The sun broke over the hills, a golden burst that sent a shot of pain through her heart, marking the end.

Knowing it was time, he turned to her, sadness lining his face as the light illuminated his golden hair like a halo, and she stepped into his arms.

Even after thousands of years, it never got easier to say goodbye.

He held her close — she memorized the moment, the scent of grass and earth, the feel of his arms around her — and he pressed his lips to her ear.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words true and sweet and painful.

She leaned back to kiss him, but before she hit her mark, “Dancing Queen” played from nowhere, echoing off the hills around them.

Aphrodite frowned. “Son of a—”

Her eyes flew open, and she found herself in her room with her alarm blaring Swedish pop music.

As she frantically slapped at her phone to make the horror stop, she cursed Persephone, the dream crusher. Perry was the only person demented enough to wake her up with ABBA.

Her heart chugged against her ribs from the jolt of waking out of that particular dream, and she curled back up in bed, clutching her pillow to her chest as she closed her eyes, hoping for a few more minutes of sleep. But the gears of her mind began to grind, her thoughts fixated on him. She’d never stop missing him — if eons hadn’t made it easier, she didn’t know what would.

It wasn’t long before she knew trying to sleep was no use. She was awake. Dream gone in a poof.

With a sigh, she grabbed a handful of her comforter and flung it off, peeling herself out of bed to shuffle into the bathroom.

Aphrodite, goddess of love, had lived thousands of years, had hundreds of lovers, and made millions of love matches. She had seen the world through feast and famine, through war and peace. From ancient Greece and Rome to castles in France and Britain, she’d lived all over the world and seen it all — through corsets and knickers, flapper dresses and polyester, big hair and blue eye shadow.

But she’d never enjoyed a time as much as the present.

Dita — the nickname she’d gone by since the mid-nineteenth century — yawned and leaned over the sink, inspecting her bleary reflection. Her hair was a mess, a ratty blond mess that she frowned at, twisting it into a side braid, which was better than nothing.

A tiny weight sat on her foot, and she smiled down at Bisoux, her mini Pomeranian. His copper head quirked and dark eyes peered up at her, and she scooped him up, nestling him in her neck, murmuring to him in French as she made her way to the living room. He was an automaton made by Hephaestus, an inventor, made to look exactly like a living dog, sans excrement and death, perfect for an immortal goddess with no yard.

The elevator dinged just as she dropped into a velvet armchair, and Dita turned to find Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, walking through her foyer in black leggings, a purple V-neck, and hot pink socks.

“Morning,” she said with a smile, her big, dark eyes twinkling as she plopped down on the couch and propped her feet on the arm.

“Nice alarm,” Dita shot playfully.

Her smile stretched into a smirk. “I know how much you love ABBA.”

“I’ll never forgive Apollo for those Swedish harpies.” Dita made a face. “Come up here to gloat?”

“So bitter,” she tsked, reaching for Bisoux. “I’m sure you’ll get me back. And yes, I came up here to gloat, but also because I’m ninety-nine percent sure something is about to happen.”

Dita cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, so you’re psychic today? Tell me, Persephone, mistress of the dark,” she said with a dramatic flair, “what do you see when you look into the future?”

“Hey, don’t dog my title.” Perry threw a throw pillow at her.

Dita laughed and batted the pillow away. “Will you dress up like Elvira for me? Please?” she whined.

“My boobs would never do that, and we both know it. Anyway, focus. Do you feel it?”

Dita thought for a second — there it was, just under her heart, a tug at the thread that connected the gods in Olympus. “Do you think it’s the end of another competition?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Hephaestus and Ares have been going at it for a long time.”

“Yeah, and that’s not awkward at all.”

Perry smirked. “Your husband versus your lover?”

Dita picked non-existent lint off her couch. “Estranged on both counts, thank you very much. Anyway, it’s not like they need a reason to compete against each other. They’ve been fighting for eons, and the games have nothing to do with it.”

“True.” Perry recrossed her ankles and pushed her black Buddy Holly glasses up her nose. “You realize you’re up next, right?”

Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, and she smiled. “It’s been too long since I’ve had a real challenge. There is nothing I love more than making love matches.”

“And winning.”

“Yes, and winning,” Dita said with a smile.

Perry’s stomach growled so loud that Bisoux jumped, and her pale skin flushed as her lip slipped between her teeth. “I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.” Dita stood, laughing, and when Perry joined her, they locked arms and made for the elevator with Bisoux hooked in Perry’s arm.

They stepped into the elevator, and Dita hit the lobby button, thanking the stars that they didn’t still live in medieval times when Olympus had been fashioned after a cold, drafty castle with about a kabillion stairs.

Olympus existed in a dimension separate from humans, though the gods could visit Earth whenever they liked. For thousands of years, many gods and creatures had chosen to live on Earth, but nearly all of them had moved back. The world was too crowded, too connected to technology to afford them a safe place to stay out of sight.

The gods were, and had always been, obsessed with humans, adopting their style and culture as they influenced it. Both were passionate creatures, and although humans had worshipped the gods for eons, the gods almost worshipped them more. Olympus had forever been modeled after the most cosmopolitan architecture and culture of the time — at that moment, it was a luxury high-rise apartment building in New York City. They loved the city so much that every window and patio looked out over Manhattan.

When the elevator doors opened, the goddesses strutted into the kitchen where a handful of gods milled around. Zeus sat at the head of the table with a newspaper, clearly trying to ignore everyone. Hera, his wife, shuffled around the kitchen like a zombie with giant pink rollers in her blond hair, wearing a silk robe printed with peacock feathers. She carried a cup of coffee to the table and sat down next to Zeus, yawning.

Hephaestus sat at the large kitchen island, leaning over a plate of fried eggs and toast, his broad shoulders wrapped in a thick navy blue knit sweater. He looked over at Aphrodite as she walked in and gave her a warm smile, his cheeks flushing when she smiled back.

Perry sat next to Hades at the island, planting a kiss on his cheek as she set Bisoux on the counter. Hades’s eyes were dark and bottomless, his black hair neatly combed — he smiled down at her as he pushed a plate of cupcakes in her direction. Perry bounced in her seat, and he smoothed his tie, looking pleased with himself.

Nothing made Hades happier than seeing his wife happy, probably because she hadn’t always been so easy to please.

Dita walked around the bar and to the gigantic fridge, pulling the door open. The cool air hit her cheeks, and a comforting hum greeted her as she scanned the shelves for breakfast. Loaves of honey-colored glop sat on white dishes, lined up like gooey little soldiers. She grabbed a plate of ambrosia and turned to the door where she picked up a bottle of nectar, the golden liquid so rich that it was almost luminescent. As she turned around, she kicked the door closed with a soft thunk and set her haul down on the counter.

Nectar of the gods. Har-har.

Both nectar and ambrosia tasted like greasy ass. They were seriously, absolutely, and completely revolting. None of the gods consumed it in its pure form. Instead, they used their powers to make it look and taste like something more appealing.

The only beings who ingested either substance in its natural state were humans granted immortality. It was a running joke with the gods, who found it amusing to watch them try to choke it down, all while attempting to convince the Olympians that it actually tasted good.

Oh Gods, thank you for this delectable gift! (gag) No wonder it is only allowed for the gods, for only upon them should such a savory gift be bestowed! (gag)

Hilarious.

She plated a slice of ambrosia and poured the nectar into a coffee mug with a giant heart on it. When she closed her eyes, her hair stirred from a soft breeze swirled carrying the scent of roses, and when they opened, her mug contained steaming coffee, and her plate of nasty-loaf had been transformed into a heaping pile of hot bacon and eggs.

Dita picked up her breakfast and walked over to the bar where she sat next to Perry.

A solitary eyebrow inched up Perry’s forehead. “Your lust for meat never ceases to amaze me.”

“Don’t you judge me, cupcake whore,” Dita said around a mouthful of bacon, nodding to Perry’s plate.

Bisoux trotted across the counter and sat expectantly in front of Dita. She handed him a strip of bacon, and he laid it down, holding it with his furry paws to tear a piece off. He ran on ambrosia, and bacon-flavored was his favorite.

“Morning.” Ares swaggered in and snatched a piece of bacon from Dita’s plate, winking at her as he took a bite and walked around the island.

Bisoux bared his tiny teeth, wrinkling his nose as a growl rumbled through him.

Every once in a while, Dita wondered what she saw in the God of War. She’d been addicted to him since he’d come of age, no matter how much of an asshole he was, no matter how douchey he behaved. But as she scanned his body — his T-shirt stretched across his wide chest and bulging arms, the hard cut of his jaw, the line of his heavy brow, his narrow hips and sweet, sweet ass — she remembered.

He was a demon in the sack.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hephaestus tense. Every meal with the three of them was like an awkward Thanksgiving dinner.

“Heff,” Ares said in lieu of a greeting, leaning on the counter across from Hephaestus with a hotshot smile plastered all over his jerk face. “I think it’s about time to pay up, don’t you?” He tossed the bacon into his mouth.

“The game isn’t over yet. The alarm hasn’t sounded.” Heff gestured to the alarm standing in the corner of the room. White-hot lava rolled around in the glass column of the device, as it had since their competition began.

The gods were eternally bored and constantly bickering, so Zeus had come up with a game to apply their antagonism to something constructive. They’d been playing for thousands upon thousands of years, one god against another, using humans as their game pieces. Heff and Ares had been going at it since the seventies when Heff chose Apple and Ares picked Microsoft.

“Listen,” Ares said, “there’s no way Apple can win now that Jobs took the long ride down the Styx.”

Heff smirked, narrowing his eyes at Ares. “Funny — pretty much every stock report would disagree. And if Windows 8 was any indicator, Microsoft is headed the way of the dinosaurs.” He twiddled his fingers at Ares with condescension.

Dita popped another piece of bacon into her mouth, silently watching the exchange along with everyone else in the room.

“Just give it up,” Ares said, goading Heff. “My guy won, and this challenge has been going on for too long. Jobs is gone, and things are never gonna be the same. Pay up.”

Apollo didn’t look up from the Horoscope section of the newspaper as he butted in.

“You should call it now, Ares, and save yourself the trouble of dragging it out. Apple’s about to take over the world. Trust me. They don’t call me the Oracle of Absolute Certainty for nothing.”

Apollo never lied, and his visions of the future were always bang on.

“No one calls you that,” Artemis, Apollo’s twin sister, said matter-of-factly before stuffing a spoonful of Cheerios into her mouth.

Apollo pouted as he uncrossed and recrossed his legs, shaking his newspaper out with a snap.

Ares fumed at the news, a flush creeping up his neck with every heartbeat as he weighed it out.

Heff knew he had Ares and pressed the opening. “Look, there’s no point in waiting any longer. Just save us all the trouble and give it up. Plus,” he said, his voice tightening, betraying his indifference, “Dita will be up next.”

Ares responded with a hot look in Dita’s direction. When they competed, it was almost impossible to stay away from each other.

“Fair enough,” Ares said, reaching into his pocket. When his fist emerged, he extended his hand, uncurling his fingers to reveal a glass orb the size of a ping pong ball with swirling blood churning inside. He tossed his token to Heff. “Here you go. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

Heff grabbed it midair, looking all too satisfied as the alarm in the corner disappeared. Their game was over.

“So Dita’s on deck next?” Ares asked with a sinister smirk. He loved a good competition, preferably of the unfriendly variety. “Should be interesting.”

“When was the last time anyone beat her?” Perry asked, unwrapping another cupcake.

Hermes reached into his back pocket and pulled out his iPhone. “Hang on. I have an app for that.”

“Traitor,” murmured Ares.

Hermes ignored him. “No one has won against Dita in … three thousand one hundred twenty-seven years.” Hermes raised his eyebrows at her.

Dita gave a politely smug smile. She never lost.

Ever.

The last of the Olympians straggled in and took seats at either the bar or the enormous table, sensing the beginning of a new competition. Zeus even put down his paper, though he still looked spectacularly bored. Vain Hera side-eyed the room as she fiddled with her curlers, hastily pulling them from her golden hair while attempting to look nonchalant.

Hermes, ever the showman, stood up and walked around the kitchen, his long legs pacing him through the crowd and his eyes twinkling on his narrow, handsome face.

“All right, gang, we’re going old-school rules, as usual. I’ll go ahead and restate them for Zeus since we all know how he loves the law.” He smiled at Zeus, who glared at him from across the room.

“Aphrodite will go toe-to-toe in a battle of wits against each of the twelve Olympians. She and her opponent will each choose a human player, and she’ll have to get them together before the clock runs out in four human weeks. Her challenger’s task — and a mighty one at that — will be to keep the humans apart.

“The winner will receive a token from the loser, which will grant them any favor, a favor that cannot be refused.”

Whistles and shouts rose from the crowd, and Hermes held up a hand to quiet them.

“Settle down, folks. We all know how valuable these little babies are.” He rolled his wrist in a flourish, and a glass orb appeared between his thumb and forefinger. “Now, since the only way to win this glorious little favor is through the competitions, it’s only fair that a token should be played if you want another god to help you. Otherwise, you’re on your own. The only time a favor can be refused is if you’re trying to cash it in to win a competition. For instance, if you asked me to help you, I would politely request that you sod off because the last thing I’d want to do is help any of you assholes acquire another token.”

A chuckle rolled through the crowd. Hermes had been slain in his last competition and was still pouting.

“All right, let’s talk about our humans, shall we? Our players need to stay alive, so no gods may kill, maim, inflict disease, or impose any other permanent physical or mental damage on either of them. And, to keep the game fair, neither human player can be interfered with directly. This includes but is not limited to possession, embodiment, or direct communication. All other humans are fair game.”

A device appeared on the bar, summoned by Heff. A small replica of Aphrodite stood on a seashell in a pool of water, golden hair waving behind her. Waves lapped a small beach surrounding the platform where her likeness stood, and tiny mechanical doves flew around her. The iridescent water seemed to be of colors and none.

Dita pushed her chair back and stepped over to the statue. When she ran her finger through the sand, the doves flew to where she had touched the display and pecked around for a moment before taking wing again.

She turned to Heff, beaming. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

He smiled down at his breakfast and pushed his eggs around his plate. “You’re welcome.”

She ran her hand across his shoulders as she walked past him and sat down, turning her attention back to Hermes.

Hermes sauntered over to the alarm and gestured to the statue. “You all know what this is, though to avoid any legal issues through the course of the competition, let it be stated for the record: this statue is the alarm for the contest. The water will change color based upon the outcome. If you cheat, the water will turn orange. Green means the couple has chosen to be together. If they’re separated irreparably, the water will turn red, and if the timer runs out, the water will turn black. Once the contest is over, that’s it. No take-backs if the couple gets together or breaks up once the alarm has gone off.”

Turning to the crowd, Hermes asked, “Apollo, since we’re going alphabetically, you’re up first. Are you willing to play?”

“Absolutely,” Apollo answered.

Dita swung out of her chair, coffee in hand, and strutted up to Apollo to slap him on the shoulder with a cheery smile. “Game on. You think you can win this time?”

The sadness that lined his face surprised her as he looked up at her and said, “I hope so.”

Apollo chewed on his thumbnail as he paced his apartment a few hours later, worrying over which human he should choose as his player. He only had an hour left to make a decision, and he had to choose wisely. The chance to compete with Dita for a token was rare, and it was a chance he had to take full advantage of.

It was the only way she would agree to give Daphne back to him.

So he walked the length of his living room, one hand in his pocket and his free thumb between his teeth in an attempt to narrow down his list. There were always a few humans who he was tied to more than others — humans who shared his traits, his passions. They were the ones he had the greatest influence on and were always creative types: musicians, artists, actors. The trick to competing with Dita was to find someone so damaged, they couldn’t possibly be fixed in twenty-eight days.

Running down the clock was the best chance any of the gods had against her.

Apollo stopped in front of the long wall of windows and looked down to Central Park, considering his options. His favorite for the moment was Joe, an artist who mostly painted nudes — mostly nudes because it was an excuse to get naked models into his studio. He was too good-looking and had far too many ready and willing women around for chastity. Joe would definitely be a formidable player, but if Dita found the right girl … well, anyone could change for the right girl.

The image of Daphne’s face flashed through his thoughts, and his heart lurched. He had to win for both of them. It was the only way they could be free.

He took a breath, sat down on his low-backed white leather couch, and picked up a pad and pen, listing the names of his potentials before crossing out the ones who would be too easy for Dita to beat. There were two left: Joe or Dean, the musician.

Apollo stared at the list for a few minutes before deciding.

It had to be Dean.

Ever since Dean was a little boy, Apollo had watched him, guiding him to channel the pain he’d endured into music, lyrics, poetry. To say Dean was jaded would be the understatement of the century. He suffered emotional detachment the likes of which Apollo hadn’t seen in ages, which potentially made Dean the perfect player. Ace in the hole.

Hopefully.

It was the best he had, and he filled with optimism at the chance to get a token from Dita after so long. Because this time he had a real shot, and there was no way he would let the opportunity go to waste.

Dita walked into the theater room that evening, and excitement fluttered through her at the sound of the murmurs and chatter of the crowd. Perry popped her head over the back of a leather chair in the front row and waved, and Dita made her way over, greeting a few of her friends along the way before taking a seat.

“Excited?” Perry asked, practically bouncing.

“I’m ready,” she answered, not even needing to think about it. “There are a handful of people I think Apollo’s going to pick, and I’ve already got plans in motion for each of them.”

Perry shook her head. “Poor Apollo. He’s so predictable.”

She snickered. “He makes it really easy.”

“Even so, I still love competitions with him. He always picks the dreamiest players.”

“Apollo definitely has style. I’ll give him that.” Dita’s smile fell only a touch, just enough to betray the weight of the situation. “But you know that with him and me, it’s never just about the game.”

A few gods cheered and whistled, marking Hermes’s entrance, and dozens of eyes followed him as he walked to the front of the room.

“All right, all right. Settle down, everybody. Apollo, come on up.”

Apollo made his way to the front of the room, looking right sexy in tailored gray pants and navy oxfords. His cardigan sleeves were rolled up, the collar of his plaid button-down crisp, and a Panama hat sat back on his blond crown like it had been made just for him, which, Dita figured, it probably had.

Thousand-year-old feud or not, she couldn’t help but admire his panache.

Hermes handed Apollo the TV remote, and Apollo pointed it at the ninety-inch screen as he pushed a few buttons.

The screen flashed to life, displaying an image of a man sitting in a mid-century gray armchair, bent over his guitar with his fingers to the strings and a pencil gripped between his teeth. A black shock of hair fell into his face as he looked down at his guitar with quiet green eyes, and a glass of whiskey sat next to a half-empty bottle on the built-in bookshelves behind him, housing what looked like several hundred records.

“Ladies and gentlemen, meet Dean Monroe.”

Dean strummed his guitar, hearing the chords in his head before his fingers touched the strings. He took the pencil from his mouth when the words came to him, jotting them into his notebook lying on the coffee table in front of him.

His chest ached like it always did when he wrote, as if his heart thumped to life only during those moments. Maybe it was why it was all he ever wanted to do.

A small knock rapped on the door, and his brow quirked as he looked toward the sound. He propped his guitar on the couch and walked to the door, surprised when he opened it to find Jenny standing in the hallway with wild eyes, a wicked grin, and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

Jenny had been a regular fixture at band practice for months, ever since she’d started dating Elliot, their drummer. She’d never given Dean a second glance — at least not one that broadcasted attraction — and he happily complied with her lack of interest. The band had gone through a string of drummers, each one splitting after their girlfriends had thrown themselves at Dean.

The real problem was that he never refused.

But at the end of the day, drummers were expendable. Dean wasn’t.

As Jenny slipped past him and into his apartment, he caught the scent of roses and booze in her wake. Dean closed the door and leaned up against it, folding his arms across his chest, watching her as she set the bottle down, almost positive that he knew exactly what she wanted. And when she turned to him, she twisted the tie of her coat around her fist, gave it a tug, and dropped the garment to the ground, confirming his hunch.

The hot pink lace that made up her bra barely contained her overflowing breasts, and her tiny panties showed him exactly what was on offer. Jenny slinked over to him and ran her hands over his chest and down to his belt, pulling it open as she looked up at him with a scandalous smile and crazy, crazy eyes.

She bit her plump bottom lip, her big eyes on fire as she popped his button and opened his zipper. Her hands moved down to his hips, opened his pants, and reached into them to grip him.

He sucked in a breath at the contact, and she kept on smiling, never speaking, and neither did he, only watched her with lids growing heavier by the second. Jenny slipped her hands around his hips and pushed his jeans down to his ankles, lowering her body until she was kneeling before him.

When she flipped her platinum curls and looked up at him, he knew right then and there that he was going to be in deep shit.

If Elliot found out.

A little while later, Jenny’s head rested on Dean’s shoulder, her fingers tracing slow circles on his chest as they lay in his bed.

He was instantly uncomfortable.

Cuddling wasn’t something he’d ever done — it wasn’t something he was built for. He didn’t know how to date, either. Or talk about his feelings. Or even have feelings.

He squirmed out from underneath her, reaching for her underwear that lay in a pile on the floor, tossing it to her as he stood.

Her blond curls hung in disarray around her face, and she tucked the sheet under her arms as she propped herself up with her elbow with her mouth hanging open.

"Are you serious?" she asked, hurt for some reason, but he couldn’t figure out why.

He stared back at her, puzzled, before shaking his head and walking into his bathroom. “Just let yourself out, ‘kay?”

But before he could get the door closed all the way, her shoe slammed against it with a thunk and a shriek.

The gods erupted in noise — some booing, some laughing along with a few oohs and one very loud, Pig!

Perry elbowed Dita with her mouth open. “Did you set that up?”

“Duh,” she said with a giggle as she stood and walked to Apollo. She held her hand out for the remote. “May I?”

“Be my guest.” He bowed, looking smug.

Dita smiled as she turned to the television and mashed a few buttons. On the screen was a gorgeous girl with porcelain skin and dark hair that tumbled over her shoulders as she bent over a counter in a bookshop, writing in a black notebook. Her face rested on her hand, and her blue-green eyes were on the snow that fell beyond the window, white against the dark night.

Dita watched Apollo as she hit play, smiling when she saw recognition click behind his eyes.

Lex stared out the window in the quiet shop, smiling as a couple walked by with their arms around each other, inspired. She dropped her eyes to the blank page of her sketchbook, and her pencil flew as she drew them on the soft, cream page.

Time always slowed when she drew, stretched out, fuzzy and dim around her. But her hand made easy work of the sketch, seeing all the lines, all the shadows before they were on the paper. She couldn’t get it out fast enough.

Once she was satisfied a few minutes later, she laid her pencil down, and her eyes wandered around the room, appreciating for the zillionth time how much she loved the bookstore where she had worked for almost ten years, her first job that was so perfect, she never left. Heavy, worn bookcases lined the walls, interspersed with inlets of cushy pillows in Indian silks, perfect for cuddling up with a book. Warm light from candles and lamps filled the store, and the scent of jasmine hung in the room alongside the musk of books and paper.

She glanced back down at her notebook and picked up her blending stump, rubbing the edge of the girl’s coat to shade it a little more before taking a moment to look it over.

The couple was in love; she could see it in the tilt of his head and hers, something small in the smile in the corner of her mouth, something about the way they touched each other, telegraphing their feelings. It was a trick she’d picked up — reading people through their body language — cultivated through years of drawing.

But as she imagined a story for the couple in her sketch, her mind wandered to Travis.

They had been living together for some time, nearly a year, but as she looked over her drawing, she wondered if they had ever looked like that couple did.

She was almost positive they hadn’t.

Something was missing, though she didn’t quite know what. She cared for Travis, and he clearly cared for her too, but she didn’t think it was love on either end. Not real love. Not knock-your-socks-off love. It was more of a deep fondness. Although, if she were being honest with herself, it was probably the closest she’d gotten to the real thing.

They were all the same thoughts that had wormed their way through her mind for days, and with each traitorous day that had passed, the less she found she could ignore the feeling.

The bell over the door jingled, and she looked up to find Travis himself, standing tall and blond in the doorway as he shook the snow off his coat. He stomped his boots on the mat and smiled, his teeth bright against his skin, tan even in the dead of winter.

“Hey.” She smiled.

“Hey.” He made his way over and pressed his chilly lips to hers.

“I didn’t expect to see you until after the show.”

Travis shrugged. “I guess no one was willing to brave the snow for Italian food. Luke let me off early, so I figured I’d stop by on my way to Helios and walk with you.”

“Great. I hate walking alone. Kara’s meeting us there.”

“Spike will be thrilled. He loves to sing to your bestie.”

Lex laughed. “I’m sure he does.” She turned to the register to close it out.

Travis glanced at her sketch. “This is really good.”

“Thanks,” she said with a small smile as she closed the notebook and stuffed it into her bag where it would be safe.

Travis fell into retelling her stories from the few tables he’d had as she listened contently, closing up the shop and pulling on her jacket, scarf, hat, and gloves all the while.

“You warm enough, Lex?” he joked once almost every inch of her skin was covered.

She rolled her eyes. “Ha, ha. It’s stupid cold out. I don’t know how you never wear gloves or a hat.”

“Why do I need gloves or a hat when I’ve got pockets and hair?”

“I guess I’m just not as tough as you, big man.”

Travis turned to her and adjusted her knit hat. “Lucky for me, you’re extra cute when you’re all bundled up.”

He kissed her nose, and she did her best to smile as they left the shop.

It always happened like this. As soon as she felt the need to run, everything seemed wrong. Something so simple as a kiss or a peek in her notebook, and she was convinced that they had no business being together. But as she listed to Travis talk, she knew that was wrong too. He was a catch, a beautiful, sweet, talented catch. Which made her feel like maybe it was her who was all wrong.

As soon as they walked into the bar, Lex found Kara sitting at a table just off the dance floor. Kara sipped her beer as Spike, the lead singer of Travis’s band, hung a skinny arm over her shoulder. Her lips curled on her heart-shaped face, and the second she saw Lex approaching, she shot over a look and mouthed Save me.

Lex shrugged off her coat and hung it on the back of a chair next to Kara, eyeballing Spike, who looked like a short, starving Billy Idol.

“Hey, Spike.”

He jerked his chin at her. “Sup, Lex? Are you ready to witness our set? Try to keep your panties on.”

“Oh, I’ll try.” Lex smiled, trying not to look patronizing and probably failing miserably. “Hey, ah, Kara, come with me to the bathroom?”

“Absolutely,” she said a little too enthusiastically, setting her beer down with a thump.

Spike hitched a thumb at her and turned to Travis. “Chicks. Am I right?”

Lex followed Kara as she hurried through the bar and pushed the bathroom door open with a sigh. “Why do I agree to come to these things?”

“Because you love me and wouldn’t make me sit in a dive bar all by myself.”

She pointed at Lex. “Every time I have to see that little shit, you owe me dinner and a movie.”

“You think he’ll figure out at some point that you don’t like him?” Lex asked as they stopped in front of the sinks.

“It’s my fault. Clearly I was very, very drunk when I hooked up with Spike.”

“I still can’t believe you hooked up with a guy named Spike.”

Kara rolled her eyes and uncapped her lipstick. “Hilarious, Lex. At least you got Travis out of it, although that has kept me on Spike’s radar all this time, which I will never forgive you for.”

Lex bit her lip.

Kara eyed her in the mirror, and the lipstick tube stopped in its track. “Oh no. You’ve got that look.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lex pretended to wipe mascara from under her eyes in the mirror.

“You can’t lie to me, Alexis Greene. You’ve got the itch to ditch, don’t you?”

Lex sighed. “I don’t want to talk about it here, okay? Let’s go enjoy this wonderful display of musical talent. Come over tomorrow, and I’ll spill it.”

Kara finished touching up her lipstick and snapped on the lid, one dark eyebrow climbing all the while. “All right. Let’s go watch Sid Vicious’s wannabe cousin spit all over a microphone, and tomorrow, you will tell all.”

“Sid Vicious?” Lex snorted as she pushed the door open. “The least talented, most famous punk rocker to ever exist? Spike has about as much talent as a safety pin in Sid’s cheek.”

Kara laughed at that. “Only in his most productive dreams.”