The sharp blare of a horn startles me from my reverie, and I jerk the steering wheel to one side, barely missing the BMW that had been approaching on my right as I tried to change lanes.

I clutch the wheel tighter, my heart pounding in my chest as I carefully maneuver my 1969 Mustang convertible across two lanes and into the parking lot of a Ralph’s grocery store. I pull into a spot, kill the engine, and drop my face into my palms.

What the devil is wrong with me? I’m a careful driver, I always have been. I don’t text, talk on the phone, or get lost in thought while I’m driving. I went to the classes. I saw the Driver’s Ed videos. I know what can happen if you’re not careful behind the wheel. And I’m most definitely not one of those people who believe that the bad stuff will never happen to them.

I know better, after all. I’ve pissed fate off once already; I’m not inclined to do it again.

Not to mention the fact that Griffin rebuilt this car himself and gave it to me for my twenty-fifth birthday. With its sky blue paint, shiny chrome trim and white leather interior, it’s about the prettiest car I’ve ever seen. So there’s no way I’d risk scratching her, much less wreck her. I named her Blue, and I totally baby her. Regular maintenance. Monthly detailing. And absolutely no reckless driving.

Griffin’s always telling me I’m not letting Blue live up to her full potential, although he usually says that after a couple of drinks and with his narrowed eyes laser-focused on me. I ignore him, though. Both the blatant statement about the car and the more subtle indictment of my life.

So despite Griffin’s repeated protests that the engine is a dream and I should take Blue out to the desert, put a scarf over my hair, and open her up, I think Blue and I are doing just fine.

Or at least we were until I almost drove her into the side of a silver Beemer. But that wasn’t my fault. Not really.

That little near miss is all on him.

Wyatt.

Once again, he’s filled my head. Once again, he’s made me lose control.

He’s dangerous. To me, to my heart, and to everyone around me.

With a sigh, I let my head fall back against the leather. I’ve turned the AC off, and the sun beats down on me, making my mind drift back to the summer before I turned sixteen.

I’d been happy—so ecstatically happy. At least until the moment I wasn’t.

And now here I am, putting all my hopes in the hands of a man I know only too well I should run from.

But I can’t.

And the secret, horrible, deep-down truth is that I’m not even sure I want to.

“Kelsey,” I say to the sky. “You’re a mess.”

I frown. To be more specific, I’m a mess who’s about to take her clothes off in front of who-knows-how-many gawking men.

Clearly, I’m a crazy person.

Determined. But crazy.

I sit up straight and grab my phone to call Nia. Not only do I need to chew her out for not telling me that W. Royce is Wyatt Segel, but I also need her wardrobe advice. Because despite umpty-billion dance recitals over the course of my life, I don’t have a clue which of my costumes I should wear with an eye to removing it.

Unfortunately, I only get her voicemail, and after leaving a message, I slide my phone back into my purse.

Am I really going through with this?

The question echoes loudly through my head, and the answer comes just as swiftly on its heels. I am.

And Wyatt better show up. Because if he’s not in that audience, I’m out of luck.

With a grimace, I reach for the keys still hanging in the ignition. Time to get home, plan my dance, pick a costume, and hyperventilate.

If my dad could see me now . . .

The thought shoots through my mind, an unwelcome irritant that’s been in my head ever since I blurted out my plan to Wyatt. Like a pebble in a tennis shoe. Always there, but sometimes more painful than others.

But Daddy can’t see me. Daddy’s in Georgia doing landscaping work for the same commercial development company that’s employed him for over a decade now. So he has no way of knowing what I’m doing, much less that I’m stripping. And if he ever does find out . . .

Well, by that time, I’ll already have the money and Griff will be enrolled in the protocol and I’ll weather the storm of his disapproval.

Not that lying sits well with me—that’s another one of those things I never do, because I can still feel the sting of Daddy’s belt all too well. But in this case I’m not lying. I’m just not telling.

I roll my eyes, annoyed with myself. My dad’s not even in the state, and I’m making up excuses. Not that I’m surprised. I’m nervous about tonight, and my mind is jumping to all sorts of places. Anything at all to keep from settling on my sexy dance—or the man I’ll be performing it for.

I’m about to back out of the space and head home when my phone rings. I shift into park and reach for my purse, certain it’s Nia.

It’s not, though. It’s a number I don’t recognize, and since I recently applied for teaching jobs at three different dance studios in the Valley, I answer the call with a chipper, “Kelsey Draper.”

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” Wyatt says, as if we’re already in the middle of a conversation.

“It’s probably not,” I admit. “But I need the money, and it’s the best idea I have.”

“Hmm,” he says, though it’s more of a sigh and seems a little sad.

I try to stay quiet, expecting him to continue, but I can’t keep my mouth shut. “You’re coming tonight, right? You’re going to give me a chance?”

“Why did you run? Back in Santa Barbara. Why did you run away?”

The question is so unexpected, it pushes me back against my seat. I sit stunned for a moment, then answer quietly, “Does it matter? I already apologized.”

He laughs, a harsh sound in his throat. “Even now, you can’t own up to it. Or are you still playing the same damn game.”

“What game?” I ask, recalling his quixotic statement from earlier. “What are you talking about?”

“Let’s not go there, Kelsey. If we’re going to do this, let’s at least try to be honest.”

“Do this?” I retort, my temper flaring. “Does that mean you’re hiring me? Because if it doesn’t, I’m not sure what this is.”

He doesn’t answer, and this time it’s me who makes the hard scoffing noise.

“You know what?” I demand, the ferocity in my voice fueled by irritation. “You’re being an unfair son-of-a—well, you’re a jerk.” I rush on before he can squeeze in an argument. “Maybe I screwed up back then, but you weren’t exactly innocent. You screwed up, too.”

He’s completely silent. No sounds of disbelief. No laughter. No breathing.

I pull the phone from my ear and check the display, wondering for a moment if he’s hung up on me. But the connection is clear, and there are four bars of service.

“Hello?” I press.

His answer is a single word that seems fragile against the weight of this conversation. “How?”

I shouldn’t say anything. I know that. But now that I’ve seen him again, it’s all so fresh. So painful.

But against my better judgment, I whisper, “When I left. You didn’t even try to come after me.”

I hear him draw a breath, but he doesn’t speak.

“Wyatt?”

“Nine o’clock? That’s what time you said, right?”

“Does that mean you’re coming?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” he says, and then the line goes dead.