skinny arms, they were strong. Her laugh was throaty and rough and made Wyatt, who was leaning beside Sam, instantly turn.

“I didn’t ask if you were thirsty,” she replied, studiously ignoring Wyatt’s gaze as she let go of my hand to propel half of her body on the bar, leaning across it to smile seductively at the attractive yet young man with a “Prospect” patch on his leather cut.

The rest of the men in the Sons of Templar MC were “full patch,” with a huge image of a grim reaper riding a motorcycle stitched onto their leather vest. I didn’t know much about them, but I knew the attractive dark-haired man called Cade was the president. Though he didn’t look too menacing when he was cradling his baby daughter in his arms or smiling at his pretty wife.

“No one drinks spirits because they’re thirsty.” She regarded me, holding up a single finger with chipped red polish on the nail. “You either drink the hard stuff because you’re sad”—she held up another finger—“mad”—third finger—“or sad and mad. Or scared.” She paused. “Or bored. Or like in Russia or something and it’s the only thing to keep the insides from freezing in frigid temperatures. Why the fuck anyone would want to live there is anyone’s guess. Though, broody and mostly silent Eastern European men are tempting,” she pondered. “I bet they’d be wild in the sack too.” She winked, sinfully oblivious to the laser beams Wyatt had begun to stare into her tousled head at the mention of Eastern European men and their bedroom prowess.

Her dress, which was barely covering her ass as it was, rode up enough to give a show of just how many of her butts could fit into mine.

At least four. Into one of my cheeks.

Sam’s eyes hadn’t even registered me. They were fastened on the black lace panties in front of him.

I couldn’t blame him. Yet I still tasted ash.

I really should’ve been used to it.

But apart from the shows, which I watched on my small TV in my small house, this was the first time I’d seen him since high school, and nothing had changed.

Well, he had changed. Not drastically, but he’d grown into a man. Even at seventeen he was a man-child, with a certain quality about him that no other boy possessed. He was unashamedly himself, dressing in all black more often than not, including his fingernails, and usually wearing enough silver to fell at least twelve vampires. Everything about his style, the way he spoke, laughed, it was something different. Above high school. Removed from the “cool” archetype, like Bob Dylan. He wasn’t cool because he strived to be but because he strived not to be. Because he genuinely couldn’t give a shit whether he fit into some kind of stereotype.

His muscles were impressive back then, enough so he always had at least two girls hanging off his sculpted biceps.

Now the forearms exposed by the expensive black shirt he had rolled up to his elbows were covered in tattoos, even his hands and knuckles. The fingernails were still inky black, and almost every finger had a silver ring on it. Though these weren’t like the cheap ones from vintage stores in high school. No, these betrayed the fact that he made millions, had platinum records and was one of the most famous people alive.

A large hand smacked his inky hair, mussed to perfection in a man bun that had its own fan page.

“Ouch,” he hissed, jumping from his position.

Wyatt glared. “Eyes up,” he commanded, his voice tight.

Sam grinned at him knowingly.

“Gina,” Emma called, making me rip my eyes away from the men, who were now directing their gazes to me at the mention of my name. I was thankful to Emma for rescuing me, but at that moment I could’ve strangled her with her own hair for bringing the attention to me. I caught Sam’s blue irises for a millisecond before yanking mine away to settle on Emma.

“What do you want?” she asked.

Sam.

To lose twenty-five pounds.

To gain some confidence that would let me strut around in a skintight lace dress and show my panties to a motorcycle club of Adonises and two rock stars.

To not be so damn ordinary.

So damn forgettable.

“Oh,” I said, my voice thick and quiet. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re not fine.” Her eyes flickered up my body. “Well, in that sense, you totally are. But your hands are empty of beverages containing alcohol, so you aren’t fine in that sense of the word. Vodka?”

I itched to rub my clammy hands on my dress but feared they would spread sweat stains on the pale fabric, bringing more attention to the garment and what it was trying to encase. “I don’t drink,” I said, my voice little more than a whisper as two sets of rock star eyes settled on me.

“Oh, okay.” There was a pause. One where I was sure she’d declare me strange and sacrifice me to the bikers. “Tequila, then,” she decided, turning back around. “Two margaritas please, barkeep,” she requested, her voice throaty.

Sam’s eyes focused on me, and yet again, I found myself trapped in his gaze.

“What do you mean you don’t drink?” he asked, as if I’d declared I didn’t imbibe oxygen.

I gulped and felt my face flame red, my chest itching with the telltale anxiety rash.

“I mean I don’t drink,” I replied, my voice somehow even, albeit smaller than a mouse.

He downed the chocolate-colored liquid in a glass that was a lot fancier than his surroundings and swiveled in his chair to give me his full attention. It became obvious that when he focused on you, his entire being was focused.

My knees quivered.

He opened his mouth, eyes still on me, perusing me and my dress lazily, hungrily.

No, wait. Hungrily couldn’t have been the right word.

A man like him, a man who could have any woman in the world with a snap of his tattooed fingers, wouldn’t look at me hungrily. Perhaps a little self-deprecating, but I’d moved past the whole body hate thing I had when I was a teenager.

Or at least I thought I had.

With his aura focused on me like the laser of a sniper’s rifle, I was back to that girl, uncomfortable in her own skin. Not knowing how to inhabit her own body so instead inhabiting books where such self-reflection, self-acceptance, self-love could be shelved away with all the other realities, like the fact that I hadn’t been kissed and I was sixteen years old. Like the fact that my only friend my age was a beautiful girl who happened to have just started a band with a boy I was in love with and therefore could only be my friend from a distance, because I could only love him from a distance.

Unrequited love was rather glamourized in books. Yes, we were told it was painful. The best authors showed the pain. But even then, even immersed in a book, you were witnessing it at a distance. A safe one at that.

There wasn’t really a safe distance away from Sam at school, especially when I had English lit with him. And even when I wasn’t around him, more often than not I was around a girl he’d screwed, was screwing or would be screwing in the future.

So I had to take what distance I could. For what self-preservation I could create.

Therefore, Lexie was still a friend, but couldn’t be what I craved for her to be. So I had my other friends. The safer ones who Sam hadn’t screwed or would ever screw, considering they had a few years on him. I didn’t doubt he dated older women, but I did doubt he dated ones who resided in Mabel’s, where their lunch came with a side of pharmaceuticals. Designed not for recreational use but to keep them alive.

I got to know them because that’s where my grandmother used to live. Until her mind withered away and her body took a disturbing long amount of time to follow.

But it did.

Eventually.

And it broke my heart. She was pretty much all I had in the world. I didn’t count the mother who only paid attention to me to tell me what new diet I should try, or the father who spent as little time as he could in the family home my mother had made so cold and angular, full of sharp edges, like her own body.

So when I lost her, I was lost. The ladies I’d come to know while reading to my grandmother had noticed.

“Now you see, my eyes aren’t what they used to be. And I do love The Bronze Horseman. You were only halfway through. How about you come and finish it for me?” Hazel had asked me on the phone a week after we’d buried my grandmother.

She was right. Grandma died right when the siege of Leningrad had begun. I was going to finish it, even though I’d read it a thousand times, but I’d been dreading it. My body wouldn’t physically let me leave a book unfinished, though. Much like I was sure a painter couldn’t stare at a half-finished masterpiece. Just because I wasn’t creating this one didn’t mean the necessity wasn’t there.

So I kept going. Survived high school. Survived loving the boy whose gaze glazed over me in not an entirely unfriendly way, but because I wasn’t enough of an anchor to keep it there.

Well, that’s what I’d thought as an insecure teenager. As I grew into a woman, I learned some lessons the hard way. I learned how a man could not control your self-worth. Or rather he could, but only if you let him. Sam had controlled it, not out of cruelty but merely out of ignorance, out of youth, out of him being him. Already in high school, his life was fast just like the way he spoke, the way his hands smashed down on drums, echoing the loudness of his existence that had always been that way. Now everyone could hear. It was merely that I lived slow, quiet. Unseen. I was just a blur to him.

I had understood that when I experienced the other side of the coin. What happened when a man actively manipulated your relationship with yourself in order to manipulate everything else.

And how he’d called it love.

And I’d called bullshit.

Eventually.

But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?

And it did.

Or at least I thought it had.

Until now when I had those eyes on me. And they were stationary. I wasn’t the blur anymore.

A hypnotizing moment was broken, thankfully, before I could devolve back completely to the girl I thought I’d grown out of.

A cold glass was thrust in my hand, which closed around it out of habit. And having something corporeal, physical to grab on to was a welcome anchor to wrench me out of the fantasy that had me thinking that Sam Kennedy was looking at me in any capacity other than friendly recognition.

“Tequila,” Emma declared, bumping my shoulder slightly as she came to stand beside me.

I ripped my eyes away from Sam to glance at her. Her narrowed eyes had been focused on Wyatt, who was looking at her in a way my subconscious had tricked me into thinking Sam was looking at me.

With hunger.

Real hunger.

She somehow didn’t melt into the slack-jawed mess that I did with the stare of a world-professed rock god focused on her.

“Let’s go.” She glanced around to a corner full of leather and muscles, guys who could kill with their sheer heartbreaking and badass beauty. Oh, and their guns, I was sure. “Over there,” she decided, waving with her chipped fingernail.

My eyes flared at the suggestion. I had been treated with nothing but kindness since the beginning of this wedding, but then again, I’d done everything I could to make myself a part of the stained wallpaper. That was until Emma, who would never sink into any wallpaper on this world, had all but handcuffed herself to me. She was naturally in the spotlight. Not in the way famous people were, but just through a human quality that certain people had. The French called it je ne sais quoi. Americans called it awesomeness. The men around here would most likely call it hotness.

Wyatt let out a low growl at her suggestion, rocking forward slightly, as if he was intending on physically restraining her from going to the corner—where a man with piercing green eyes and a jagged scar decorating his handsome face was glancing at Emma with interest.

Then his green eyes met mine.

It turned out it wasn’t just men I’d been in love with in high school who turned me slack-jawed.

So I held his gaze.

A small grin painted the side of his face, moving his scarred skin upward to somehow make him more attractive. He lifted his beer at me in a virtual kind of “cheers” motion.

I swallowed and somehow, or someone, lifted my own glass back at him before returning to the situation at hand. Rather Emma’s hand, which was now firmly around my shoulders. I wondered if she put it there to use me as a human shield against the oncoming tattooed rocker.

Many girls would kill for that job.

Not me.

Luckily I didn’t have to commence in that job. Sam, eyes on me, this time with less of that light humor and a little more hardness that hadn’t been there before I met eyes with the green-eyed man, placed his own tattooed hand on Wyatt’s expansive chest. The gesture itself stopped him, though I didn’t doubt, if he wanted to, he could have plowed forward. The chest in question was wide, and the motion of Sam’s hand hinted at the sculpted muscle underneath. The rest of him was the same. Even though he was wearing a dress shirt, it couldn’t hide the shadow of his biceps and the width of his shoulders.

My eyes weren’t focused on that, though. They traveled along the tattooed skin of Sam’s sinewy forearm. The veins protruded against the ink, defining the line strongly while at the same time demonstrating that Wyatt wasn’t the only one who’d filled out since high school. His bicep bulged, visible because he wasn’t wearing a dress shirt, merely a tight black tee and leather pants that clung to every inch of his body. He could’ve been bronzed in that moment.

“Now, ladies, why would you want to go out for Nickelback when you’ve got Nirvana right here?” he asked, his voice fluid, easy, betraying none of that slight glint in his eyes. “I’m sure Wyatt and I can entertain you.” His eyes went to Emma, then focused on me with such intensity I jolted imperceptibly like I’d be shocked. “Thoroughly,” he finished, slowly taking a sip of the liquid in his glass, eyes staying on me over the rim.

I swallowed heavily, unable to look away, barely able to breathe.

Had I slipped through a tear in the space-time continuum? Was Sam hitting on me?

Me?

The hand around my shoulder tightened. “We don’t need to be entertained,” Emma said, her husky voice teasing and somehow mocking. She wasn’t addressing Sam, though. Her eyes were on Wyatt. “We need to be satisfied,” she continued. “Nor do we need to be exposed to whatever cutting-edge STD you’ve contracted, or more likely created, Sammy,” she said, eyes still on Wyatt. “You boys have a nice night now.”

Before either of them could move, we did.

I let myself be moved because it took a second for my mind to catch up with my body, and it was nice being able to breathe better when my lungs weren’t constricted under the weight of that confusing situation.

Now they were just being crushed by underwear designed to flatten all my curvy bits.

“Emma, I don’t think I’m well suited to speaking to….” I trailed off as she navigated us through the party that was beginning to get more rambunctious.

I spied Lexie and Killian in a corner. His arm was firmly around her waist. Not too firmly, considering she was still recovering from a bullet wound from a crazed stalker, but I still reasoned his grip was tight enough that death would be the only thing that could have a hope of prying him away from her. And from what I’d seen throughout their years together in high school, and at the ceremony not hours before, the grim reaper might even have some trouble there. Considering he’d already tried to take Lexie from Killian.

And failed.

Sometimes even death wasn’t strong enough to sever the ties of fate.

I jolted myself away from the happiness mixed with melancholy I had at seeing that. Because now we were close to the scarred man and his attractive friends.

The no going back kind of close.

“No, I know I’m not suited to speaking to these men,” I said firmly, trying to stop our trajectory that would have us face-to-face with hot guys in two point five seconds.

Though she was small, Emma was strong. I guessed that had a lot to do with her determination to get away from Wyatt.

She kept us walking but glanced at me, then my glass. “Shut your perfectly formed lips. Or fasten them around that. Once you’ve had some tequila, you’ll consider yourself well suited to talking to anyone.” A mischievous twinkle filled her eye. “Or, in my case at least, hopefully not too much talking.”

Then she winked.

Then we were in front of them.

I had two choices: drink the drink that she proclaimed would somehow have a magical effect over me and my social anxiety, or make somewhat of a scene and run out of here as fast as my wedged heels could take me.

I lifted the glass to my apparently well-formed lips.