I didn’t have Marcus’s cell phone number. Not being able to get in touch with him now was even more frustrating than after graduation. After an hour (and a therapeutic shower), I called work. Mrs. Blake was fine, so all I could do was fall into bed with questions and a body that still vibrated from his visit.

What had taken him away? Maybe it was nothing, and he just used the opportunity to run. It was that possibility that kept me tossing and turning most of the night.

When I woke up, it was with an aching body, itchy eyes, and a rash of questions. Maybe I was allergic to Marcus Blake.

I didn’t know what hotel he stayed at—if he even did. I didn’t have his phone number. Hell, the best I would be able to do right now would be to use the contact form on his book’s website, and my pride had some limits. I wasn’t a stalker, for god’s sakes.

My questions would have to wait. Everything would have to wait.

So I did. I tried to go back to sleep, but I lay in bed staring at the ceiling for an hour before giving up.

Part of the problem was that my body was still humming from Marcus’s ministrations. My nipples were sensitive and swollen against my sleep tank, and there was a deep awareness of recent activity pulsating between my thighs. I wasn’t sore down there, exactly, just… wet with the memory, and I knew that if I tried touching myself, I would feel twinges from where he’d ruthlessly fingered me.

It was so… intense. Just like Marcus himself. He’d always been like that—dark, brooding, passionate. That much hadn’t changed in the years. If anything, he’d lost his vulnerability. A knife twisted in my chest at the thought that I was partly responsible for that.

I busied myself for the rest of the weekend with housework. Cleaning my parents’ house took longer than the rented condo I lived in before, but not long enough to fully distract me. Sunday afternoon I decided to get lost in a novel on my “to be read” pile. At one point I put down the cozy mystery to have a nap on the couch, and the sun streaming through the window lulled me to sleep like a cat. It was dark when I woke, and I felt a little more refreshed.

No word from Marcus. But what had I expected? As far as I knew, he didn’t have my phone number either. I was annoyed with myself for being disappointed by not hearing from him. When the irritation faded, it left insecurity and paranoia in its place.

Maybe he’d just gone home, wherever home was. Maybe I’d never hear from him. Maybe I’d never meet him again. Maybe he regretted ever seeing me, touching me. Maybe he was somewhere, bragging to his friends about how he got back at the bitchy cheerleader…

Oh god. You can take the girl out of high school, but you can’t take the high school out of the girl.

By the time I got to work on Monday, I’d almost managed to put Marcus out of my mind—until I saw him after lunch, in the hallway by the nurse’s station.

He was leaning against the wall, his dark head bent over his phone. He was wearing a navy V-neck sweater over a white t-shirt, and some dark jeans and sneakers that made him look more like a Brooklyn hipster than a wealthy professional life coach—or whatever the hell he considered his occupation to be.

I hovered at the desk twenty feet away, wanting him to notice me. Silently begging him to notice me. Terrified that he would notice me.

He didn’t.

I walked—no, I slunk down the opposite hallway, my orthopedic shoes nearly soundless on the linoleum.

“Serena!”

My shoes squeaked as I rocked to a halt at the charge nurse calling my name. Shit. So much for my stealth getaway.

When I turned around, my eyes went first not to my boss, but to Marcus. He stood at the end of the hall, his back straight and his stormy gaze on me. Even from thirty feet away, I felt the pressure of his stare like the ridge of a thundercloud from an approaching storm.

My colleague cleared her throat noisily, and I hustled back to the desk. I nodded and made the right comments as she briefed on a couple of patients. Chances were, I’d have to ask her to repeat it all later. When she answered the ringing phone, effectively dismissing me, I had the chance to turn back to Marcus.

I didn’t.

I told myself that I was just giving him the chance to come to me, but the truth was that I chickened out. I couldn’t bear to see disdain or—worse—indifference on his face.

“Serena.”

I froze again, my heart thumping in my chest at his voice. When I got up the guts to turn around, his lips were curved in a small, secret smile. I swear the cushioned rubber soles of my shoes were the only things that stopped me from melting into the floor.

He walked to me. Good thing, because I was suddenly so boneless with relief that I doubted the integrity of my spine.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” I returned his smile, but I probably looked a lot dopier than he did.

What was the protocol for this kind of thing? Was I supposed to try to hug him? He stood far enough from me that if I tried something like that, I would look ridiculous if rejected. I wasn’t willing to risk that.

“I—”

“Where—”

We spoke over each other, then fell silent again as we waited for the other to continue.

“You’re back,” I said. Face palm.

His lips twitched. “Looks like.”

“Your mom’s doing pretty well today.” She wasn’t on my rotation, but I still stopped in a few times during my shift to see how she was. Every time I’d done so today, she’d remembered me.

I’d gotten more recognition from Mrs. Blake in the last twenty-four hours than I had from her son.

From the way that Marcus’s eyes darkened and he rubbed his chin, though, his recent memories of me were still pretty… clear. Heat rose in my cheeks.

“When do you get off?” he asked.

My lips parted. Yeah, my mind went there. “Uh…”

He chuckled. “Off work.”

“F-four. But then I have a meeting. A committee meeting for the Homecoming reunion thing,” I explained.

“I see. Will you be done by dinner time?”

“I should be.”

Silence. Part of me felt like I should make him work for it, whatever “it” was. The other part of me was afraid to assume anything, which was a smart defensive strategy when it came to Marcus Blake.

He sighed. “Will you have dinner with me, then?”

“Okay. Um, if you give me your number, then I can text you when I’m done at the school.”

His forehead creased, then his eyes widened. “I didn’t give it to you?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“I’m sorry, Serena.” I sucked in a surprised breath as he stepped into me and leaned down to brush my cheek with his lips. “For that, I’m sorry.”

Was there something else he wasn’t sorry for? I didn’t want to ask. I couldn’t stop myself from arching into his touch, though. My body drew closer to his, like a magnet.

“Serena…” he whispered. “Damn it, why? How do you do this to me?” he murmured against my upturned cheek.

“I-I could say the same thing.” He affected me just as acutely as he had in high school. Now I was older, wiser, and more experienced; yet he made me feel like I was seventeen again.

His breath was hot against my closed eyes—his lips grazing my eyelashes, the curve of my eye socket and brow, and the furrow in between my eyebrows.

“Marcus, please.” I was ready to beg him to kiss me, until I realized that a) I was at work, and b) he already kind of was.

“Please what?”

I needed his lips on mine. My tongue flicked out to taste his chin. It wasn’t enough.

“You want me to kiss you, don’t you?”

Whimper.

“I’m afraid,” he murmured against my parted lips. “I’m afraid that I won’t be able to stop.”

I completely sympathized, but I still pulled him down to me. I was willing to take the risk if he was.

His kiss was voracious, like he’d been missing me for days—wait, maybe he had. After one hard, full tongue kiss, he edged back to little pecks and nibbles on my lower lip.

“We are absolutely, without a doubt, having dinner in a public place.” His determined growl sent lightning bolts right to my core.

I nodded as his lips moved over my forehead. “Phone number?”

“What’s yours?”

In a daze, I told him. He pressed his mouth to the top of my head, inhaling sharply, then stepped back so quickly I almost lost my balance.

“You’re at work,” he reminded me.

Right. Work. I took a few steadying breaths.

“See you later?”

His hard hands went to my waist. I felt his touch like a hot iron through my scrubs. But he merely spun me around and prodded me forward. “Later,” he promised as he pushed me away.

Right. Work. Right.

When I looked back, he was gone. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

—Now you have my number.

More like Marcus Blake had my number, in every way.

And I couldn’t wait.

* * *

It was a typical committee meeting—too long and utterly pointless. I texted Marcus to tell him that it should be finished soon. God, I hoped so!

Lemmon talked and talked. Occasionally a tall, angular woman interjected; a former yearbook editor, I barely knew her in high school and even less now. Across the table, I avoided the assessing looks of one of the jocks who was part of my old crowd—Matt, maybe? Mike? I had selective amnesia when it came to my teenage years.

Just because I’d been roped into this committee didn’t mean I had to willingly involve myself in it. Thank god the whole thing would be over in less than a week.

“Serena?”

I blinked. “Sorry?”

“What do you think of the idea?”

What had they been discussing? Drinks? Balloons? “I think it’s… fine?”

“Great! So we’ll do the award for Mrs. Blake, Marcus’s speech, then Homecoming court crowning.” Principal Lemmon was pleased as the punch that would inevitably be spiked at the party.

“Marcus Blake?” Mystery Jock choked out. “He’s coming?”

“It will be so great! I think it will be something that the current students and the returning alumni will all remember.”

The douchebag across the table snickered. I narrowed my eyes, a sick, sinking feeling curdling my stomach. Was he one of the assholes who…

I’d known Brandon and his girlfriend had been directly involved in the sex tape scandal from hell. Hell, she bragged about getting her colorectal surgeon father’s probe camera to slip under the door of our hotel room. The rest of the gang quietly joined in the torture without taking any responsibility.

They thought it was hysterical. I was mortified.

Not because I was in the video—in fact, the “filmmakers” had cleverly edited it to not show my face. When someone pointed out that it probably was me, since I’d been seen at the dance with Marcus, my “friends” were quick to include me in their master planning—even going so far as to suggest that it was my idea.

It broke my heart that Marcus believed it.

Nobody was punished. Ten years ago, that kind of thing made its way through the student population like the Ebola virus, then the video and post mysteriously vanished before parents or the administration could get their hands on it.

The damage had been done, though. Marcus barely showed his face at school for the rest of the year. And I… I said nothing.

I was horrified, but too afraid of going against my “friends” to stand up for my real friend. For a month, I was like a ghost in Mrs. Blake’s English class, not even looking up from my desk. The empty seat beside me was haunted too, as Marcus had his mother’s permission to not show up to class.

For even longer, I emailed him—telling him… what? That it wasn’t my fault? That I hadn’t meant it if he’d seen me laughing with my friends about it? That I felt as violated as he probably did, even if I wasn’t the one with screen shots of my junk taped up on every third locker?

Now, as the meeting at the school adjourned, I walked through the building, remembering it all.

I passed the gym, where shouts from students and squeaks from their sneakers drifted into the hallway. Volleyball practice or basketball practice or who the hell cared? At the end of the week, I’d be roped into decorating it or putting out tables and chairs and setting up the microphone and loudspeaker system.

There were times when I felt stuck in the “anger” stage of my grief over my parents’ untimely death. Being pulled home and thrust in the scene of the crime was part of what pissed me off.

My shoulders slumped, as though just being here made my soul sag. When I rounded the corner, I saw Marcus standing at my old locker.

He just stood there, his hands curled into fists at his side, staring up at the number on the little metal plaque above.

“Hey.” I tried to sound casual and breezy as I approached him. “Did you just get here? I thought we were going to mee—”

“You know, I used this as my bank card PIN number for a long time,” he said.

I blinked. “What?”

With a lean, tense hand, he reached up and smoothed his index finger over the numbers.

Oh. That was a little… unexpected. “Why?”

“I really liked you, you know.” He said it like he was talking about a TV show. Or cheese. Actually, there might have been more passion in his voice for cheese. He tilted his head to one side as he pressed his fingertips hard enough for the number to be imprinted on his skin.

“I like you, too.” My voice was small. Liked. I meant “liked,” right?

His hand dropped. He pivoted to face me, his arms crossing over his chest. “Better not say that too loud. Not here. You have a reputation to protect, remember?”

Was he joking?

“Well, look who’s here! It’s Napoleon Dynamite!” The Jock came up behind us and slapped Marcus on the back. “I’m sorry, you’re all famous and shit now, right?”

Marcus gave him a cold look. I flushed hot, my skin prickling with fury and sympathy.

“I gotta ask, man—if you roll around in money, does it get rid of acne? Because I remember seeing some smallpox-type shit on your ass in that video.”

Marcus just stared at him with repulsion, like he was a cockroach found drowning in the salsa at a party.

The guy—what the hell was his name?—squared his shoulders and closed in on Marcus. He was bigger, broader, but his football muscle had gone to fat in the past ten years. Now he was just a big bully. Marcus was the same height, but lean and ripped. I had the feeling he could take this asshole down with his little finger—or a call to his lawyer.

I kind of wanted to see the little finger method.

“Nobody wants you here, limp dick. You or your crazy vegetable mom.”

I’d bet good money on Asshole Jock getting a shitty grade from Mrs. Blake. He was so pathetic, I wanted to laugh at him. His hands came up, as though he were about to shove Marcus against the locker.

In a flash, Marcus had his wrist in an iron grip and his arm twisted behind his back. The bully hit the locker face first.

“Oof! You little shit, you ow—”

Marcus pulled the guy’s arm up toward his thick neck with one hand and held the man’s other hand behind his back. “Let me explain a few things to you. I’ll use small words, so you’ll be sure to understand.”

I stifled a giggle at The Princess Bride reference.

“I don’t give a flying fuck about you, or what you think. I feel sorry for you. It must be hard to peak in high school. Let me guess, you work in retail now? You still live at home and sit around playing video games and getting high?”

The bully grunted, his face smushed against the locker.

“I made three million dollars last year, asshole. I traveled around the world, and people paid more to see me for one day than you probably make in a month.”

Marcus shoved the bully’s lower hand around, between his crotch and the locker. Chuckled. “Huh. I was going to point out that the only limp dick here is yours, but I guess not.”

I frowned.

“Being held down by a man gets you hard, does it? Or was it the talk of money—money that you’ll never have?”

He struggled. Yelped. “Serena, get this asshole off—”

Twist. “Don’t talk to her. You don’t get to talk to her. I resent the fact that you even exist on the same planet as her.”

So did I, frankly. Marcus jammed his knee into the back of the bully’s leg, making his knees buckle and bang against the metal. As he sagged, the position of his arm worsened.

“Leave her alone. Leave me alone. Leave us alone. Or you’ll find out what a lot of money and good lawyers can do. I will bankrupt you. I will bankrupt your parents. And if you think some dick pics around a high school was bad, then imagine being on the sex offender registry. I’m sure I could find a way to make that happen—even if it isn’t true.”

My shocked gasp was loud enough for Marcus to turn his attention to me. His face was a study in sharp contrasts—his expression blank but his mouth tight and his eyes narrowed into slits.

“Now, asshole,” he said to the jock. “I’m going to take this nice lady out for dinner—a privilege I’m sure you’ve never enjoyed. And maybe I’ll fuck her brains out. Again, a privilege…” He trailed off and winked at me, mouthing “sorry.”

“And neither of us will think of you again,” he promised. “Well, I might send your parents a sympathy card. I’d like to offer my sincerest condolences to them for giving life to such a loser.”

He dropped his hold suddenly, like some kind of internal timer had buzzed, and stepped back into the middle of the hallway where I stood. When he looked down at me, his face transformed with a soft smile.

“You okay?” he asked, wiping his hands on his slacks.

“Mmmhmm.” Actually, I was a little aroused. I wish I’d done something like that back then. I wish he had.

“Dinner?” He held out his hand, which I took without hesitation.

Don’t forget about fucking my brains out.