“What the hell happened last night?”

Dani’s voice is way too loud in my ear and I hold my cell away from it. My head is pounding with what is definitely a hangover.

I start to explain myself, although I actually have no idea how I got back into my bed. I remember dancing with Baron, kissing Baron, Raph being furious, me walking out of the club, Raph following me, then taking me home.

I think I must have fallen asleep in the car, because I have no recollection of how I got back to my room. Only that I woke up this morning still fully clothed, and tucked into bed. Did Raph do that? The thought of it makes my head spin in confusion, which is the last thing I need, given my hungover state.

“I heard that Raph saw you dancing with Baron and he completely lost his shit, then you and Baron kissed, and he started laying into Baron right in the middle of the club.

“Is that true?”

“Yeah, that happened,” I reply slowly. I didn’t really think of it like that. “Although it was more like him laying into me than Baron.”

“Well, after you left, I saw him and Baron get into a big fight and Raph stormed out, too.”

I feel suddenly guilty. Baron is fun and turns out, he’s an okay guy. He didn’t deserve to get caught up in the middle of what happened last night. Whatever that was. I make a mental note to apologize when I see him next.

“How did you get home?” Dani asks.

“Raph took me home,” I reply and brace myself for Dani’s exclamation of surprise. But the line goes silent. As if she’s so shocked, she can’t even speak.

“Sorry,” Dani says after a moment, “I just fell off my chair and dropped my phone.”

I laugh despite myself.

“But seriously—what the hell? Raph took you home? As in, drove you home in his car? As in, he actually took you home? That makes no sense, isn’t he meant to hate you? So much so, that he’s labeled you an outcast to the entire school?”

I cover my face with my pillow for a second, wanting to smother myself.

“Yeah. It was really weird. What’s even weirder, is that I think I must’ve fallen asleep in the car, because I woke up this morning fully clothed and tucked up in bed, with no idea how I got here.”

“So, what you’re saying is, that Raph carried you to bed and tucked you in?”

Dani is laughing now, but I don’t see the funny side to this. Not at all.

“I knew it. I guessed it from that very first day in the cafeteria.”

“Knew what?” I demand.

Dani just laughs in response.

“Oh, girl, you’re in deep shit.”

* * *

I spend the entire day in bed on Saturday, nursing my headache and generally just not willing to face any of the people that I happen to share Sovereign Hall with. I’m avoiding one person in particular, and I’m not sure what scares me more—facing Raph’s usual icy and cruel self, or the uncharacteristically decent guy who took me home last night. The guy who had Raph’s impossibly beautiful face, but who was kind and seemed like he actually cared in a way that was totally at odds with the asshole I had come to know. It’s impossible to believe had I not seen it myself, and I have a feeling that it’s the latter that’s far more dangerous.

By Sunday afternoon, I feel like it’s safe enough to leave my room. I listen to the sounds of people getting ready and leaving and only when I’m sure the halls are empty, do I leave my room and make my way to campus.

I’m armed with a canvas and some paints. I’ve also brought the little metal tin containing the only memories that I’ve ever had worth keeping.

I guess I could’ve stayed in my room to paint, but I’m starting to get cabin fever and I want to check out the art studios ahead of art class on Monday.

The campus grounds are mostly deserted as I head towards the art building on the outskirts. The building is right next to the sports fields and I realize that I’m not the only one on campus today.

Soccer practice appears to be in full swing as I walk past the large soccer field. I’ve never been a jock chaser, but the sight of the players doing their drills on the field, some of them shirtless, I might add, isn’t exactly painful on the eyes.

I pick up my pace when I realize that Raph is probably on that field. No, he’s definitely on the field because of course, he’s the soccer team captain. The last thing I want is to bump into him. Hell, he’s such an egomaniac, that he might actually think I’m stalking him or something if he sees me here.

I’m almost at the entrance of the art building when I hear someone call out my name.

“Jazmine, wait up.” I curse under my breath, but I feel less apprehensive when I turn and see that it’s not Raph jogging towards me, but Baron.

A sweaty and very shirtless Baron. God, he really is sexy. I almost don’t blame him for having slept with nearly all the girls on campus, if I looked that good, then maybe I’d be a slut, too.

“Hi,” I say tentatively, suddenly feeling awkward as I remember how I’d laid one on him last night.

“So … about that kiss …” Baron says, those aquamarine eyes dancing playfully and it’s difficult not to smile back. He really does have a great smile.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out.

His smile just grows wider.

“You don’t have to apologize. In fact, feel free to kiss me whenever you want. I’m always open for business, if you want to do that again.”

He tilts his head to the side playfully.

“Or anything else …,” he adds, wagging his eyebrows.

I can’t help but laugh. This guy.

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Although, next time maybe don’t kiss me while Raph’s around—I kind of value my life.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” I reply with a wince.

“I’ve known Raph since we were in diapers, and I’ve never seen him so pissed … something going on between you two?”

I balk at his words.

“No. God, no,” I reply quickly.

He eyes me thoughtfully, and I catch a flash of light in the corner of my eye. Raph is standing in the middle of the soccer field, all golden hair and golden skin, looking like the sun itself. And he’s staring right at us.

“Speaking of which, I think I should go.”

Baron follows my gaze to Raph, who is now stalking across the field towards us. He doesn’t look happy.

Baron turns back to me with a shit-eating grin on his face, but I don’t listen to what he has to say as I rush inside into the safety of the art building.

* * *

What I love most about painting is that it’s the only time when I can truly lose myself. When I sweep my paintbrush over the canvas, creating colors and contours out of nothing, I feel like I have some semblance of control and direction in my otherwise meaningless existence. The gnawing thoughts in my head quieten and any doubts seem to vanish. When I paint, I’m the master of what I create, the master of my own fate. All the loneliness, all the pain, all the anger of the past vanishes, leaving only me in the vastness of time and space.

I lose track of time as I work on the canvas, building the colors and layering the scene. I don’t know what inspired me to recreate this image, but I feel like it’s something that I need to do, something that I need to see.

So lost to the world, I don’t notice that I’m no longer alone until a voice snaps me back into the present.

“You did that?” I recognize Raph’s voice, but at the same time, it sounds nothing like him. There’s no anger, no sarcasm. He sounds tired almost.

I turn to face him, and it hits me for like the millionth time how utterly beautiful this guy is. He’s wearing grey sweats and a plain white t-shirt that’s similar to the one he wore that first day on the beach. It clings to his muscled body like a second skin. His golden hair looks damp and freshly showered and even with the backdrop of the dimly lit studio, he glows with some ethereal light which I wouldn’t be able to capture, even if I tried for months, years. It’s difficult to remember that I hate him.

“Yeah, I did,” I reply simply, holding my paint stained hands up to show the evidence.

He looks past me and studies the freshly painted canvas for a moment. Those impossibly blue eyes looking thoughtful.

I wait for him to insult the painting—the scene of the sun setting over the beach back in Rockford Cape, the pier in the background with the amusement park lights reflecting off the still waters. But he doesn’t, he looks oddly stunned instead, his throat working as he takes in the rich colors.

“It’s—it’s beautiful,” he says and then I’m the one who’s stunned.

“Thanks,” I reply tentatively, still waiting for the scathing follow up remark.

“Who’s that?” He asks then, gesturing to the two silhouettes walking along the shoreline. A small girl next to a slender woman, walking hand in hand into the sunset.

I suddenly feel like this is all too personal. Like I’m baring a part of myself that no one should see, least of all, Raphael St. Tristan. This painting, this memory, it’s sacred to me.

Still, for whatever reason, I find myself answering.

“That’s my mom and me,” I say.

“She used to take me to this place almost every afternoon when I was little.

“When she died … it’s all I really have left of her.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. I usually hate telling people about my mom’s death. I hate the pity that I see in their eyes, the awkward moment that follows, because they don’t quite know what to say. As I look up into those vivid blue eyes, I see none of that. Instead, there is something like understanding in those eyes and it confuses the hell out of me. Because what the hell does a spoiled brat like Raphael St. Tristan, born into privilege and who has never wanted for anything in his life, know about loss and loneliness.

He doesn’t say he’s sorry, which is always the worst thing that someone can say, because of course, the car accident that changed my world wasn’t anyone else’s fault.

He walks towards the table next to the wooden easel instead, where my mom’s sketches and photographs are laid out.

“Is this her?” he asks gently, touching the edge of one of the photographs. It’s the strip of photo booth shots that my mom and I took one evening at the amusement park.

I nod, unsure of what to say, because this moment is so surreal, that I’m not even sure it’s real.

He looks at me then and those sensuous lips curl up in a small smile. A genuine smile that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.

“You look like her,” he says. “Actually, the likeness is scary.”

I feel myself smiling, despite myself.

“Yeah, I’m like her doppelganger.”

He lets out a chuckle.

“She was an artist, too,” I say then, fingering the sketches inside the metal tin.

“I got that from her, too.”

Something flickers in the depths of uncanny blue eyes as Raph turns to me.

I’m suddenly aware of how close he’s standing, and of how alone we are in the dim space. The air in the room suddenly seems too thick, and the sound of my heartbeat too loud in my own ears.

His eyes travel over every inch of my face, and I feel it like a burning touch.

“You’ve got paint on your cheek,” he murmurs.

Then, before I can stop him, Raph’s fingertips are brushing against my cheekbone in the lightest of touches. They feel cool against my flushed skin, but at the same time, everywhere they touch, I feel my skin burn and come alive.

What is happening here? I know that I should move away, but my body isn’t listening. All I can do is stare into those eyes, which have now darkened so, that they’re as blue as the bottom of a flame. And fall into them.

“What are you doing?” I manage to say, my voice barely a ragged whisper in the space between us.

“I don’t know,” he replies as he draws even closer, so close that I can feel the words almost on my lips.

“Raph—are you in here? Teague says he saw you go in here …” The voice is an unwelcome one in this strange world that we’ve created between us.

It takes a moment for me to register that Layla is standing by the doorway and she looks furious.

Those merciless green eyes travel from Raph to me and back again, narrowing into slits as the displeasure on her face intensifies.

Raph drops his hand, as if he’s been burned. Although, I’m the one who feels the burn from his sudden apparent desire to get as far away from me as possible.

“Raph—what are you doing here … with her?”

He doesn’t even look at me as he picks up his duffel bag and walks towards Layla.

“Nothing,” he replies and I feel the knife which seems to have lodged itself in my chest twist even deeper.

“Let’s go.”

I watch as he leads Layla away from the room, without even so much as looking back at me.

As I force my breathing to slow and clamp down on my out of control emotions, I remind myself that I hate this guy. Hate him completely, totally and utterly. Layla may be a total bitch, but she did me a favor just then. A huge favor. If she hadn’t shown up to remind us all where we stood in this damn place, I can’t even begin to imagine what the fallout would have been.