I load up my plate high with mini tacos and sliders before momentarily debating if I should get a second plate. Though I ate a few hours ago, my college-student instincts are still strong, and the lure of free food is a powerful one. Besides, I have a tendency to get nasty when I’m hungry, so feeding myself is really public service.

I am feeling even more on edge than usual. I attribute it mostly to the fact that in a few short hours, I am responsible for telling my sister that our mother is dead, and for ensuring that she doesn’t have a complete meltdown, so I can go to law school and finally escape the ever-looming shadow of my family’s legacy. I’m sure it would damper even the best of moods.

Still, I can’t help but feel that something else is nagging at me. As much as I want to deny it, I’m still upset about being manhandled like yesterday’s trash by my sister’s stupid bodyguard. It was bad enough that Jerry was gone, but then to have him replaced by some Scottish brute? And not only had he completely thrown me around, but he had the nerve to make fun of me, too? Of course, I knew the difference between Irish and Scottish. It’s just that when his penetrating grey eyes were locked on mine, it was a bit fucking hard to focus. His eyes are just so…intense.

God, why did I let him get under my skin? He was obviously doing his job, and if I hadn’t acted like some idiotic, stammering mute, maybe he wouldn’t have felt the need to carry me out of that room kicking and screaming.

At the memory of him effortlessly picking me up, a warm blush creeps up my cheeks. God, what was it about men being able to pick us women up that caused our ovaries to melt like that? It must be some lingering biological glitch. Or maybe it was the fact that in his grasp, I was able to sneak a touch of his massive arms and imagine the terrible, dirty things he could do to me with those mini tree trunks.

Egh, not that I would know. At twenty-one, I was a unicorn: a virgin by choice, and not because I wanted to wait until marriage or save myself for Jesus. Rather, my celibacy was one of the ways I kept people at bay. I had tried hard last summer to secure myself a one-night stand and ditch the V-card once and for all. I did the research, got myself a Tinder account, and made sure to stash my purse with a variety of condoms in different sizes. I had every logistical contingency planned for. When I had finally made it to the guy’s bed and saw the poster of my sister, wearing a hot-pink bikini that matched the streaks of pink in her blonde hair, hanging on his wall, I decided there was no way I could lose my virginity with my older, half-naked sister watching me. I made up an excuse and ran, deciding it was an omen that I was simply meant to be a virgin forever. Luckily, God had invented vibrators, so my suffering was minimal.

I plop down into an empty seat at a long table. Since the show is set to start soon, craft service is a ghost town. I instantly regret not bringing my book along so I could study. When I had seen Liam distracted with Melissa, I had taken the opportunity to sneak out. While in the room, I could feel his eyes on me at all times. It was a disquieting feeling. Even when I wasn’t looking at him, his presence overwhelmed me. How was I going to spend the next three months with this guy? And why was I so hung up on him? I did not get hung up on men. My only celebrity crushes were Joe Biden and Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

I stab my fork into the spaghetti on my plate, twirling it in endless circles. Studying, Gabby. Just focus on studying, I command myself, as I pull my thoughts away from Liam and work out a tentative study schedule in my head. My professor had recommended studying at least four hours a day. If I can get it done in the morning, I can spend the afternoons taking practice tests. What I needed to figure out was which section I should start on. I really need to strengthen my logic and reasoning…

My thoughts get interrupted when a large shadow crosses over my table. I drag my eyes up, but my body can already sense who it is.

Liam.

I can’t help but feel my face pull into a scowl. “Can I help you, sir?” I bite out, surprised at how bitchy my tone is. I am never bitchy. Well, that’s not technically true. I am pretty much always bitchy in my head, but never out loud. For a second, I consider apologizing for my tone, but then decide against it when I remember how humiliated I had felt earlier.

An amused smile pulls at his lips at my formal greeting. He arches his brow, a playful glint in his eyes. “Sir?” he asks, and I swear his husky Scottish brogue is literally making my skin heat. How can one freaking word cause my body to react like this?

I fight the heat pooling in my center and force my eyes back to my plate, suddenly feeling incredibly self-conscious about the mess of food stacked high.

Liam pulls out the chair across from me and sits down. It’s almost comical how ridiculous he looks sitting in such a small chair. I take advantage of the moment to steal another glance at him, instantly regretting it the moment I do.

He is frighteningly handsome. His strong, angular jaw is covered in a dusting of dark stubble. While I assume it would make most men look messy, like they hadn’t showered in a few days, it just makes Liam even more obnoxiously sexy. His thick arms are crossed against his chest, and his corded muscles ripple with every movement. He looks like he was crafted from every single forbidden fantasy I’ve had, late at night, with my trusty vibrator in hand. Never in my life had I come across a man who was so…masculine. I seriously doubt Liam has ever owned a pair of salmon-colored shorts with whales on them. God, why did that thought make me so excited?

His dark-grey eyes catch mine watching him, and I can see a dangerous spark in them. He’s arrogant, and I curse myself for so blatantly checking him out. The last thing this guy needs is another boost to his overly inflated ego. I force myself to break eye contact, shifting my attention back down to my plate. I shove another forkful of spaghetti into my mouth, hoping that if I stuff enough food in there, I can prevent myself from saying something even more humiliating.

When I still feel his eyes watching me, I get annoyed and drop my fork on my plate.

“Can I help you with something?” A large part of me balks at my rude tone as the words tumble out of my mouth. Even when I have been insulted to my face, told by my own mother to go throw up my birthday cake because I looked a bit “pudgy,” and been followed by a psycho paparazzi for seven blocks, I kept a polite smile pasted on my face. I feel a bit guilty, but more than that, curious: what is it about this man that seems to make me feel okay being so incredibly rude? And since when did I get such a thrill from being such a bitch to a complete stranger?

Surprisingly he doesn’t seem bothered by my tone. He actually seems amused, which only further irritates me. He shrugs his shoulders and leans back in his chair, stretching out his long legs in front of him and crossing them at the ankles. He waves his hand over me. “Just enjoying the view.”

I roll my eyes and push myself up from the chair. I grab my plate and toss it into the nearest trashcan. My heart sinks at the thought of all that delicious food going to waste, but the idea of sitting across from him for another minute is even more intolerable.

I hear his footsteps chase after me, but I keep up a slight jog to get away from him. Unfortunately, my six steps are equal to one of his, and he catches up to me in seconds. I feel his touch on my forearm and freeze instantly. His large hand is warm and completely envelops my arm.

“Look, Gabby, I’m sorry. Can we please just start over?”

I look down at my arm, where his hand is still resting. Following my eyes, he withdraws his hand and takes a step back.

“It’s fine. We’re good,” I reply as breezily as I can muster.

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?” I ask incredulously.

He shrugs his shoulders in response. “Bullshit,” he repeats.

I shake my head and plaster on my practiced smile. “Believe me, we’re good.” I turn to walk away, but then his hand is on me again, pulling me back.

“Don’t do that,” he warns, his voice gravelly and his intense eyes locking on mine.

“Don’t do what?” I ask, my voice just above a whisper.

“Pretend you’re fine when you’re not. Put on that stupid fake smile. You’re mad. Tell me you’re mad.”

“I’m fine, serious—”

“Bullshit,” he interjects before I can finish my sentence.

His lips quirk and I can see that he’s holding in a smirk. I feel my blood pressure rising and before I can stop myself, I shoot out, “Screw you!” and turn away from him one final time.