My tiny beach bungalow looks like love has thrown up all over it.

Literally.

I’m not kidding.

Red foil hearts hang from the ceiling. Bowls of candy kisses and those stupid conversation hearts are everywhere. You know—the ones that read, “Kiss Me,” or “Hubba Hubba,” or better yet, “Be Mine.”

Seriously, I’m not sure in my gray state of mind I can handle this right now.

My thoughts are interrupted by the familiar tune of my cell.

Sighing, I try to hold all the grocery bags with one arm while I pull my ringing phone from my purse and look at the screen.

The name Elliot flashes before me. Elliot owns a men’s store on Melrose Avenue that only sells jeans.

Not suits.

Just jeans.

And much to my dismay—no, scratch that, I’m trying to be positive, so I will say much to my delight—he only wears denim. And I mean he wears denim—like from head to toe.

Elliot’s sense of style aside, I went out with him last week, and we had a pretty okay time. More than okay; I almost had fun. Yet, when he tried to kiss me, I found myself pulling away. Feeling almost blue, I couldn’t let anyone else touch my lips because I wanted to keep remembering Keen’s lips on mine.

Honestly, I can’t take this state I’m in. I need to forget him. And yet, I can’t. It’s never taken me this long to get over a breakup. Usually within three days I’m on to the next guy, a week at the most. Besides, what Keen and I had doesn’t even qualify as a breakup.

Ring.

Ring.

Elliot’s name continues to flash on my screen. I still don’t answer it. I like him. I do. Still, I don’t answer his call.

Don’t look at me like that.

It has nothing to do with him.

Seriously, I can’t.

My hands are full.

Even though it’s been almost two months, I still crave Keen’s touch. Man, letting go of something that I never really had is so much harder than I thought it would be. Than it should be. And it’s pissing me off.

Working has helped a lot. I’ve thrown myself all in. I’m a fashion merchandiser for Simon Warren. It might be a few levels under fashion merchandiser, more like a grunt. And sure, I got the job through nepotism. Still, I’m really good at working with men’s apparel as opposed to women’s.

I think I finally found my niche.

Simon Warren sells the sexiest men’s dress apparel. Fitted shirts. Flat-front pants with the lowest waists. Tailored jackets. Ties in the brightest colors and boldest patterns. Always on trend. Always modern. Always so yummy. I can’t help but talk them up. After all, I’ve been around these lustful objects my entire life.

You see, my mother started working for the company when it first opened its doors right here in California. And that was before I was even born. When I wasn’t even quite a teen, she moved us to New York City to launch the women’s division, and I mourned the loss of menswear. I’m pretty certain she did too because not even ten years later, she moved back to West Hollywood.

Once I finished college, and got fired a couple of dozen times, I moved to California to be closer to her. And since my grandmother had passed and left me her beach house, it made sense. So for the past few years I’ve lived in Laguna Beach, and up until two months ago earned a living by lifeguarding until I decided it was time to reenter the real world.

Sadly, my mother had to return to New York City last year when the company started experiencing financial distress. I really miss her.

That’s all about to change, though, with Cam now at the helm. I just know he is going to turn things around.

Rounding the corner into the galley kitchen, all I can see is food. Bags of chips and containers of salsa are on the counter, trays of something or other that once had faces are sitting on the stove, and something that smells a lot like hot dogs or wieners are in the oven.

Gross.

Setting my bags full of kale dumplings, veggie sticks, hummus, pita chips, and black bean dip down, my eyes land on the massive stack of heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. The ones that contain all those fillings that as a kid I poked my finger inside of before I ate one, then left the ones I didn’t like in the box for someone else.

And the covering of the boxes is satin.

Satin!

My blood starts to boil. “Makayla!” I scream over the music. Not just any music, either. “Little Things” by One Direction. A love song.

A. LOVE. SONG.

At an Anti–Valentine’s Day party!

It’s outrageous.

When Makayla doesn’t answer, I yell even louder for her to account for what the hell she is up to.

The timer on the oven dings and I open it. On a tray are at least two dozen hot dogs wrapped in crescent rolls. I turn it off and shut the door. “Maakkaayyllaa!” I shout one more time.

Here’s the thing—I don’t believe in love. Lust, yes. A million times over, but love, no—it’s not for me.

When there is no answer, I go in search of her. The house my grandmother willed to me is small, but nice. With a galley kitchen, family room, and master bedroom downstairs and second bedroom upstairs, it’s plenty big for two but not that big that I shouldn’t be able to locate her whereabouts.

When I don’t find her anywhere inside, I head back to the kitchen and step out onto the outdoor patio.

Oh.

My.

Fucking.

God.

All put together in tight skinny jeans and a red silk top with silver pointy flats, Makayla is up on a ladder streaming red heart lights all across the patio. To make matters even worse, there are red plates and red wineglasses on the bar. Oh, and red rose petals are sprinkled everywhere.

The sound of the door slamming closed behind me makes her twist around, and the waves of her light brown hair move with the same grace she carries. “Maggie, you’re home from work early,” she says with a smile.

Just starting her jewelry company, Makayla works from home. Now that I have a full-time job, I drive to either the headquarters of Simon Warren on Melrose, the distribution center in Santa Monica, or our locations up and down the West Coast. Depending on my whereabouts that day, sometimes I stay overnight at my mother’s house in West Hollywood. Sometimes I come back home. Since today is Friday, and I’m having a party, I came home.

Hating to crush the cloud she’s floating on, I take a deep breath and try to control my ire. “Yes, for the party,” I respond. Okay, so the word party might have come out through my teeth.

She is staring at me.

I look down at myself in my tight white blouse and even tighter black pencil skirt. “What?”

She shrugs. “You just look so—”

“Plain.” I cut her off.

Every day, I feel like I’m playing dress-up in my mother’s clothes. That’s probably because they are hers. Right now, buying a new professional wardrobe is way beyond my means. Besides, like Makayla, my mother has always had style, unlike me. She’s just shorter than I am, and a little thinner, too, so everything looks—different on me.

Money issues suck.

“You have to do what you have to do” is what my mother has always told me. And I hope to be able to live up to more than just Katherine May’s style. Her determination is awe-inspiring.

Like me, my mother was an only child raised by a single mother. My grandmother’s family had come from money made during the California Gold Rush, a time when loose gold nuggets could be picked off the ground. The money survived generation after generation, but now it has almost run dry. I look around. Sadly, this bungalow is the last of the wealth for the May family.

“Nice,” Makayla counters. “Really nice.”

The distraction isn’t going to work, and I refocus. “Makayla,” I say matter-of-factly.

“Yes,” she answers innocently as she takes the last two steps down the ladder.

I glare up at the heart lights and then lift my palms to indicate our surroundings. “What is all of this?”

Pulling her brows together as if confused, she steps toward the round table. “What do you mean? They are decorations for the party.”

Trust me—she’s anything but confused. She’s so up to something. The song changes to “Kiss Me” by Ed Sheeran and I jab my finger in the air. “This is not music I would expect to find on an Anti–Valentine’s Day playlist.”

What I’d expected is something like “Wrecking Ball,” “Single Ladies,” or even “Yesterday.”

So my mood, lately.

“About that list,” she trails off in a whisper, her expression anxious as she begins to pour a glass of wine.

Makayla is all about lists. She is organized. Put together. Always dots her i’s and crosses her t’s. To be honest, she’s as close to perfect as any one person could possibly be. And I turn to her whenever I feel like my disorganization needs organization, which I did when I needed help planning this party.

My party.

My Anti–Valentine’s Day party.

Accepting the glass of wine she’s handing me, I narrow my eyes at her. “Yes, about the music list, and the food list, and the decoration list. What happened to them?”

She takes a sip of her own wine. “Oh,” she waves a hand, “I didn’t think you were serious. I thought we were just messing around when I helped you create them.”

With my feet screaming in pain, I reach back and take my heels off one at a time. I miss my Converse so much.

Pain relieved, I glare at her. “No, I wasn’t kidding. I was serious. Black hearts. Hate songs. A vegetarian menu. Singles.”

Makayla sets her glass down and turns to fold up the ladder. “Okay, well, I improvised.”

“Improvised? No, you clearly ignored me.”

Leaning the ladder against the brick wall, she puts her hands on her hips. “No, I helped you plan a party that people would attend. No one wants to mourn love even if they don’t have it in their lives. People want hope, not despair.”

“Fine,” I mutter, “you might have a point, but you’re still not getting a thank you.”

Focusing anywhere but on me, she bites her lip. “In my defense, Maggie, we don’t know very many single people.”

She has a point. Brooklyn and I seem to be the only two left standing lately. And even then, people think we’re a couple and that the manwhore is cheating on me under our roof with all his loose women. I liked it when he took that vow of celibacy last year. Which lasted a whole two months.

Speaking of the manwhore, where is he?

If he couples up with someone tonight, I’m so going to kill him too. That crush of his certainly doesn’t seem to have any halo effect.

Damn him.

Makayla clears her throat. “You okay?”

Nodding, I gather my thoughts, which admittedly have been a little scattered when I’m not at work. “I emailed you a list of people. Didn’t I?”

She heads toward the side path that leads to her house. “Yes, you did. And most of the people responded with a plus one.”

“Why did you even make that an option?” I call as she rounds the corner.

No answer. Okay, I guess I’m having a Valentine’s Day party.

Yay, me!

Sixty minutes later I’m dressed in a white blouse with black hearts on it and cute little red short shorts. I match more than I’d like, but I’m too tired to spend much time picking anything else out. The black hearts on my top stand for the only anti left in Anti—Valentine’s Day Party anyway.

A glance in the mirror reminds me of just how tired I am. My straight hair hangs limp and although I should wash and blow-dry it, I decide to braid it mermaid-style and pull it to the side. After putting in a large pair of hoop earrings, I think about taking a nap, but instead force myself to look at my shoe options.

Boots.

Heels.

No way. Converse it is. One black and one red. No, one pink and one red. Maybe two black? Yes, two black.

Strange, I don’t think I’ve worn them together before.

Opening my French doors that lead to the beach, I breathe in the salt air and look out at the waves crashing on the shore. The night is cool, but the smell of smoke and burning wood nearby tells me Makayla has started a fire out on the outdoor patio.

How can you not love her?

Closing my door behind me, I step onto the sand and head around to the outdoor living area that is now glowing red. “Silly Love Songs” is playing and I shake my head. Wonder if she’d kill me if I turned a little Taylor Swift on. And not the lovey-dovey stuff. Her more angry songs. Something like “Picture to Burn.”

Snickering to myself, I open the gate and see all the people laughing and having fun. Yeah, I think she just might kill me if I change the song right now.

Wine. I need wine. And lots of it.

Three hours later I’ve had enough cabernet and so has Makayla that we’re both singing The Cure’s “Lovesong” karaoke style.

I guess Cam and Brooklyn had something to do. I didn’t really catch what, with all the noise and the distraction of watching couples hugging and kissing. But honestly, I don’t mind because I get to spend the night with Makayla.

This is the first night in so long I can remember not thinking about Keen since he dropped me like a hot potato. If you’ve ever had that happen to you, you know there are stages you go through—the initial pain, the “screw you,” the reflection, the rebound, the relapse, the hate, and then finally the acceptance.

Yep, I’m still in the hate phase. I hope soon I will be able to forget all about him and his wicked ways. Yet right now every time I slide into bed alone, my mind goes to him, and how much I hate him. I know Taylor Swift must have written a song about this very situation.

I need to spend some time really listening to her lyrics and find it.

The fire dies and the cool air forces us to move the party inside. Food is everywhere, and I don’t even care that chicken wing bones seem to be surrounding me. With a satin heart in my hand, I poke the bottom of each chocolate looking for the orange and raspberry ones.

After I find a pink one, I pluck it in my mouth. “Oh, God, this might be better than sex.”

Makayla, beyond drunk herself, grabs one and shoves it in her mouth.

“You didn’t even check to see if it has nuts,” I scold.

“Why would I have to do that?” she responds around a mouthful of chocolate.

“Because those get ejected immediately.”

Shaking her head, she grabs another. “No, that’s crazy. Nuts are the best. The bigger, the better.”

“Makayla!” I mock gasp, bringing my hand to my forehead in disbelief.

She makes a noise that could be construed as X-rated. “I’m serious. They are so good.”

At that we look at each other and laugh.

And laugh.

And laugh.

The song changes, and we sing along, moving to the beat like we’re onstage in front of a crowd.

“Stay right here,” Makayla slurs when the song finishes.

“Okay,” I tell her, looking around the spinning room, thinking I’m not sure I could go anywhere anyway. I think my Valentine’s Day is just about over and I survived it.

When my eyes land on one of the gleaming hearts, I smile. They really are pretty. Suddenly, Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend” blares overhead. I search the small remaining crowd and find Makayla pointing between her and me. “This is our song!” Makayla shouts over the music.

“Thank you,” I mouth to my best friend.

God, she has no idea how much I needed this tonight.

With a grin a mile wide, I hop onto the coffee table in my family room and use the top half of the heart box as my microphone. She follows, holding something that looks like it was once a folded paper heart. Oh right, it was a victim of my anti-love rant some poor soul had to listen to earlier.

There aren’t many people left, but Makayla and I are rocking it out. Singing. Dancing. Laughing. Having a blast.

The door opens and the cool night air floats in. In my fuzzy state, I notice Makayla jumping down and rushing toward Cam, who is just walking in.

Unable to stop myself, I continue my performance solo. Singing. Shaking my hips. Turning in circles.

When I twirl back around, I notice Brooklyn has come home and is staring at me up here with sober eyes.

Now, I can’t have that. I beckon him forward. And he comes. Hopping up on the table beside me, I make sure someone hands him a bottle, and then I turn to sing to him. Serenading him because he, too, is one of my best friends.

Making a complete fool out of myself is something I really don’t care about. I bump my ass to his, my hip to his, my front against him. This is Valentine’s Day and it is my party. The song is coming to an end, so I go all out. Moving to the beat, shaking my ass and swaying like I am the lead singer, blaring my vocals into the pretend microphone.

And then in the matter of a single glance everything changes.

The sharp ache of betrayal knifes across my chest.

My knees go weak.

The room starts to spin even faster.

My body is shaking.

And I sober up faster than I ever have.

Time to get off this table.

Behind Cam is a dark figure silhouetted by the shadows. But I’d know him anywhere. Chiseled face, chiseled nose, chiseled chin, and chiseled body.

Before I can get down, a wide swath of moonlight illuminates his face, and all I can see is his eyes. Those blue, blue eyes. Eyes that gazed into mine. Eyes that songs are sung about. Eyes I never wanted to see again. Yet, no matter how hard I try, I can’t force myself to look away. Like two sapphires, they are on me, and I, God help me, like that they are.

“Maggie, you okay?” Brooklyn shouts. That’s when I realize I’ve fallen from the table and somehow landed on top of him.

Standing up straight, I pat myself to check for physical damage, and then look down at Brooklyn, who is laughing uncontrollably at me.

Popping up to his feet, he is perfectly fine, so I don’t have to worry about him. Instead I concentrate on willing my heart rate to slow down, but it won’t.

Fine.

It’s show time anyway. I give a little bow so as to show everyone—him—that I am okay. Everyone starts hooting and clapping, and I do it again.

I.

Am.

Okay.

Unable to stop myself, I find myself glancing toward the man with the black leather jacket remaining stark still behind Cam.

The one I hate.

Hate.

Hate.

Hate.

I mean, wouldn’t you?

That’s when I notice everyone is cheering but him. His eyes are still on me, though, and they are completely unreadable. Almost daringly, I narrow my eyes to see if he’ll look away.

He doesn’t.

I wait.

And when I can’t take it any longer, I shift my own gaze for fear of what I might see in those blue pools.

As I do, my eyes land on my best friend, who is in a lip-lock with her boyfriend, and that makes me smile.

I might not believe love is in the cards for me, but I have no doubt Makayla and Cam were made for each other.

Time for me to fly.

I take one small step, and even still, I can feel his gaze on me.

He can stare all he wants.

He can go fuck himself.

I really don’t care.

With outrage burning in my blood, there is one thing I just have to do before I leave this party.

Making my way toward the stereo, I load the list Makayla chose not to play tonight and blare it loudly, so every single person in this room can hear it as soon as it starts to play.

And then, needing to get out of here, I grab the box of remaining chocolates and head toward my room.

As soon at the first song begins to play, I swing my braid over my shoulder and start singing the chorus to Taylor Swift’s “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together,” as loud as I possibly can.

Happy fucking Valentine’s Day to me!