My mom doesn’t know that I hate Lacy Benson.

I’m good at keeping secrets. Especially from my mother.

From watching us interact over the years, she thinks Lacy and I are best friends.

Probably because whenever our moms see us, the two of us see which one of us can craft a bigger fable about why we like each other so much--and were ‘still friends’ after our big breakup.

After we broke up, we would play the lying game. Whenever we met in front of our moms, I would make like I was a puppy seeing their owner after she’d gotten back from a long day’s work. I’d spread my arms wide. “Lacy, it is so good to see you!”

“Oh please!” she’d say, her smile even more exaggerated than mine. “It’s so good to see you! The pleasure is all on this side! How have you been?”

She’d usually pat me on the nose or make some other patronizing move to show how much she liked me--which made our parents think we had the most cordial breakup ever. As soon as our moms were satisfied, we’d stick our tongues out at each other like we were in second grade.

So in public, we pretend to like each other. Our moms were best friends in high school, and still are best friends, and we didn’t want to make every single time our moms hung out about how badly Lacy and I hated each other.

Because we’re nice people, who want our moms to be happy.

And I hate Lacy even more right now, because I have to rush out of practice to make sure I’m home when she gets to my apartment. My hair isn’t even fully dried from my shower.

I fume in the car on the way home, turning my Drake playlist up to eleven.

The guys from the team are going out to dinner tonight, and I’ve got to head home to let a frigging girl into my apartment.

I don’t even give women I’m sleeping with the key to my apartment.

Taking a deep breath, I think of my mother and her kind heart.

This will make her happy, I remind myself.

I navigate through Chicago’s crowded downtown streets.

Chicago only has two seasons: winter and construction. And June sure isn’t winter.

Google maps takes me on an alternate route today to avoid construction, but all the same I end up trapped on the highway where four lanes are merging down to one for no apparent reason. Par for the course during construction season.

This is why I never drive during busy hours. And I wouldn’t be doing it tonight, except of course that Lacy needs me to let her into my apartment.

And now I’m stuck in traffic. I glance down and see a message from a new number.

Where are you?

I don’t have Lacy saved. But I recognize our shared area code from Blackwell. It’s surely her. I also don’t text and drive. So I’ll get there when I get there. I drop the phone back to the seat next to me.

Smiling to myself, I bob my head and sing along with Energy while I think about today’s practice and make a mental list of all my workouts for the week. No sense in letting the traffic you can’t control put you in a bad mood.

A traffic jam, a near accident, and about thirty minutes later, I walk into the lobby of my building.

She doesn’t even notice me walk through the revolving doors at first.

I take a moment to look her over. She wears ridiculously big sunglasses. Her long black locks cascade around her shoulders.

She looks the same as she always did in high school, when I’d sometimes cross paths with her during indoor sports practice. I’d be heading back from the court, and see her just starting out dance practice in the multipurpose room.

Same gorgeous alabaster skin. Same freckles on her cheeks as always, and a little birthmark near her right ear.

She wears blue jeans and high heeled black boots with a black short-sleeved T-shirt that says ‘lovers.’ Lacy’s a little bit punk, a little bit dancer, and a whole lot of attitude.

Probably feeling my presence as I look down at her, she finally looks up, clutching a coffee drink.

“Oh my gosh, Carter! It’s so good to see you!” My entire body tingles at the sound of her voice. It’s gotten sweeter and smoother since I last saw her, years ago.

She flashes me her best fake smile—the one I’ve come to know so well.

“No, it’s so good to see you!” I parrot, playing along. “I just love when my mom invites people over to my brand new luxury apartment,” I grit out, my voice low. “It’s just like when we were six years old and we’d have playdates together.” I offer her a cocky smirk.

She stands up, her smile defiant.

Excitement rushes under my skin.

She bites her lower lip while she runs her eyes over me.

Despite my deep-seeded vitriol for this woman, there’s no denying the carnal reaction I’m having to her right now.

What I’m feeling for Lacy isn’t love. But it also definitely isn’t indifference.

Any red-blooded man would be attracted to her, though. She’s utterly gorgeous.

She lets down her sunglasses so I can note her ice cold stone face. We squint at each other, narrowing our eyes for a classic staredown.

Twisting my tongue, I push it out the side of my lips.

“I think you’ve got something right here,” I say, staring at her cheek.

Putting her glasses back on, she crosses her arms. “Bullshit.”

“Ah, finally you let the claws out. I thought we could at least keep our bullshit pleasantries going while I walk you upstairs. I’m doing you a huge favor, you know.”

“Did you get my text?” she asks, grabbing the handle of her giant suitcase.

“I did,” I nod. She jerks her head to the side. “So no text back? You can’t let me know you’re going to be . . . ” she looks at her phone. “Forty-five minutes late?”

A giant, sarcastic smirk covers my face. “This is going to be a great eight weeks. I can’t wait to see more of this little move.”

I imitate her head jerking motion, and exaggerate it, moving my head up and around in a slight circle, sort of like a turkey. “I mean I do love seeing you all worked up. Maybe it’s the late night caffeine from the soy latte?” I eye her drink.

She puts a hand on her hip. “It’s a cappuccino, thank you very much. And so no answer to my question? Great. Good to know we’re still on the same page.”

“You mean the page of hating each other?” I push her hand off her suitcase handle and grab it. “Here, let me take this for you.”

“Don’t act like you’re a gentleman all of a sudden. I can take my bag up.”

“Please. Allow me. I’m a gracious host. And I don’t text and drive. Texting can wait.” I wink.

She rolls her eyes. “Ever heard of hands free? And it’s a roller suitcase. This building has an elevator.”

“It’s broken, actually. And I live on the forty-fourth floor.”

“Bullshit.” Her tone is seething.

And we’re off to a fantastic start.

I signal the security guard behind the desk.

“Hey Raymond, is elevator four still broken?”

“Yep. Rats short circuited it. So sorry, Mr. Flynn.”

She glares at me angrily.

“Fine.” She grits out, slipping her hand off the suitcase. “You can take it. But it doesn’t mean I’m going to like it.”

I lean in closer to her ear. She’s five-foot nine or so, but I still tower over her easily.

“Hey. You know what else?” I say with a bemused smile.

“What else, Carter?” she does the turkey-moving-its-neck-motion again.

“You’re fucking welcome.”

It’s just like her to refuse my offer, then when it requires actual effort on her part—she takes me up on it.

I roll her suitcase into the elevator bank, and she follows me.

“Guess we’ll have to take elevator three,” I wink.

She rolls her eyes, smacking her lips. “I should have known you were lying.”

We head upstairs to my apartment.

At the very least, Lacy’s going to provide some entertainment for me while she’s here.