Rowen Garret is a sex god, a sex machine, a carousel of carnal fun that the coeds at Leland University have been known to hop on regularly, both in and out of football season. I’ve known this simple fact for years, and now the entire free world is in on this non-secret. His body is far leaner and meaner than I remember it. You could sit down and have dinner on those biceps of his. And forget about eating on those rock-hard, heavily sculpted abs—they’re the only thing you’ll be hungry for once you’re within biting range.

“You’re staring—scratch that. You’re outright drooling,” Vi trills as she dances with her fruity-colored cocktail in an effort to divert my attention. The two of us have actually managed to herd ourselves to the Underground Tavern—the unofficial-slash-official—university bar situated just a mere hop and sorority skip from campus. Neither Vi nor I are actually interested in the Greek system, seeing that it might require more human interaction than either of us cares to offer. We prefer to stay safely tucked away in our dorm at Canterbury Hall. But tonight, the Leland Cougars brought home their first football victory—correction, Rowen Garret single-handedly commandeered the win—nevertheless, it’s led to the mandatory celebration at our own alcohol-soaked watering hole, and Vi and I have decided to venture out of our dorm to join in on the alcohol-laden fun.

Vi—Violet Hathaway—is the first person whom I both met and liked once I arrived at Leland University. I’m not a people person by nature. No offense to the entire human race, but I’m more of a connoisseur of fictional characters than I am interested in those of the flesh and blood variety. I’d choose fiction over reality any day, and most days I do.

“I’m not staring,” I’m swift to inform my bubbly, redheaded roommate. Vi is a walking testament to her Irish gene pool with that pale skin, eyes the color of a four-leaf clover, and all the other Irish, redheaded charm she exudes. We have that whole Irish thing in common, sans the fact my hair is several shades darker, and I’m far less excitable about life than she is in general. “And for sure I’m not drooling. I’m admiring. There’s a difference.”

I glance down at my equally tutti-frutti drink and swirl its contents in my hands. The drinks are both virgins, as are the girls nursing them. And trust me, Vi and I have no problem with either. She let me know she came close to giving up her V-card last summer just prior to a breakup from hell, and for her sake, I’m glad she didn’t go through with it.

But tonight isn’t about breakups or tossing all caution and our aforementioned V-cards to the wind. Tonight is about making a small effort to unify with the rest of the Cougar family over our first football victory.

Along with our first game, it’s our first time at the Underground Tavern. It’s nice, in a cozy, dungeon-like frat house way—or at least the way I envision a frat house—with its dark paneling and almost garish display of school colors in the required cardinal and gold. There’s a house band on a tiny stage near the back, and a bunch of girls have kicked off their heels to swing their hips and fist pump to the rhythm. Much to my relief, the bar also serves food, so that takes all future pressure off hiding the fact I don’t actually imbibe or have the propensity to swing my hips while mildly threatening the house band with physical violence. Not that those fist pumping girls look as if they’re threatening anyone with anything but a good time. It’s just that with my resting bitch face and all around nonconformist attitude, I might look like a one-woman terror threat.

A waitress breezes by with a heaping plate of nachos that looks as if it has everything mouthwatering under the sun piled on, and it makes my stomach wish I had something in it other than sugar and ice. The waitresses have been hauling out a steady stream of nacho heaven all night, assuring me that I’ll spend many a night for the next four years sitting right here enjoying both cheesy goodness and a cheesy cover band.

My eyes snag on Rowen and his fresh out of the shower, school-issued polo wearing perfection, and my insides squeeze tight. I’ve seen Rowen around campus, and each and every time my body gives off some biological response, assuring me of the fact it’s still very much interested.

“Simply admiring?” Vi hitches her thumb at him, and I all but swat her before I block her view of the hero of the night.

“Let’s not give him any more attention than he deserves. Besides, I know him.” I swallow hard at the admission. It’s been so long since he was removed from the official friends and family list and relegated as nothing more than a mere acquaintance—a turn of events that I would have never believed if someone would have told me all those years ago—but I doubt I really know him anymore at all.

Those emeralds she calls eyes nearly shoot right through me. “You know him?”

“Yes, but don’t get excited. I don’t know him in the carnal sense.” I’d tell her to get her head out of the gutter, but, with Rowen, the gutter is the next logical step. Just as I’m about to fill her in on this seeming miracle, Ember pops up and knocks her hips into ours, baptizing both of our sweaters with our matching tutti-frutti drinks. Lucky for us, we opted to wear our matching L.U. sweatshirts in the obligatory shade of cardinal, so it’s not much of an issue.

“How are my witches and bitches?” Ember—September Sparks—is just as lively as her quasi-curious name suggests. Vi has let me know in the past that if I think Ember is a character, wait until I meet her mother. And since parent day is coming soon to a campus near you, I can attest I’ll be the first in line to meet and greet her. Ember has proven to be ceaseless entertainment these last two weeks. Fall semester is just getting underway, and with Ember and Vi around, it feels as if I’ve been at Leland all my life. Everything about them, about Leland, is familiar, comfortable like a pair of well-worn shoes.

Ember is also doing time in Canterbury Hall, in the dorm room next to ours to be exact. She doesn’t really care for her persona non-grata roommate, so we’ve sort of adopted Ember as our own. She’s cute and impossibly petite, with a headful of long caramel-colored curls and bright blue eyes that are rimmed with lime green. She’s one of those effortless beauties that makes both men and women alike straighten in her presence.

Vi hikes her brows, amused. “Sophie, here, was just going to fill me in on her one-night stand with Randy Rowen.”

“That’s disgusting.” I’m quick to frown at the idea, but my thighs tremble at the prospect. “He’s like a brother to me.” Now that’s a lie. “Actually, he was my brother’s best friend. They sort of drifted apart.” Sort of drifted apart? More like blew apart with the subtlety of a nuclear missile. I take a sip of my drink and try not to avert my eyes at the brevity I just allotted their lifelong tumultuous relationship. “Rowen and my brother, Braden, were pretty tight for years, right up until Rowen broke his girlfriend’s ruby red heart. Soon thereafter, Becca, the ruby red girlfriend in question, ended up with my brother.”

I try to shrug it off as if we had long since mended from the trauma, but, the truth is, that laceration is still split wide open and bleeding. I guess some wounds never really heal.

“That sort of killed their budding bromance,” I continue. “Rowen hasn’t come around in years. Becca is still there, though. She and my brother are sort of a fixture now.” Becca is okay, but it’s been three years, and we’re not really all that much closer than we started when she and my brother first got together. I always imagined that once Braden was finally snapped off the market, his new girlfriend would become the sister I never had—shopping, braiding each other’s hair, I wanted the whole nine girly yards, so I sort of feel gypped in that respect. Those are the very things I once had with Mindy, Rowen’s little sister. She was my best friend right up until we fell into that fissure our brothers created. We chose sides, and they weren’t with each other.

The breakup happened three years ago, and it still feels like a fresh trauma. That violent lamps-knocked-to-the-floor-windows-shattering fistfight Rowen and Braden had bounces through my mind, and I bounce it right back out. I hurt just as much as Braden did during that terrible time in our lives. He lost Rowen, and I lost Mindy. Braden and I are three years apart, and Rowen and Mindy are exactly that. I always felt our families fit neatly together. Our parents all got along great, too. Our mothers would buy Mindy and me matching Christmas sweaters each year and the four of us would go caroling through our snowy neighborhood. I miss those happy days. I miss my mother’s twinkling smile.

Braden and I lost our mom to cancer when I was fourteen and he was eighteen. Rowen was the first to hug me after the funeral. I’ll never forget the words he whispered into my ear, I promise you’ll never be alone. I’ll make sure of it. And then a few years and a rotten breakup later, he was gone. That simple promise evaporated right along with him. That’s when I realized people don’t really mean what they say, especially not in times of tragedy. It’s just word vomit to get them out of an uncomfortable situation. If my life were a book, the words Rowen whispered would have meant something. They would have resonated like some sort of anthem and been the cornerstone of some ridiculous happily ever after.

Instead, Rowen is the star quarterback of the Leland Cougars and the self-appointed one-night stand king in all of Moon Ridge—all of Colorado, for that matter. His mattress moves have been vetted by just about everyone with ovaries, west of the continental divide. Which is probably why the blonde, breasty masses are encircling him at the moment as if some naughty nightly ritual is about to take place. It most likely is.

“So?” Vi nods over to the swelling crowd of estrogen overtaking Leland’s crowned carnal king. “Why don’t we head over and you can introduce us?” She bites down over her strawberry-stained lip as a strangled purr emits from her. Even though Violet went through a horrible breakup last summer, she claims she’s over it and ready to hunt and trap with the best of us. Only I’m not particularly in either hunting or trapping mode these days, so she’ll have to set her traps solo.

My eyes flit toward that tribal circle quickly forming around Leland’s prized quarterback as the girls start in on some sexual chant I’m loath to decipher. I’ve had a mean crush on Rowen Garret for as long as I can remember. Just being in the same room with him makes my body heat spike, my cheeks catch fire as if I’ve just tripped and fallen into the hottest part of my own sexual sun.

The thought of introducing my new friends to a boy I hardly know anymore is the last sober thing on the planet I’m willing to do.

“No,” I flatline, turning my back to the baller in question. He’s good at sacking them by the dozens. I’ll give him that. “No way, no how. He’s practically a stranger to me now. Besides, I’m horrified at the thought of how many girls he’s twirled over his man parts over the last few years. He’s a walking venereal disease. Trust me, none of us are vaccinated enough to be in a ten-foot radius of him or that harem of hussies that follows him around.”

“Speaking of man parts.” Ember twitches her blonde head toward the epicenter of what I’m sure is panning out to be a whole new strain of viral herpes. “Kendra Pierson let me in on a not-so little tidbit during the game. Turns out, Rowen Garret’s boy toy actually has a rather crude and rude moniker all of its own.”

My heat index hits critical mass at the mere mention of Rowen Garret’s boy toy. Way back when, Rowen was a nice guy, one of the best, and I would have bet good money that I would never be embroiled in such a rude and crude conversation regarding my friend’s manhood just a few years down the road. But then my mother died and the world turned itself inside out, and now it seems the rabbit hole I’ve fallen into is a never-ending carnal cluster of surprises—Rowen’s need to impale an entire bevy of girls with his flesh-covered sword being the biggest of them. No pun intended.

“Well? I can hardly stand the heat—I mean suspense.”

Ember twitches those sparkly pink lips. “The Colossus.”

Vi shakes her head. “As in the roller coaster?”

“Yes.” Ember glances back at our amusement park hero. “Word on the heavily trafficked walk of shame is that his woody is one wild ride that takes you to heights only someone of his—colossal size—for lack of a better word, can take you.”

There have been times in my life that I have felt as if I were about to simultaneously pass out and vomit, and this is most certainly one of them. As much as I hate the idea in theory—Rowen Garret owns my heart. He has since that first day my sleepy six-year-old eyes landed on him. There are some people you need a lifetime to love and others you give your heart to at a glance, and Rowen fell into the latter category for me.

I do a quick sweep of the vicinity in the event Braden and Becca may have accidently stumbled into this chaos. Not that they would. For the most part, Braden and Rowen have entertained a well-choreographed ballet of avoiding one another these last few years—so much so that my brother, the football aficionado, once player for the Cougars himself, hasn’t been to a game in years. Correction, he and Becca attend every game of our crosstown rivals, the Bixby Bears. As much as my brother can’t stand the sight of Rowen, he wasn’t actually going to give up his love of screaming his vocal cords into paralysis from the cheap seats.

“The Colossus, huh?” I’m stunned into submission, and that’s something that doesn’t happen too often. I’ve ridden the Colossus a time or two—the old wooden roller coaster, not the new and improved Garret version. All of that bobbing, the side to side swaying, the whiplash twists and turns, that final gravity defying loop…

I glance over to Rowen, and my panties melt on cue. “Sounds like a harrowing ride if you ask me.”

Vi waves me off with the flick of her wrist. “I’m sure he’d manscape for an old friend.” She gives a cheesy wink from over the rim of her glass.

“I said harrowing not hairy, and eww by the way. I’ll pass. I’m not one for cheap thrills. Speaking of which. There’s something else I’m glad we passed on.” I nod to the oversized, bright orange sign pinned to the wall that we’re all but holding up. The scare tactic All slots are nearly full! is printed thickly over the words Be a part of social relations history in the making and sign up now for a chance at LOVE! The Social Experiment wants and needs you today! “Just the way they capitalized the L word lets you know they’re mocking it.”

The Social Experiment is all anyone on campus has talked about since move-in day, a month before the semester ever began. Dexter Houston, a questionably esteemed member of the psychology department, is heading up what I’m guessing will pan out to be Leland’s first and last public foray into hostile dating waters. They’re in the process of recruiting guinea pigs, then penning them in with one another until they undeniably find true lust. The only thing they’ll most likely find is an incurable form of gonorrhea.

You can’t go ten feet on campus without hearing Dexter’s name whispered like some demonic chant. He’s cast some sort of delusional hex upon the entire student body, and the media is picking up on our misfortune.

Vi clicks her tongue at the desperate orange sign just begging for another fool to splatter their heart over the dotted line in hopes of landing their very own rejection. I’ve read the fine print. The entire nightmare will be filmed and aired on some no-name YouTube channel in hopes to make Dexter Houston a billionaire off the backs of unsuspecting coeds—and I do mean backs. How the university can okay this titillating travesty has me rethinking my Cougar pride.

Vi leans in and lands an arm over both Ember and me. “They’ve asked that we come in tomorrow at three to get our assignments.” Vi shrugs while Ember and I try to decode the word vomit that just gurgled from her. “The people at TSE.” She nods. “That’s what the minions that actually man the fort at the Social Experiment call themselves—TSE. I signed the three of us up just before the game.”

“What?” Ember and I balk in unison, only my balk is more of a cackle because there is no way in hell I’ll be front and center, ready and willing, to see what the TSE dating gods have in store for me. Rumor has it, every chess club on campus, every frat house gamer, and every beer pong champion alike have signed up for a chance at free hickeys. No thank you. I’d rather have a beer bong enema than be forced to speed date the entire campus geek squad. Not that I have anything against a single member of the aforementioned groups—it’s just that my level of perfection has been slightly skewed by a boy who has traded in his good name for something akin to a ride at an amusement park.

“I’m not kidding,” Vi insists. “They offered a fifty percent off one item in the student store for every two friends you referred. And seeing that you two were the only two friends I have, you fit the bill.”

A waitress breezes by with a heaping plate of everything under the sun nachos, and Ember grunts as if she’s about to upchuck a plate of everything under the sun herself.

Em forces a smile. “What, pray tell, did you purchase with the blood money, Violet?”

“That cute little floral cardinal and gold paisley scarf I’ve had my eye on. It reduced the price from fifty-nine ninety-nine to a flat thirty bucks—a totally doable price. And I’ve already decided we can share it. You’re welcome.”

“You’re kidding.” I’m still laughing, but truthfully, this entire conversation has gone from hilarity to horror. “There’s no way I’m hocking my heart so a bunch of faceless people in white robes can document their findings. It’s ridiculous. No one finds love under normal circumstances, let alone herded in groups like a bunch of laboratory sexed-up rats. You of all people should know that.” Okay, that was a low blow, but after being sold out for a paisley scarf—that I’m only half-convinced she’ll be willing to part with on the rare occasion, it felt rather justified.

“You’re right.” Vi’s eyes glitter with moisture, and now I feel like a grade A ass. She gives a few steady blinks. “If anyone has learned that love is nothing but a joke, it’s me, but that’s sort of why I did it.” She ducks a little. “I thought maybe I should get back out there. And if anything, this will force me to do just that.”

“God—yes.” I’m quick to wrap an arm around her. It’s clear poor Vi is just trying to get over that monster that stomped all over her heart. I don’t have all the details that went into the breakup, but I’ve known Vi just long enough to surmise she’s the kindest, nicest girl on the planet, and anyone who hurts her has to be an egotistical asshole. All I know for sure is that his name is Lane Cooper, and that’s only because she’s used his proper name once. Every other time she’s referenced him as Lame, which is totally fitting. In my opinion, if you ever come across someone whose name rhymes with something that can be construed as ridiculously idiotic, I’d take it as a red flag and run the hell away.

I clear my throat and offer a solemn nod to Violet. “We’re in total support of you doing something so creative to get back out there. We’ll be your biggest cheerleaders. We’ll even help you plan outfits and be your glam squad on game day.” There. Violet has two built-in cheerleaders, ready and willing to support her from the safety of the sidelines. What more could she ask for?

Ember spikes a well-manicured finger in the air. “Coffee is on me after your first experiment.”

The only clue that Dexter and his small army of clinicians have offered is that the experiments won’t be conventional, and they won’t be the same for everybody. Not only is your mystery date the equivalent of playing testosterone Russian roulette, but what you might be doing with them—to them, is just as much in the perverted air. Which derives a big fat no thank you from me. I’m plenty happy curling up with a good—read dirty—romance novel on what’s panning out to be a typical Friday night.

Vi shakes her head so fast her earrings ring like chimes. “I can’t do it alone. That’s why I need the two of you. There’s no way I would ever do something so scary, so out there and off-putting all by my lonesome.” She hooks her arm through mine and her other through Ember’s until we form a shorthand version of a chorus line. “You’re my new best friends. You’re all I’ve got at this overpriced, oversized university. Besides, by the time we graduate, we’ll practically be sisters. And what do sisters do best? They stick together!” She ends her quasi-cheer with a kick, and I’m quick to groan at her pep rally tactics.

Ember coos as if Vi just produced a puppy dressed in a suit—there actually was a puppy stuffed into a makeshift tuxedo as a part of Alpha Nu’s recruitment strategy in the quad this afternoon, and swear to God, it was the cutest damn thing I have ever laid eyes on, but I digress.

“No,” I cut Ember off before she coos her way into submission and lands us both in hot sexual waters tomorrow afternoon.

“Yes.” Ember knocks my knee out with a gentle nudge from her own, and I’m forced to do a quick curtsey. “We will gladly help our friend in need. Besides, she’s already spent the fifty percent off coupon. You wouldn’t want the student store employees to come after her with a Cougar emblazoned baseball bat, would you?” Ember’s navy lashes blink like rabid birds. “What’s one little date going to hurt if it means helping a friend out?”

“Yeah, Soph.” Vi gives my arm a sharp tug and pulls me in close until I’m getting high off the toxic scent of her sugary perfume. “What’s one little dating experiment going to hurt? Who knows? One of us might actually find true love.”

“True love!” Ember is quick to toast the oxymoron before knocking back the rest of her drink. And I’m starting to feel like a moron myself because I can’t seem to fight the urge to resist the madness.

“True love.” I glance across the room at that crowd of coeds surrounding Rowen Garret and his colossal manhood. The sea of sorority girls parts just enough, and his eyes magically latch onto mine. My body catches fire as every muscle in me paralyzes with fear, and just like that, the carnal crowd closes in on him again, but his searing gaze is still set my way. Something about that soulful glance has incinerated me right down to the marrow. This tiny physical cue is the most communication we’ve shared in years. And for the life of me, I cannot guess what he’s trying to say. Does he even recognize me anymore?

“Well?” Vi hops up and down, inadvertently breaking my trance, and I’m thankful for it.

Something in me burns all right—with anger this time. Who does Rowen think he is looking at me that way? Acting like the carnal class clown? Giving his attention to every girl on campus while gifting my brother and me the middle finger by way of his silence—granted, Braden would gift him the middle finger for trying to break his silence, but still.

“Oh, why the hell not,” I blurt in frustration while both Vi and Ember squeal and gyrate their hips to the music blaring over the speakers.

“Tomorrow is a new beginning, girls!” Vi pulls us toward the dance floor.

“To new beginnings!” Ember shouts and laughs as if she doesn’t have a care in the world, and she doesn’t. And for the first time, I’m feeling that way, too.

“To new beginnings!” I shout just as I spot Rowen leaving with a blonde prospect for the night. And just like that, my enthusiasm fades as quick as it came. Something tells me it’s going to take more than some laboratory experimentation to get over Rowen Garret.

I accidentally gifted my heart to him all those years ago, and I have no idea how to get it back.

The entry to the psychology department is crowded with eager bodies. You would think they were giving away keys to an entire slew of brand new SUVs instead of a chance to humiliate yourself on what amounts to worldwide television.

Violet, Ember, and I stand in a line that only seems to grow longer as the minutes tick by before miraculously—and suspiciously, just at the moment I was about to hop out of this hotbed of insanity—we end up face to face with a rather bedraggled looking staffer whose name tag reads Missy. Her glasses are poetically crooked, and her hair looks as if it’s doing its best impersonation of withstanding an electrocution.

“Names?” she barks with the tenacity of a drill sergeant, and I shoot Vi a look that suggests there’s still time to duck and cover, but Vi simply leans over and gives her all the first-name-surname details the girl seems so hungry for.

Missy scans the paperbound database before her. And what the hell is that crap anyway? Isn’t the whole idea of the Social Experiment supposed to be quasi-avant guard and edgy? Why isn’t this valuable data nestled somewhere on a Google spreadsheet the way God intended rather than a phone book thick manifesto that looks straight out of the dot matrix printing era?

My right foot begins on a manic tapping spree that I’m hoping will morph into an involuntary sprint leading me very far, far away from this throwback from The Dating Game. If Braden had an inkling of what I was signing up for, my overprotective, over analytical brother would steer me to another, far more nefarious part of the psychology department to have my head examined.

“Sophie Meyers?” Missy slides her thick-framed glasses up the ridge of her slightly crooked nose.

“It’s Meyer,” I say as politely as possible without sounding like an ass. I’m not sure why I bother to correct anyone. In all honesty, my relatives probably should have tacked on an S to the end of our name once they crossed Ellis Island all those Irish immigration decades ago.

“Congratulations!” She bats her magnified Colorado blue-sky eyes up at me along with a hesitant smile. “You’ve been bumped into group A. There was a dropout at the last minute. So if you don’t mind, you can step through those doors where you’ll be briefed on the nature of your experiment before our lawyers meet with you.” She wrinkles her nose as if the mention of professional legal eagles isn’t really something to get my pretty little head worked up over. And really? It’s probably not. I mean, it’s not as if I’ll be frisked and taken in for questioning. It’s probably a cakewalk—literally. How suggestive is this Dexter dude really allowed to get on the university’s watch, anyway? It’s not like the Dean is going to allow some porn flick to piece together, involving seventy percent of the student body no less. Yes, The Cougar Report, our resident fish wrapper, actually suggests this raw data is true. Seventy percent of my peers think one mass swipe right is a very good idea.

“Actually”—I pull Vi over and place her front and center so that Missy here can feast her crooked little opticals in the right direction—“you can give my slot to my newly minted best friend. I’ll take whatever spot you were about to give her.”

“Nice move,” Em whispers from behind, and I give a slight nod, rather proud of how quickly I was able to think on my desperate-to-run-like-hell feet.

“No can do.” Missy drops the manufactured smile from her face, and in its place is the mask of fear. “Professor Houston—I’m sorry, he’s not a professor. I’m not to say that.” She takes a moment to scold herself, and by proxy scares the hell out of the three of us. “Mr. Dexter Houston is adamant that his placements are purposely directed. I can no more move your placement than I can move this building. What’s designated on this paperwork for you is written in stone. It’s destiny.”

My mouth falls open at her odd level of devotion to this love guru who has one very public breakup on his résumé as his only means of recommendation for this circus he’s commandeering.

“Yes, you can,” I assure her. “I was bumped into group A, and I can just as easily be bumped right out of it, Missy.” I couldn’t help but tag it with her name. It’s not my fault that when given the right inflection it could be misconstrued as a putdown. “It’s not written in stone. It’s not even written in binary coding. It’s written in pencil, the least reliable source of inputting information next to sand. I’m betting I can wipe my finger over that number sitting beside my name—and presto—you’d be forced to put me at the bottom of that list.”

Vi stomps down on my foot so hard with that cobbler’s hoof she insists on donning, aka wooden Swedish clog, and I bite down over my lip to keep from yodeling out in pain.

“Don’t ruin this for me, Soph.” She blinks those impossible puppy dog eyes up at me with the waterworks already going, and I’m beginning to think she has an internal faucet attached. I swear on all that is holy, I’ve never before seen a person cry on cue like Vi. It’s some sort of black magic they taught her at that pricey boarding school she was reared at.

“Fine.” I force a tight smile, stepping into the limelight once again, and Missy couldn’t be happier. Even her hair seems to be standing up a little straighter with pride at the fact she’s wrangled yet another sucker into the Dexter Houston dating ride from hell. “You got me.”

“Group A meets right through those doors,” Missy sings with excitement and most likely relief.

“Great. We’ll head right over as soon as my friends get punched in.” Let’s hope for Vi’s sake I won’t be tempted to do a little punching myself after this miserable day is over.

“No can do!” Missy sings, two for two with the catchphrase. I’m beginning to think everything that comes from her mouth is canned straight from the Dexter Houston script she’s been threatened to read from. “You’ll have to go it alone.”

Great.

Vi gets second round, and Ember gets the third, groups B and C respectively.

“I’m getting the feeling The Social Experiment gods believe strongly in the divide and conquer technique.” I scowl at the dark mouth of the building I’m questionably destined to walk through.

“Sorry.” Vi makes a face, and for a moment, I’m tempted to give her my name badge. Why couldn’t she be Sophie Meyers with an S? Technically, I’m not Sophie Meyers. That one extra consonant could cost their purposefully directed, paper and pencil destiny-bound registry one serious misstep. The only thing I’m destined for is one crap ride.

Vi’s shoulders sag as her watery lime-colored eyes blink back tears once again, and she’s got me.

“Don’t be sorry.” I adjust the collar under her sweater. Vi is the only girl I know who actually understands how to pull off layers as effortlessly as a department store mannequin. “I’m thrilled to do it.” And, at the moment, Vi is the only girl I know who I would voluntarily lie to just to maintain peace within our friendship—but just this once because I completely detest a liar. “I’ll meet you guys back at Canterbury with all the dirty little details. Go on, get some coffee and send some good luck vibes my way. This is all about finding true love, right?”

The two of them offer up frenetic nods, and we hug it out before I march straight into that dark, unknowable hole that might as well be the bowels of that four-letter word I’ve yet to see, LOVE. I take a deep breath as I follow a sign that reads The Social Experiment with a thick arrow pointing to a room that emanates an unreasonable amount of light.

Don’t go to the light, my heart screams.

But my body never seems to listen.

I was totally wrong about that whole cakewalk thing. I am very much frisked and taken in for questioning. They do a complete purse and body pat down, searching for what I’m assuming is the mace I might inevitably need when paired up with the sex-deprived frat boy who crawled out from under his Xbox. (I may be sex-deprived myself, but that’s beside the point.) Nevertheless, the quasi-physical assault was nothing compared to the machine gun questioning that spanned a painful twenty minutes by a panel of five pimple-faced peers who—swear to God, if I catch on campus, I will cut a look that will be far more lethal than any contraband I might have tried to sneak by their TSA-worthy search squad. Ask me to rate my morals on a sliding scale one more time and see if I don’t turn my bracelet into brass knuckles. I’m here on scholarship. It’s no coincidence I survived thirteen years of the Moon Ridge public school system. Not that the Moon Ridge public school system would invoke a sense of dread in anyone in their right mind, but still. I can smell a trust fund baby a mile away, and I’m looking at five of them.

Shortly thereafter, I’m sent to hair and makeup, where I’m treated to a blow out and all of Sephora’s finest offerings. I almost don’t recognize myself once the glam squad fairies work their magic on me. I run through legal and sign the next six weeks of my life away. Apparently, one hot mess of a date does not an experiment make, so six painful weeks it is. I’d make a run for it, but they’ve already dusted my face with enough sparkling highlighter to make sure I have that Chernobyl glow you can quickly spot in a crowd. There’s no blending in or turning back now. Finally, I’m escorted into a room decorated with reclaimed wood, black glossy floors, and dozens of cameras all zeroed in on yours truly. Nothing awkward at all.

A smiling young man with a clean-shaven head speeds my way wearing a sweater vest and torn Levi’s. “My name is Seth Bradshaw. I’ll be your sensory guide for the entirety of your journey.” I heard spirit guide, and now I’m questioning whether or not I’ve signed up for an out-of-body experiment that I’m pretty sure is totally against my religion. If that’s not basis enough to turn and run like hell, what is? In fact, weren’t the last words my mother spoke to me—don’t trust a man in a sweater vest?

Okay, kidding. Bad joke at that, but at the moment, I’m sweating right down to the soles of my feet.

“Your assignment is simple,” he continues. “I’ll lead you to the room in the back. The lights will be out. You’ll be in complete darkness.”

“Darkness? As in zero light? As in Edison-the-asshole’s-great-electrical-heist-of-1879-will-not-be-permitted kind of a darkness?”

His brows twitch with confusion. “Yes. Pitch-black.” He pauses a moment in the event I decide to throw another historical curveball his way. I don’t usually go around memorizing hard dates, but they just so happened to cover that tidbit in American history the other day. “A bell will go off, and the partition between you and your suitor will be removed. You’re in a small space, so you’ll be within touching distance. This will last for thirty seconds.”

“Back the train up.” I hold up my hand, and he ducks as if he’s already dodged a fist to the face more than once today, and I’m betting he has. “Touching? Let me get this straight. I’m in for a round of Seven Minutes in Heaven, only I don’t have any clue as to whom I’ve paired me with?”

“Bingo. The objective is to kiss—if you wish.” That rubber band smile snaps back on his face. “Follow me. You’ll be a natural. Would you like a breath mint?”

“No thanks.” God, what did I eat for lunch? A burrito? An egg sandwich? I can’t think straight to save my halitosis-riddled life. “On second thought, yes.” Although I’m pretty sure I won’t be smooching with anyone in the next few weeks, let alone minutes. The legal team made it clear that all kissing, loving, touching, squeezing is strictly voluntary—and strictly the point—but at any time either my suitor or I say the word no all bets are off. The TSE team will monitor our every move, assuring me that I should feel safe no matter what situation I’m put in.

Seth hands me a mint that probably has its own rating on the Scoville heat index, and I painfully chomp it down, turning my entire digestive tract into a peppermint fun factory should my suitor’s tongue decide to dive for stomach acids.

“And then what happens?” I ask, hardly keeping up with him as he leads me toward a door that reads talent only beyond this point.

God, I’m not the talent, am I? I don’t have any talent to speak of, unless you count the fact I can pick up loose change off the floor with my toes, and that’s strictly quarters only.

“And then”—Seth pats my shoulders down as if ironing out the wrinkles on my sweater—“we turn on the lights for ten seconds so you can assess one another.”

“After that?” I’m almost afraid to ask.

“The lights go back out, and you have a thirty-second window to continue doing whatever it is you were doing.”

“Kissing.” Or in my case ducking—decking sounds more like a possibility. Although, for Vi’s sake, I might be up for a quick peck. Just the thought of kissing a total stranger in the dark has each nerve in my body screaming with alarm—and as much as I don’t want to admit it, a little titillated with excitement at the very same time.

Seth grunts as he shoots a disproving look to the door. “Believe me, people have been getting a lot more mileage off of different body parts in there this afternoon.”

“Oh.” I take a half-step back. “You’ve disinfected, I’m assuming.” I’m going to kill Vi. I’ll use that paisley cardinal and gold scarf she’s purchased with my virginal blood to do it with.

A red light blinks on overhead.

“He’s in.” Seth moves me to the door.

“He’s in?” Every cell in my body hits its panic-riddled zenith as I’m shoved into the dark pit of the cool, dark room that slightly smells of a pine-scented scrub down.

“And you’re in, too,” Seth sings. “One rule. You don’t say a single word.”

Just like that, the door closes, and I’m swallowed by a thick blackness I have never known before. A horrible fear grips me, and just as I’m about to scream and pound my way out of this university-issued tomb, I hear the slide of the partition pulling away and a pair of warm hands pats over my arms. Without hesitating, I glide my palms over a sturdy chest, higher still until I reach what I’m guessing is three-day old scruff—something I find sexy as hell, and I’m instantly aroused. Stupid, stupid hormones.

He takes a step in and cups my cheeks, and I can feel the heat of his body as he edges in closer still. His lips touch over the side of my face, gliding down until they hit pay dirt and our mouths brush over one another, bumping against one another softly.

My nameless, faceless suitor smells nice, spritzed with just the right amount of what my senses tell me is very expensive cologne. The scent of fresh peppermint emanates from his breath, and for a moment, I’m thanking God I opted for the mint from hell.

His lips move over mine slowly at first, then hard and lingering until my mouth falls open and I let this nameless, faceless, minty, expensive cologne wielding boy into my world. His tongue brushes over mine, and a pulse of electricity rides along each bedraggled nerve in my body. My fingers press into his steely arms as my mouth drinks down the heady, earthshattering movements his lips deliver to mine. My God this boy can turn water into wine with this blessed mouth of his. The ferocity picks up and soon he’s delivering something darker, deeper than the simple peck we started off with. These are deliberate kisses—I want to bed you kisses, let me take you home with me and I’ll show you what else I can do with my mouth kisses. His mouth moves greedily over mine and I can’t help but moan with approval—with wanting. This stranger has me captivated, desperate for one more moment locked at the lips.

I’ve kissed a boy or two. But this? It’s as if I’ve never lived, let alone touched my lips to another human being. My heart rages against my chest as if begging the moment to go on forever. Wave after wave of adrenaline fills me until I’m about to die a thousand sweet deaths by way of this soft electrocution.

The lights blink on and we both back away, calm at first, then with the sting of panic.

Shit!

That kiss wasn’t gifted to me by some errant frat boy who crawled out from under his Xbox. That kiss was gifted to me by none other than Leland University’s very own star quarterback, Rowen Garret.

It’s Rowen.

I’ve just kissed Rowen.

Rowen Garret just had his tongue in my mouth, and I’ve lived to tell about it.

He stares back at me with those serious deep gray eyes, that gorgeous dark glossy hair I haven’t seen this close up in eons, looking every bit the sex god he purports to be. Dear God, Rowen is cuttingly handsome to the bone, and I’ve just committed the single physical act I’ve dreamed about with him for the last twelve years.

And just like that, the lights go out again.