As a former Goody Two-shoes, I remember the awkwardness of high school well.

I was a good girl with good grades, who was constantly paralyzed with fear over everything. Smoking a cigarette under the bleachers—what if my brother Cam saw me? Leaving campus to grab lunch with my friends—what if we got caught and the headmaster called my father? Kiss a boy in public—what if my brother Brandon knocked his teeth out?

As crazy as it sounds, I didn’t realize my peers were even having sex until one day someone (gasp!) dropped a condom.

I’m not lying. In fact, my high school yearbook quote should have been, “I can’t. I’ll get in trouble,” instead of the lame, “There is a princess inside each of us.”

Seriously, the only edge I lived on was the edge of my classroom desk, front row and center, carefully taking notes on stuff that wasn’t going to ever come up again in my whole damn life. But I did it just in case it would be on the next quiz.

I had to get those grades.

Then I went to college.

And slowly, almost painfully, things began to change—I began to change.

Experiment.

Figure out what I like, what I don’t.

Lose my virginity.

Even kiss a girl, and no, I did not like it.

I did, however, find things I was passionate about, and somehow that allowed me to stop worrying so much about what I should be doing and do more of what I wanted to do.

Even then, though, I never stopped worrying about what my father would say, how he would react, what he would think if he knew.

So I hid most of my life from him.

My boyfriends.

My crazy clothes.

My hopes and dreams.

You see, the problem with being a former Goody Two-shoes is that you never quite leave that persistent little ghost of yourself behind, no matter how supposedly chill your adult self is.

Now, my brothers, they were never afraid to go after what they wanted, the wrath of my father be damned. They lived their lives freely. No, perhaps freer is a better term; they still walked the edge of the Waters line—until the day there was no more line.

A year after Brandon died, Cam took off, and all that was left was me. And me, I became the good little princess once again, and did what was expected—went to work for my father.

Well, I’m done with what’s expected.

I’m done with good.

In fact, I’m more than done.

Stepping out into the hallway, a chill catches me and I can’t believe how cold it is here in California.

On the plus side—my hangover is cured. Looks like some myths aren’t just myths after all.

Dressed in yoga pants and a tank top—and no underwear, damn it—I head toward the small galley kitchen. Maggie’s house might not be big, but it is really nice. Dark hardwood floors, ivory-colored walls, top-of-the-line appliances, and granite countertops surround me. There’s even a wine chiller, although there are more water bottles than wine bottles in it.

Helping myself to one, I screw the cap off and down at least half of the water. Food is going to be next, although I’m in a strange predicament—no car, no phone, and no idea where anything is in Laguna Beach. I do remember that the village area is walking distance from here.

With my head turned toward the window, I blow a piece of hair out of my face and contemplate going out in the rain. In an effort to try to recall how to navigate around, I run right into a bare chest.

My water bottle hits the floor and bounces. It makes me scream. Loudly.

I glance up.

Brooklyn James smiles at me with those smoldering eyes that always make him look like he is brooding.

But oh, that grin, and those dimples, they are panty melting.

Overcome by a strange urge to run my fingertips along the curve of his lips and force the corners up into a real smile, I have to drop my gaze to stop from doing just that.

When I do, my eyes land right on his midsection. And, oh, those abs. They are ripped muscles that form a perfect six-pack.

Does he know what he does to women? I have to say he does. From the little I’ve overheard from Cam, he’s a womanizer, a playboy, a manwhore.

“Hey,” I say, my gaze steady on all that lean muscle. “You’re not dressed yet?”

That was just dumb.

Looking at me, he tips my chin up, and then he blinks, his grin growing more sinful as he takes a step back and crosses his arms over his very fine, very naked stomach. “Getting there. Just grabbing a shirt from the laundry room.”

Caught in his sex appeal, I find myself once again staring up into his smoldering blue eyes and at the same time, getting wet.

Normally, men don’t evoke that kind of illicit reaction from me. Perhaps this one has because he has saved me—twice—but a knight in shining armor Brooklyn James is not. Like I said, I’ve heard the groupie stories, know all about his reputation, not so much from my brother as from Maggie and Makayla. They had all but confirmed his player status ways when I visited two years ago. I doubt he’s changed.

The boy I’d once forced to pretend to be my husband is anything but husband material. He’s a bad boy with a bad reputation—he drinks, he smokes, he parties, and he fucks. A lot.

The kind of man my father would not approve of.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

My once Prince Charming is not so squeaky clean and it just so happens this princess is looking to dirty her tiara.

Brooklyn casts a glance at the water bottle at his bare toes, then at my face, then down a bit. With his bad-boy grin still in place, he bends to pick the bottle up, but those blue eyes remain glued to my chest. Handing the bottle to me, he says, “Don’t get too used to having me at your feet.”

My stomach flutters with an odd excitement. “Oh, come on. When we were ten, you bowed to me and called me a princess. This is nothing,” I respond with a smile.

As if bothered by our closeness, he eases past me and opens the refrigerator. “That’s because you scared me back then, and I’d have done anything you wanted.”

I laugh and take a few steps to lean against the row of cabinets. “How in the world did I scare you?”

Setting some containers on the counter between us, he closes the refrigerator door with his foot and looks across the island. “I thought you’d tell your father on me, and he was one person I didn’t want to piss off.”

“My father,” I whisper under my breath.

“Sore subject?”

The laughter that escapes my throat has a grim tone. “Brooklyn?” I ask.

He nods.

“How much do you know about my family?”

“Is that a trick question?”

This time I genuinely laugh. “No. I’m curious. What has Cam told you about our father?”

Brooklyn clears his throat and shifts from foot to foot, and then without answering, he starts to open one of the little white boxes. “I hope you like leftover Chinese. Besides PB&J or tofu, it’s all I have. As soon as the rain lets up, I’ll make a run to the grocery store.”

Gulping the last of my water, I set the empty bottle on the counter and rub my stomach with my hands. “I think I’d eat anything right about now, except maybe the tofu.”

Brooklyn laughs. I kind of love the way his face lights up when he does. “That would be Maggie’s, not mine. Keen eats it too, pussy that he is—he eats what she likes to make her happy.”

My elbows land on the counter and I set my chin on my hands. “That’s so sweet of him,” I say with a slight giggle bubbling out of my throat. “Boy! I guess he has really changed. The Keen I knew growing up was anything but accommodating, especially when it came to women.”

Brooklyn moves on to the remaining container. “Yeah, I guess you could say he changed, and so did Maggie. I’ve never seen either of them happier. Hey, whatever works, right?”

I nod and try to ignore the touch of sadness that suddenly seems to fill me up. “Yes, I guess sometimes it really is as simple as finding the right one.”

There’s contemplation in his eyes as he gathers the food in his arms.

“By the way,” I say, “I don’t think I’ve told you this yet, but thanks for letting me stay here. I hope it’s not too big of an inconvenience.”

Easing around, he pops the food in the microwave and looks over his shoulder at me. “It’s no problem. I had little planned this weekend except work.”

The doubtful look I give him isn’t meant to be seen, but he catches sight of it as he whirls around.

He shrugs. “Okay, so I have a little engagement party thingy for one of my friends on Saturday night, but I’ll be happy to blow it off,” he tells me.

“No, you can’t do that; wedding events are always so entertaining.”

Leaning against the counter, he smirks at me. “In what world do you live in?”

I take a seat at the breakfast bar, and excitement flares to life with each word I speak. “I’m serious; I’ve been to at least twelve weddings in the past three years.”

He shakes his head. “That sucks for you.”

I ease back on the stool. “No, it doesn’t. I was there to assist the photographer, but even so, not a single one was boring. You have to think of yourself as a wedding crasher—you know, like Vince and Owen—and that you’re just there for the food and drinks, and to watch the dynamics, of course.”

“What do you mean, ‘the dynamics’?”

Excitement bubbles up as I speak. “Things like the fact that the dresses are always ugly, the groomsmen are typically mismatched with the bridesmaids on purpose, and either the groom or the bride is always jittery. And then there’s who is sneaking off with whom.”

He raises a brow. “Go on.”

“Well, someone is always hooking up, and as long as it isn’t the bride or the groom with someone else, things usually go on without a hitch, but later in the night there are always catty arguments. I don’t know; I like to sit and watch. I mean, not in a bad way. You can’t change it, but you can observe it. Learn from it, even.”

This time his grin is devilish. “Amelia Waters, you are so coming with me.”

“No, I can’t do that. It’s not like I’d be working the event.”

“You can come—my invite says plus one.”

I contemplate the offer. “Hmmm…well, it could be fun. Who is the happy couple?”

“A buddy of mine, Chase Parker, and his fiancée, Gigi Bennett.”

My excitement returns. “Oh, I’ve heard of Gigi—she’s on some television show, isn’t she?”

He nods. “Yeah, the show is called Where’s My Latte?”

I point my finger at him. “That’s right! It’s about a woman and her assistant in Hollywood. I’ve watched it a few times; it’s pretty funny.”

Brooklyn claps his hands together as if equally excited. “It’s settled, then—you are so coming with me.”

“Okay, but only if you insist,” I mock protest, a little more eager to be a part of the Hollywood scene than I would have thought.

“You’re not going to get stars in your eyes, are you?”

I shake my head. “You don’t know me well enough, Brooklyn. I am anything but a fangirl.”

That triggers something, and he seems to lose himself in his thoughts.

Uncertain as to why, I shift uncomfortably. “Just for the record, crasher is still the better way to go.”

Snapping out of it, he laughs and says, “We can always pretend.”

Pretend. I’ve been doing it so long, what’s a little longer? Now I find myself the one lost in my thoughts.

The microwave dings and with another laugh, he strides over to remove the containers. Setting them on the island, he grabs two plates, four chopsticks, and two bottles of water. Looking at me, he bows. “Your meal is served, Princess Amelia.”

The laughter that escapes my throat and the snort that leaves my nose is anything but ladylike. “I did make you say that, didn’t I?”

He nods. “You sure did. Except I believe I was serving soda and Doritos. Cool Ranch Doritos, to be exact.”

“Doritos—I haven’t had those in years,” I say a little dreamily.

“Is that right?” he says, rounding the island and disappearing into the small laundry room around the corner, I guess to put a shirt on.

Damn.

Leaving me alone, I find myself wishing I could just stare at his abs all day, but quickly dispel that thought and return my attention to the Doritos. “Is it weird that I can still remember how they taste?”

There’s no answer, but I can hear him in the room. I look up and see him watching me. Black T-shirt on. Eyes bluer than blue. Worn denim jeans that look like they were made for him.

“What?” I ask, starting to lick my lips, and not at the thought of eating a Dorito, either.

He blinks. “Nothing. Just remembering too.”

Right then thunder roars from outside and the power goes out again with a last-minute beep from the microwave. I look out the window and see lightning flashing in the dark sky. “The storm is bad,” I say dumbly.

Duh.

Obviously it is.

Brooklyn strides toward me and sits beside me. “It’s supposed to be this way for the next two days. I heard it’s worse farther south.”

“Like in Mexico?” I ask.

“Yeah, the mudslides are going to make it hard for them to get back.”

“I hope they’ll be okay.”

Brooklyn laughs. “Cam drove and he’s a New Yorker. The one thing he can do is drive.”

“So true. Cam can maneuver through a traffic jam like no one else.”

Brooklyn nods. “I’ve seen it, but don’t forget he has Presley in the car, so my guess is my brother will have outlawed the crazy driving for Cam on this trip.”

I smile, thinking of those cute little baby pictures I saw on Maggie’s dresser. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right, and for good reason.”

With a nod, he picks up two containers. “Moo shu pork or sweet-and-sour chicken?”

“I think I’ll have the chicken. No, the pork. No, no, the chicken,” I answer indecisively.

His dazzling grin is as bright as he is charming.

“How about we split them both?”

I pick up my chopsticks. “Bring it on.”

He laughs and then dishes out the food. I find myself wondering what the small bit of laughter was for. Once we both start eating, he says, “You’re not like the girls around here.”

I swallow a bite of deliciousness. “What do you mean?”

He finishes chewing. “You’re just so real.”

I dig into the pork and laugh. “Oh, I’m real alright. I turn up drunk on my brother’s front porch and then almost drown trying to get rid of my hangover. You can’t get any realer than that.”

He laughs too.

Then there’s a heartbeat of silence.

“You asked me about your father before,” he states after taking a sip of water.

I grab a piece of chicken between my chopsticks. “Yeah, I did. That was an unfair question. It’s just I found out some things about him the other night that…well, to be honest…kind of crumbled my world.”

Brooklyn sets his chopsticks down and sits back in his chair. “Who told you?”

Not surprised that he knows, I answer truthfully. “Vanessa. I saw her out on New Year’s Eve. That’s why I’m here—to talk to Cam and make sure it’s all true before I confront my father.”

As if nervous, Brooklyn rubs his hands on his pants.

I have to say, I don’t know him well, but I can tell he knows. And if he knows…that must make it true.

My heart stops.

My life is a lie.

I’ve lived in a bubble and now it’s popped. Like with a big bang. Trying to ease the uncomfortable feeling in the air, I give him an out. “Well, you don’t have to say anything. I get that you don’t want to betray Cam’s trust.”

Brooklyn takes a sip of his water.

After shoving another forkful of food in my mouth, I turn to him. “Do you have any weed?”

He practically spits his water out and then starts to pound his chest to stop from choking. Once he recovers, he turns to me. “Did you just ask me for pot?”

“Yes, but think of it as for medicinal purposes.”

Standing up, he rounds the island and cracks the fridge. “Sorry—even if I had anything, which I don’t, there is no way I’m getting high with Cam’s little sister. That is not happening.”

Frustrated, I sigh. “FYI,” I point between the two of us, “we’re the same age.”

Grabbing two beers, he sets one on the counter and opens the other. “Yeah, but you’re still Cam’s little sister.”

“And you’re Keen’s little brother. What does it matter?”

“It matters.”

“Tell me why?”

“Because you’re a girl.”

I raise my brows. “And you’re a boy.”

He huffs in frustration. “It’s an unspoken rule.”

My eyes narrow. “What is?”

He shrugs.

“Tell me!”

“Come on, Amelia, everyone knows you are, well, good.”

Beyond annoyed, I point to him. “And that’s the problem right there.”

Opening the top, he slides one of the beers across the counter. “What exactly about that is a problem?”

“I’ve always had to be good. I’m sick of it. What if I don’t want to be good anymore? What if I just want to be bad?”

Tipping his bottle, he takes a sip of his beer. I never noticed how sexy a man could look when swallowing. “Aren’t you a little old for rebellion?” he asks.

I shrug without answering.

As if testing my resolve toward rebellion, he pushes the bottle in front of me my way.

I glance at the clock on the wall, which from the second hand moving I can tell is battery operated. “It’s not even noon.”

Brooklyn shifts his gaze toward the clock and gives me a little shrug. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

I laugh. He’s right. Staring at the bottle, and then at him, I finally decide to answer him. “Yes, I’m sure I am a little too old to rebel, but that doesn’t change how I feel.” Lifting the bottle, I tip my beer in his direction. “Drinking before noon—that has to count as bad, right?”

He raises both of his brows. “You, Amelia Waters, are certifiably insane.”

Taking a sip, I look at him and think, Boy, he is good-looking.

Not my normal type. Not the kind of guy I could see myself with long term. Too wild. Too unsettled. Too rough around the edges. Too much sex appeal. Not Mr. Right by any means.

Still, does going after the one even matter anymore?

After another sip and another glance, I remember to respond to his comment. “No, I’m not.”

But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be.

Insane has a good ring to it…don’t you think?