The only reason I’m at this college is because of him. How messed up is that? But it’s true. Rhett is why I’m at this university, and while I’m taking courses and actually doing well, all of that comes second to my true purpose.

To get close to Rhett Montgomery.

He could go to any college in the world, I’m sure, considering his family is so wealthy. But he chose to remain close to home and go to a state university near where he grew up, which is surprising. His mother went here, though, and I even read a newspaper article online that quoted him saying that he came here to be close to her, or some sentimental bullshit like that. Any normal girl would say, “Aw, how sweet,”, but I don’t get it.

What I do get is that I’m done with being scared. Hiding in the shadows for the first eight weeks of the fall semester is pretty damn stupid—and cowardly. I’ve wasted half the semester alone just following him around. But it took that long to even work up the courage to say something to him. Not that I was the one who approached him first. Of course, he had to notice me versus the other way around. The girl who pretended not to care about him, that’s the one he wanted to talk to.

Not surprising though. I discovered pretty early that boys love a challenge. I lost my virginity when I was fifteen to my first serious boyfriend, a loudmouth guy two years older than me who could burp the alphabet after draining almost half a keg at the regular Friday night parties. All the girls laughed and thought he was so talented and funny while I merely rolled my eyes and told my one friend—Lyssa, who I miss terribly—that I thought he should be embarrassed by his so-called skills.

Turned out he overheard my rude comment, and then he chased after me for weeks. I kept telling him no. Finally, I relented, broken down by his constant texting and walking with me in between classes. At one of those infamous Friday night parties, he got me drunk, took me up to his parents’ bedroom—they were away for the weekend, so it was his turn to hold the party—where he proceeded to kiss me all over my body and then take my virginity with a couple of swift pumps of his hips.

Once he got inside, it was all over in less than ten minutes. I was left with a searing pain between my legs, a wet spot beneath the mattress, and the dawning realization that I’d sacrificed my virginity to the boy who was popular for burping the alphabet.

Talk about lame.

But once it was over, it was over, and I could freely give away my body to any boy I might be interested in and not feel shame or guilt over it. It’s weird, but it was like once the bridge had been crossed, I never looked back. Any attention is good, right? Better than none at all. I’m not ashamed of the list of boys I’ve had sex with, but I’m not necessarily proud of it either. Mainly because I never loved one of them. I can’t even say that I cared for any of them. Not in a deep and meaningful way.

Does that make me callous? Probably. But sex is just sex. Love is for those who want to end up damaged for the rest of their lives. Look at my father, nursing his broken heart for years while the woman who ruined him for anyone else continues to live her life like he doesn’t even matter.

Love is for idiots who want to hurt. Love is for suckers who think they need it in order to survive.

Love doesn’t keep you alive. It bleeds you dry.

I can pretend to fall in love with Rhett, though. That won’t be difficult. He’ll take me right where I want to go.

This is why I’m hanging around the gross diner just off campus, the one I know he likes to frequent with his friends on a Saturday afternoon. The place smells greasy and I want to go home so I can take a shower, but instead I’m drinking a bitter cup of coffee and messing around on my laptop, scrolling Pinterest. Really, I should be studying, or writing the essay that’s due Tuesday. But I’m too anxious, too keyed up thinking about seeing Rhett and what I might say to him to concentrate on anything meaningful.

I’m not disappointed when I finally spot him either. He enters the diner within twenty minutes of my arrival, surrounded by his frat brothers. My stupid heart trips over itself at seeing his dark brown hair wind-tousled and his cheeks pink with health, wearing a black sweater and jeans. He looks like he walked straight out of a goddamn Ralph Lauren shoot, the all-American rich boy who can do no wrong. I ignore the tingles of electricity I experience when our eyes lock, ignore my fluttering, nervous stomach when he slowly makes his way toward my booth, that giant smile on his face unabashed in his pleasure in seeing me.

“Why do we keep running into each other?” he asks, his voice warm, his eyes sparkling as he takes me in, as if I’m the best thing he’s seen in a long time.

“Small town, I guess.” I shrug with so much fake nonchalance I pray he doesn’t realize what a phony I am. But he doesn’t. He’s too enthralled with me, which is unbelievable. I tried my best to look like the girls he takes photos with on social media, and I did it all on a budget too, while those girls probably spent way too much money on their hair, clothes, jewelry and whatever else they own.

Me? I sorta already looked like them. I’m a dark blonde, and if I had more money, I’d pay for highlights, but that’s not going to happen. Instead, I bought a cheap curling iron at Walgreens and practiced and practiced until I got the waves just right. He seems to like girls with wavy hair. Subtle makeup. Sun-kissed good looks and big, toothy smiles. Luckily enough, my teeth are fairly straight—thanks, Dad—and I never had braces. I’m blue-eyed and pink-cheeked thanks to my mother. I’m pretty, and Rhett seems to like them pretty.

What a superficial asshole.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” he says, that smile still curling his lush mouth. His friends are calling his name but he’s ignoring them, completely focused on me.

“I’m usually here in the morning.” This is a lie. Though my shift usually starts Saturday afternoon so normally I wouldn’t be here no matter what.

“Well, lucky me that you’re here right now.” His smile grows and I find myself smiling in return. I almost stop, almost wear the scowl that wants to appear when he’s around.

I need to smile, though, so I let go, offering him a quick one before I press my lips together, like I have to contain my excitement at his proximity.

We remain quiet for a moment, just staring at each other, and I’m not sure how this is happening but I go along with it. His friends are still calling his name, the waitress having already seated them at a nearby booth. They don’t want him talking to me. They want to bask in his attention for a few hours more.

I’m starting to get the sense that everyone wants to bask in Rhett Montgomery’s attention.

“Your friends are calling you,” I finally say.

He glances over his shoulder, then returns his attention to me. “They can wait.”

I’m surprised he’s putting talking to me above wanting to spend time with his friends. “Well, my homework can’t.” I gesture to the open textbook by my laptop. “Nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you again? That’s all I get?” He slides into the booth seat across from mine, leaning across the table like he wants to get closer to me. “I bet you don’t even remember my name.”

“I bet you don’t remember mine either,” I toss back at him, tacking on an annoying giggle after I say it.

He makes a face, like he knows I’m fake as hell. “Jensen.”

“Rhett.”

His smile is back, wider than ever. “You should come sit with us.”

“No, thank you.” My voice is prim, like a snotty rich girl’s would be. Wouldn’t they find it hilarious to know that I spent my teenage years living in a mobile-home-slash-trailer, in the decrepit old fifth-wheel my dad called our new home right before I started eighth grade.

One brow lifts. “My friends would love to meet you.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s true.” He glances over his shoulder again, and they call out to him, a couple of choice words ringing in the air. The waitress glares, stomping over to their table to give them a lecture I suppose, and Rhett whirls around so he’s facing me once more, his expression full of amusement. “Or maybe not.”

“Go hang out with your friends,” I tell him gently, wanting to give the impression that I am the perfectly understanding girlfriend. He might not have those types of serious thoughts about me—yet—but my good behavior can enter his subconscious, right?

“Jensen. I want to see you again.” He reaches across the table and touches the top of my right hand, his warm fingers practically burning my skin. I snatch my hand away from his, my fingers trembling as I clutch my hands together in my lap.

One casual touch from him and I feel like I’m going to erupt in flames.

It’s terrifying.

“I don’t have a lot of time,” I tell him, nibbling on my lower lip. Like it’s a major dilemma, being asked out by the hottest guy on campus.

“What do you mean?” He’s frowning so hard he’s got wrinkles in his forehead.

“I’m taking a heavy course load.” That’s true. “Plus, I work.” Also true. “Part-time, but it’s a lot to deal with.” Okay, that’s a lie. “And I just…I have so much on my plate.” Not so much that I wouldn’t use this guy to get close to the woman he calls Mom.

I can rightfully call her Mom too. Even more than he can.

Because here’s my big secret. The reason I want to get close to Rhett Montgomery. My mother, the fancy lady I saw in the magazines and newspaper articles my father had stashed in his desk, is named Diane Montgomery.

She married Rhett’s dad. He is my…

Stepbrother.

Talk about twisted.

“You gotta make time for fun, Jens.” No one has ever called me Jens before. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Working.” True.

“Where do you work?”

I do not want to tell him where I work.

“I clean offices at night, when no one else is around.” Lie. A big, fat lie.

He’s frowning again. “That sounds dangerous.”

Is he for real right now? “How?”

“If no one is around, that means the parking lots are empty, the buildings are empty. Some creeper could totally attack you when you least expect it.” My eyes go wide and he immediately leans back against the seat, shaking his head. “Sorry. I didn’t want to scare you, but you know what I mean.”

“I have a tiny bottle of mace on my keychain.” And I keep a pocketknife in my purse. I deal with a lot of creepers at work. He has no freaking idea how many.

“Good.” He nods, placated by my lame declaration. “You want my advice?”

“Oh, please.” Like this pretty boy has ever had to defend himself.

“Kick them in the nuts if you’re ever attacked.”

I nod, trying my best to remain solemn. Serious. “Good advice.” The best advice is go for the eyes and gouge them out if you can, but what does he know?

“Since you’re so busy, being a big time working girl and all, you probably need a break. You should go out with me tomorrow then.”

I’m taken off guard by his request. “But it’s Sunday.” What, like I go to church? Please, it’s more like I sleep in till the midafternoon since I don’t get home from work until late.

“So? Go to brunch with me.”

Where I come from, we don’t brunch. I don’t think I’ve ever been to brunch. Sometimes we would have to skip a meal because there was no food in the house, but I don’t think that counts.

“Um, what time?” I ask, trying to sound casual. Inside, I’m a bundle of nerves.

His smile returns yet again, flashing lots of shiny white teeth. “Eleven?”

“Eleven thirty?” I counter.

“Okay. Give me your number.” He flicks his chin at my crappy old iPhone 5c and then pulls out his fancy new iPhone, opening it with a glance, his fingers poised over the screen.

I rattle off my number, noticing the way my voice shakes, how my knees are knocking together. Crap, he’s making me nervous, and I told myself I wouldn’t get nervous. He enters the digits into his phone and I immediately have a text notification pop up on my cracked screen.

Grabbing my phone, I read his message.

Tell me where you live.

Glancing up from my phone, I send him a pointed look. “How about you tell me where we’re going and I’ll meet you there?” I don’t want him to know where I live. I really don’t want him to know much of anything about me.

The less he knows, the better.

“I wanted to pick you up. Be a gentleman.” He sounds sincere, which I find unbelievable. But maybe he is. Maybe Rhett Montgomery is too good to be true.

“It’s easier if I can meet you. I have to work tomorrow afternoon.” A lie, since I’m not on the schedule. Though if I wanted to go into work and catch a few extra hours, Don would let me.

Don’s my boss. He’d let me do whatever I want if I would only spread my legs for him, but I won’t cross that line. I might not take sex seriously, but I take having sex with my boss very seriously.

As in, I won’t do it.

“I’ll text you the restaurant’s name and address. I still need to figure out where we’re going.” He slides out of the booth seat. “Talk to you later.”

And then he’s gone.