Senior year. My last year at Whitney Briggs as an undergrad. You would think that thought alone would invoke a smile on my face, but, in fact, it has the power to do the exact opposite. It’s the chief reason I’m in need of a cold one.

The Black Bear Saloon is the university’s favorite alcohol-soaked watering hole and the same place I’ve spent the last four years eating and drinking my way through midterms and finals. Yes, when all is said and done, it would have taken me five years to achieve my four-year degree because, as my father likes to point out, I’m unfocused, too enamored by what the world has to offer rather than zeroing all of my energy into law. Which brings me to my next dilemma. Law school. It’s my father’s dream for me. Hell, it’s my mother’s, too. It might be mine on a subconscious level. Who the hell knows. All I do know is that my degree in poly-sci won’t get me far in the world without a graduate degree to give it some backbone.

A giant black bear, life-sized, stuffed to the hilt, is the first to greet me as I hit the bar, along with about a dozen sorority girls dangling off its limbs trying to garner that perfect selfie.

“Hey, Ax!” a few of them call out, and I tip my head that way while speeding inside. I’ve slept with my fair share of sorority girls, and I’m not proud to say I’m unable to I.D. every single coed who’s made her way onto my mattress. Much like law school, it’s a habit I’d like to break. But I’m done with sleeping around, done with losing my shit after drowning in beer and settling for the first skirt who flirts my way. Who knows? Maybe I’ll abstain from both one-night stands and all thoughts of law school for the next nine months. And then as soon as graduation rolls around I can reconsider.

I do a quick scan of the vicinity for Levi or Brody, a couple of buddies I’ve grown close to over the years at Briggs. There’s no one I recognize in the place tonight and that’s how I like it. It’s still hot and humid out, thus the scantily clad bodies thrashing around the bar. The energy level is still high as the student population rides out the final fumes of summer. Classes started last week, and it never fails to amaze me how new everything still feels at the beginning of each fall semester. As much as I hate to admit it, there is something magical about this season of my life. Living away from my parents has been a major plus, but it’s more than just getting out from under their thumb. It’s discovering who I am. And in doing so, I’ve done nothing for the last few years but wrestle with the idea of spending the rest of my life imprisoned in a law firm with my father, working for him, becoming him, being right back under his thumb once again—only this time forever.

I take a seat at the counter and order a beer and fries. My eyes skirt the periphery at the girls, an unspoken roll call that my eyes are accustomed to. Almost on a subconscious level I size up the girls, scope out the friendly smiles, narrow down the prospects, the home run propositions to see where my dick might land for the night. According to that growing need in my boxers, my short-lived opposition to one-night stands is a subject I’m no longer interested in. My stomach sours at the thought. The waitress jogs by and drops off two baskets of steaming hot fries, and just as I turn to catch her, my eyes hook on a stunning redhead seated in a dark booth near the back.

The world stops spinning. I can’t quite take my next breath. Her hair. It’s the first thing I notice. It’s an entity in and of itself waving up at me as the breeze from the speeding waitress dictates. The girl is beautiful. Coed no doubt, stack of books beside her, laptop opened, nose buried in it. She has a tall glass of iced tea at an arm’s reach and a smattering of appetizers to go along with it. I’ve never seen her before. She looks busy. On a mission, even. Might be waiting for a friend. Hell, probably waiting for a boyfriend. She has a no-nonsense look about her, but those features, that warm tanned skin, high cut cheeks, brows that rise to a pitch as if she’s either permanently intrigued or pissed. Maybe both. She’s dressed a little more conservatively than the bevy of short skirts prancing around. Jeans, white T-shirt, and both of those hug her body with curves I would love to spend some serious time cruising myself. But nothing about her screams one-night stand. Nope. If anything, she’s screaming leave me the hell alone. So I do the only thing I can think of. I grab my beer, my spare basket of fries and head on over.

“This seat taken?” I slide in across from her, and a pair of lime green eyes glow my way. My heart stops. The music blaring from the speakers, the laughter, the cackling of drunk sorority girls is quickly drowned out by the beauty of the angel before me. This is not your average sorority girl, not your average girl in general. This is the embodiment of the perfect woman. And then it hits me.

“I think I’ve just met my wife,” I blurt, hoping she’ll find the humor in it, but her features morph to something that denotes an oncoming homicide, and I immediately regret the error of my ways. “Um, the waitress—she accidently gave me an extra basket.” I flick the spare fries. “I thought you might like them.” I scoot the crisped potatoes sitting on a bed of greased paper toward her as if it were evidence.

“Wow.” Her eyes widen in a seductive yet threatening way that suggests without words that she’s up for slaughtering me for the greasy fry offensive. Okay, so it was most likely the lousy foreshadowing of all things matrimonial, but in my defense, I could swear on a stack of Bibles that I was right. Mrs. Axel Collins is alive and well in Hollow Brook, and she just so happens to be seated right across from me. “Three cheesy pick-up lines in a span of thirty seconds. Are you going for a record?” She gives a forced blink, so sharp it has the power to slice my balls off. “Let me guess. There’s a frat brat lurking out there with a stopwatch.” She glares accusingly at the crowd as if determined to confirm the stopwatch theory.

“Axel Collins.” I hold my hand out over the fries like a cholesterol-based peace offering. “And there’s not a single frat brat trained on us, I promise.”

She openly glowers at my hand as if it personally offended her, and judging by the track record I’ve accrued in this short span of time, it might have.

But then she relents, and her tiny hand is in mine for less than a moment. Tight, quick shake, nothing weak about it or her. She’s warm and soft, and like a pervert I memorize the feel of her skin.

She scowls at me as if I’ve just skinned a cat, then slides the fries back my way. “The only reason I’m not flipping this oil spill into your face is because you have an X in your name. We’re an exclusive club. Lex Ximena Maxfield. Triple X.” She pins a proud smile on her face that lasts less than a moment.

“Triple X.” I won’t lie—about a dozen triple X ideas just ran through my mind. “So Lex, huh? Short for Lexy?”

Her attention drifts back down to her laptop. “Short for Alexa. Go ahead and call me Lexy—see what happens.” It comes out like a threat, and in the few minutes I’ve known her I’d bet she’s more than capable of making good on those. I don’t dare test the waters. I opt for changing the subject instead.

“So whatcha doing? Working on a paper? Let me guess. 101? The English department at Briggs is a killer.” It’s a familiar move I’m employing, sizing her up. Is she cerebral? Obviously. My gut says English major, maybe liberal arts. But a Briggs girl? It’s up in the air. However, statistics tells me I’m about to find out. It’s an icebreaker I’ve used more than once, and more than once it’s unleashed a dam of information I wasn’t even trolling for. If it’s one thing I’ve discovered in my years of manipulating girls onto my mattress, it’s that they love to talk about themselves. Show an inch of interest, gain a world of knowledge, and most likely a bed partner for the next few hours.

“Wrong, wrong, wrong.” Her fingers continue to dance across her keyboard. “It’s research for a nutrition class. And I wouldn’t know about the English department at Whitney Briggs because I don’t go there. I’m at Barnes.” She collapses her laptop shut before leaning in just a hair, that rife anger still set in her eyes. A pulse of electricity bounces between us, boiling rage on her part, boiling lust on mine. “You know—the all-girls’ school down the road? The one where people of your genetic makeup aren’t wanted nor desired?”

A dull laugh rumbles through me. “Oh, sweetie, I’ve been desired and needed by a Barnes girl or two.” Something tells me I won’t be by this one, and in the mother of all ironies, I’ve never wanted a girl more.

Her shoulders jump with a silent laugh. “Why are you still here?” She’s openly glaring with enough hostility you’d think I ran over her grandmother. “You’re not getting lucky, so scat,” she hisses it out as if trying to ward off a stray.

“So, you’re the infamous blue baller at Barnes,” I tease, taking a long swig of my beer, never once taking my eyes off hers, and the level of rage I’ve incited in her only makes me wrap a smile around the lip of the bottle. Her eyes enlarge the size of quarters, her cheeks slap pink, and that mouth. I’d love nothing more than to take a quick bite of those hot pink lips.

“Leave the table,” she seethes. “Walk out the door. Keep walking into the woods behind this dump and never come out.”

“Whoa.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “Sorry this went sideways. I would like to take that walk, however—with you. Have you ever been to the overlook?” Ballsy move on my end, but hey, that oil slick I offered her hasn’t been thrown in my face yet.

“Oh my God.” She snaps up her things in a fury. “You’re like a hit man with the bad one-liners. I’d suggest you smooth your moves out—but by the looks of the skanks in this place, I’m pretty sure the first two sentences out of your mouth would have landed you a horizontal with just about anybody else.”

“Don’t go.” I land a hand gently over her wrist, and her eyes blow up half the size of her face. Her hair moves slowly back and forth licking the air like flames. It’s a standoff I never meant to incite, but she pushes her books away a moment and takes a fry from the basket I gifted her. “Thank you.” It comes out with a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “I was headed for a hike tomorrow afternoon with my sister, Emilia, but she canceled. I’m still headed out, and I’d love to have you join me. What do you say? You, me, the open trails, we can dip our feet in the Witch’s Cauldron—it’s a natural hot spring right off the main road.”

Those day-glow eyes hold their gaze over mine, and it feels like magic, as if the stars had aligned and everything was moving in the right direction. She’s considering it. I can tell. My heart drums so loud in my ears, it’s all I can do to strain to hear her response.

“We might even see a bear,” I throw it out there like the crappy lure it is and immediately regret the mammal I just tossed between us. What girl in her right mind wants to see a bear up front and in person? My father is right. My lack of focus is ruining a lot of things for me. “They won’t eat us or anything.” And that just made it better. Crap. I’d better go home and staple my lips shut.

She leans back in her seat and lifts a brow in amusement. “My God, it’s Darwinism at its best. You deserve to get eaten by a bear.”

My grin widens at this beautiful girl with balls the size of North Carolina. I’m intrigued, enamored, and desperately in love with the challenge—with her.

“I probably do. How about a movie instead? Coffee, dinner—any place of your choosing. I sense a beautiful relationship on the horizon.” Beautiful relationship? I have never used the R word with a girl before. But this is no girl. This is a bona fide vixen who’s cast me under her spell. “What do you say?” “The Piña Colada” song blares through the speakers, and I point up. “This could be our song.” I cock my head to the side as if teasing, but I think we both know that I’m dead serious. It’s shocking how I’ve gone from the king of one-night stands to begging for a commitment from the first girl who’s shut me down in ages. Ever. Some might say that’s the key, but there’s something far more mesmerizing about her than a simple shutdown.

“Look”—she shoves her laptop into her bag and hugs her books before scooting to the edge of the booth—“I don’t like piña coladas or getting caught in any kind of a hurricane—and I don’t like you, Axel with an X,” she bites the words out as she struggles to her feet. “Don’t come looking for me at Barnes, and most importantly—don’t forget to feed the bears.” She takes off, and I shout after her.

“See you on our next date! The fries will be on me!”

“Aarggh!” she howls as she hits the exit, and a dull laugh gets caught in my throat. I have never botched up anything so beautifully.

My God, I need that girl in my life. I’d die to have her in my bed. She’s already in my head. How the heck did she infiltrate so quickly?

It’s clear Alexa Ximena Maxfield is no ordinary girl. Her bark is just as angry as her bite. She’s the exact kind of girl I’ve been looking for all along.

Who knew?

I’d let her take a bite out of me any day of the week.

She’s already taken a chunk of my heart.