Crud.

This is definitely not how I pictured my first night in Boston would go.

I’ve been planning it so carefully since I applied to transfer over a year ago. I did intensive research to find the perfect apartment close to Cambridge College’s main building, which houses the psych classrooms. I budgeted for even the tiniest eventualities, calculating exactly how much the cab fare would be from Logan International Airport, taking absolutely every possibility into account.

Except the possibility of losing the key to my new apartment.

I crouch on the landing outside the door and start pulling things out of my backpack. Trident gum, yep. Wallet, yep. Phone, yep. Piles of tissues my mom insists I must have on my person at all time? Yep.

But no cruddy key.

I reach into the pockets of my jean shorts, but nothing. I peer in every nook and hidden cranny belonging to my jacket and suitcase. Empty.

I swear, I had it, when I was getting ready to step off the plane. I’d gazed out at the big city, clutched it in my sweaty little death-grip, thinking, Okay, Savannah. You’re a worldly Boston girl, now. This is where you grow up and stop being little Miss Innocent from Podunk, Nowhere.

Then I promptly . . . what? What the heck did I do with it? I cringe, thinking that maybe I’d tossed it away with my wrapper and balled-up cocktail napkin when the flight attendant came around with the trash bag.

Shoot. I bet that’s what I did.

Worldly Boston Girls probably have enough sense to hold on to their keys.

I jiggle the door handle of the apartment, but it stays put. Then I knock. No answer, obviously, because my roommate, Jen the Swimmer from Connecticut (that’s all I’ve learned about her during our three phone conversations), isn’t arriving until tomorrow. I lean over the railing and try to peer inside the window, but the narrow blinds are closed tight.

Shooty shoot shoot.

A bunch of people pass me on the street, but no one even looks at me, much less asks to help. Funny, as much as I wanted to get the heck out of Podunk, I have to admit Podunkians were at least a lot nicer. These people seem like they wouldn’t so much as stop and glance at me if I were on fire.

Pulling my blonde hair up into a messy bun, I finally go for my cell. But who can I call? Not Brandon. He would tell me to get my naïve butt back to Ohio, stat. Not my parents. As proud as they are that I’m the first Shaw to go to college, they didn’t understand why their precious daughter had to go to a big, bad city to do it. Plus, they’re all eight-hundred miles away. Who else? The only person I know in this city is Professor Morgan, and what would I say? Hi, it’s your new research assistant, Savannah Shaw. The one whose resume wowed you with how organized and responsible she was? Well, I’ve already screwed up and surely there will be many more mistakes forthcoming . . .

I shove the phone back in my pocket and stare forlornly at the heap of brand-new luggage (my parents’ present to me) on the dirty sidewalk. The steaming August day is dwindling into a humid night, the sun starting to slip behind the brownstones across the street. I need to get myself to bed so I can be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for my first day at work tomorrow.

I am not going to sleep out here. Mom would blow a gasket.

I kick the door so hard with my flip-flopped foot that I probably fracture my big toe. Pain screams up my leg, but the door doesn’t even respond. So I start pummel it, with all my might, with both fists. “Darn you, door! Just open!”

Nope, nothing. Exasperated, I give it one last shove, then start to slump against it when a voice from on the sidewalk says, “Surprised that didn’t work for you.”

I raise my eyes to a man and my heart clenches in my chest. I’m sure I’ve never seen anyone quite like him back in Ohio, because I’d remember. Brilliant, crystal-blue eyes stare back at me, half-shielded from the dying light of the sun by a low Sox cap, screwed down tight over his forehead. He’s wearing dark jeans and a long-sleeved Bobcats t-shirt despite the heat, but it doesn’t matter because everything is stretched so tight over his muscles that you can’t help but picture what’s underneath.

My heart skitters in my chest. It’s just a quick jolt of nerves . . . no. Not nerves.

Desire.

Where did that come from? How can I want a man I’ve just met? I wonder if I’m blushing. Of course, I’m blushing. When do I not blush? Brandon always says I’m a horrible bluffer because I wear my every feeling right on my ghostly pale, translucent skin. Right now, my cheeks feel as hot as an iron poker in a fire and are undoubtedly as red as one.

The stranger’s expression doesn’t change. Does he always look like he’s up to no good? Maybe that’s par for the course for city boys. He has this cocky, wolfish grin on his face, framed in dark stubble, and I can’t help thinking of what my father told me before I left home: Be careful of those city boys. They move fast.

Unlike boys like Brandon. For two years, all my ex did was circle around third base before he finally got the courage to steal home.

And when he finally got there, it wasn’t at all what I’d hoped it might be.

The results were…let’s just call them underwhelming.

Granted, it was mostly a long-distance relationship, but he was the all-state pitcher for the Bourneville Hawks. Rounding bases was supposedly his life.

“I—I can’t get in,” I stammer.

Dangerous Boy’s eyes sweep over the luggage at my feet. “You just moved here?”

I nod.

“Shithole neighborhood. Girl like you shouldn’t be out alone around here after dark.” His voice is a deep, relaxed drawl.

I gnaw on my lip. Truthfully, it did look kind of trashy, nothing like the quaint, quiet tree-lined street I’d expected from the pictures. Professor Morgan had sent me a list of possible living situations, and I’d chosen this row home, because it was only a five-minute walk to Cambridge College and I was deathly afraid of taking the T (what passes for the subway in Boston).

Plus, I’d heard the neighborhood was turning around. At least, that’s what someone on TripAdvisor had said. Great. Now I probably won’t be able to sleep without worrying about a break-in. Actually, I could possibly be looking at a potential America’s Most Wanted candidate right now. What is the cardinal rule of safety—don’t talk to strangers?

And this city man is strange, definitely. But also . . . exceedingly hot. No doubt about it.

My mother’s voice intervenes: Tell this stranger you’re fine, then flag down a passing police officer.

I straighten. “I can take care of things just fine.”

Those dark eyes of his scrape over my body, taking in my body-hugging tank-top, and my bare legs, and he might as well be touching me with those big, rough hands of his, the way goose bumps start to poke out on my limbs.

“I saw you taking care of things,” he says nodding. “The kicking the door thing really had an effect, girl. You should keep doing it.”

I scowl, but even as I do I feel my face growing hotter. Then I scan the street for that passing police officer, but it’s empty, except for some homeless guy navigating a squeally-wheeled shopping cart down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. “Do you have any better ideas?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah, girl, I do.” He closes the distance between us until he’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, then leans forward, as if about to impart a great secret to me. “A key.”

He’s so close now that I can see the end of some tattoo twining down his neck. I get this crazy, primal urge to lick it. Fighting to control myself, to roll my eyes. “Lost the key. Thus, my predicament.”

His smile widens. It’s not what you would call a happy smile, more like a sly one. His eyes never leave mine as he stalks past me, to the door, and I know just what he reminds me of: A wolf, getting ready to play with his prey.

And so why don’t I move away? Why do I move closer? Why does part of me want to be played with?

“What’s your name, country girl?” he asks me, his voice low and dripping with sex.

I open my mouth to explain that Bourneville, Ohio, is not exactly country, more sub-suburban, when I freeze. “How did you . . . “

“Not many girls around here say darn you, door. It’s mostly fuck this, fuck that . . .”

I cringe at the word. “My name’s Savannah. And I don’t cuss. It’s low-class.”

Oh, my god, can I sound any more like my mom?

He raises an eyebrow, amused. Then he jiggles the door handle, which of course, doesn’t work. “I’m Flynn.” He shoves at the door and says, “Well, Savannah. This darn door ain’t opening. Even after you talked so nicely to it and all.”

“Okay, but . . .” Suddenly, I’m desperate. He’s going to leave me alone out here and I’ll have to sleep on the street with a newspaper as a blanket. He may be a sketchy stranger, but he’s not all that terrible. He’s dressed well, like he just came from a sporting event, and god, he smells fantastic . . . what is that? Cologne, or natural city-boy scent? Whatever it is, yum. Plus, he’s all I have. My voice cracks with desperation. “What do I do?”

To my relief, he doesn’t high-tail it out of there with a casual “too-bad, so sad”. He says, “Relax, Savi.”

“Nobody calls me that,” I say, but even as I do, I wish he’d say it again, in that low, honeyed drawl that oozes sex.

His smile breaks into a low, bitter laugh. “Wonder why.”

“Ha,” I snap. I guess I should feel self-conscious that he thinks I’m such a country bumpkin, but I can’t. Because around him, all I can think is that I’d love to be schooled by someone like him.

“So what do you go by? Vanna? Like the girl who turns letters on Price is Right?”

“Wheel of Fortune,” I mutter. “And I don’t go by anything other than my full name.”

“So nicknames are low class, too, huh, Blondie?”

He’s toying with me now. And I don’t mind it in the least. In fact, I want more.

His eyes trail to the window. He reaches far over the railing and jiggles the frame, and meanwhile, all I can do is gawk at the muscles flexing under his shirt. Thick arms, tight waist . . . yikes. And those jeans? It shouldn’t be legal to fill out jeans that way. My god, it’s hypnotizing. He has the kind of body few men do . . . sculpted. He must’ve played sports in school.

“Well, Savannah,” he says, drawing out my name and turning toward me. “Let me check the back door.”

I quickly break my gaze and wonder if I have drool in the corner of my mouth.

He hops down the stairs and disappears down the narrow alley, just as my phone dings with a text. Brandon has sent me no fewer than a dozen of them since he dropped me off at the airport this morning. This one says, You at your apartment yet?

Technically, yes, I think, typing in a quick Y.

It’s nice that Brandon and I have stayed friends and don’t hate each other like so many couples who don’t make it. But sometimes, lately, it feels like he’s still playing the part of my long-distance boyfriend.

My stomach curdles at the thought that maybe Brandon’s not as over me as I am him.

Oh, Brandon would freak if he could see me now, getting moist in the panties for a boy I just met. I fan my face. It may be August, but it’s no excuse. My face has never felt this hot before. I quickly drop my hand and try to look natural when my city boy pokes his head around the door a minute later.

“You got a file?” Flynn asks.

I squint and blurt the first image that comes to my mind. “Like, um, the kind cartoon characters use to break out of prison?”

He shrugs. “That or . . . just a regular nail file.”

“Oh.” Duh. I reach over and grab my purse off the stoop, and when I straighten, his eyes are fixed on me. I’m sure I gave him quite the eyeful of my cleavage when I bent over, there. I pull out a pink polka-dotted travel emery board that’s about the size of my pinky. “Is this okay?”

He looks at it, then at me, like I’m insane. “No.”

I shrug and start to rummage through my purse aimlessly. “This is my first break-in. I don’t really have a burglar’s toolkit in here—“

“That,” he says suddenly, reaching in. He pulls out a heavy steel ballpoint pen I don’t even remember acquiring. I think I may have swiped it from a kiosk at the bank when I was applying for my first going-away-from-home credit card. “This valuable to you?”

I shake my head.

He twists off the metal clip and bends down, jimmying the lock. So this isn’t his first rodeo. Hmm.

“So, um,” I chatter nervously, digging my hands into the back pockets of my jean shorts. “You live around here? What do you do for a living?”

I’d feel better knowing he was a student or something, and breaking and entering wasn’t his profession. But he doesn’t answer. The most I can tell is that he’s from around here—no one could mistake that accent—just a regulah nail file. Who knows, his profession could be trolling the streets, looking for innocent college students to corrupt. I should probably sleep with a large piece of furniture wedged in front of the door tonight. Not that it would stop someone like him. He might as well have the key with the way he effortlessly picks the lock. He has these hands, big, capable hands, the palms of which I’m sure are all rough with calluses. Suddenly I can’t stop thinking about how they would feel on my ribcage, working their way up my body.

Oh, lordy, I’m sorry, Mom.

I hear the click of the mechanism releasing, and the door budges open. He pushes it wide and motions for me to enter.

I smile, astonished, then take a step inside. Then I remember that my luggage will probably not last long, alone on this cruddy street, and rush down to get it. But he’s already there, lifting the two biggest suitcases, without hardly any effort.

If he is about to corrupt me, at least he’s being polite about it.

“Oh, thank you. I mean, you don’t have to,” I stammer.

“What the hell is in here, girl?” he asks. “Bricks?”

Funny, he doesn’t seem to be struggling. “Books. I like to read.”

He lets out a laugh, like it’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. I expect that, because no one has ever been able to understand that my books are more attached to me than my limbs. Somehow, this guy doesn’t really strike me as an intellectual.

I suppress the scowl, since after all, he’s helping me. When he drops my suitcases in the foyer, he stands there, as if expecting a tip.

This is the part where I should send him merrily on his way. That’s the safe thing to do. Mom would maybe reconsider murdering her only child right now, if I did that. “You can go. I don’t want to keep you from whatever you were doing.”

He tips his baseball cap back, revealing a V-shaped red scar over his eyebrow. He’s so tough, so raw, so unlike the clean-cut, all-American boys back home. I’ve always heard about how attractive bad boys could be, but I never quite got it . . . until now. Heat stirs between my legs as he drawls, “I’m in no hurry.”

I can’t explain why I’m happy about that. I should be scared to death. But the idea of being in this apartment, alone for the first time in my life, is suddenly terrifying. I step inside and drop my backpack in the foyer, then fumble for a light switch. When I flip it and light fills the room, the first thing I see is a giant hole in the Pepto-pink plaster wall, as if someone put a fist through it. Then, something catches the corner of my eye. A bunch of somethings. Three thousand-leggers scurrying in all directions for a hiding place.

“Oh, god!” I shout miserably, grabbing my backpack off the floor and hugging it to my chest. “This looks nothing like the pictures.”

“You mean, the leasing office didn’t put the bugs in the pictures?” He cocks an eyebrow at me in disbelief, and I think I see a shade of amusement in his expression. He strides forward and peeks into one of the rooms. He flips on another light switch. “Ain’t so bad.”

I peer into a small living room and he’s right— though it smells musty, it actually looks kind of quaint. One thing I liked about this place was that it came totally furnished, which meant I wouldn’t have to spend my first few days here looking for a sofa I’d have to ditch after I got my degree at the end of the semester. And sure, the furniture has seen better days, and it’s seventies avocado plaid, but it looks comfortable, overstuffed, and perfect for vegging on (not that I’ll have much time for that, if Professor Morgan is as much of a slave-driver as they say he is). There’s also no tape-outline of a body on the floor, either, which is a plus.

I close the front door and realize it’s hot and stuffy as hell inside. Fanning my steaming face, I peer into the kitchen. It’s small, and smells like old bacon grease, and the appliances look about a thousand years old. But it’ll serve its purpose, since all I’ve been eating my last three undergraduate years has been ramen noodles.

Just then, I hear the ding of my phone, coming from the backpack in my arms. Another text from Brandon, I’m sure. I don’t bother to fish it out.

When I turn around, my new friend is already heading up the staircase with my suitcases. Well, why don’t you make yourself at home? I think, following him.

I come to a cramped landing with a small bathroom and two single, square bedrooms. If downstairs was hot, this is an inferno. I peer inside the bathroom at the austere décor, the white shower curtain, the rust-coated metal fixtures. When I about-face to take a look in the bedroom, my face nearly smacks him in his broad, broad chest. He’s leaned up against the door jamb, looking too relaxed, as if he’s the one who’s going to be living here. He’s staring at me, expectant, his eyes hard on me.

“Um . . .” I say, to fill the silence. Brilliant.

“You have freckles,” he observes, obviously way too close to me. My face is now probably all the shades of a summer sunset.

“Yes,” I mutter. Thanks for noticing the one thing I’m most self-conscious about, jerk.

Then he reaches out and brushes a stray lock of hair from my cheek, his fingers ever so-subtly grazing my chin.

A bolt of pure electricity spirals through to my core. My breath catches. “What are you doing?”

He simply shrugs, as if he hadn’t noticed his electrifying effect on me, or as if his every touch sends women wild like that.

“It’s balls hot in here,” he remarks, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “No AC?”

He has long, thick lashes, the kind that would make babies jealous, and I have the urge to trace my finger over the scar on his honey-colored skin. “It’s fine. I’ll open all the windows and air the place out.”

“In this neighborhood?”

His doubt makes me doubt myself. Okay, maybe I won’t open all the windows.

“Well. Do you live in this neighborhood? It’s good to know someone handy nearby if I ever need something.” I try to make my voice light and unaffected, but he’s affecting me. Oh lord, yes, he is. The heat from his body is radiating to me and all I can think about is how his skin would feel against mine.

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Oh. What were you doing here, then?”

“Just out for a walk.” This would be where he leaves. But he doesn’t. It looks like he’s doing everything possible to stay. And I can’t say I mind it one bit.

He draws in a slow breath, still studying my lips, and I know what comes next. He wants to kiss them. And, more than anything, I want him to.

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t check under your bed before I left, to make sure there were no monsters?” He murmurs, his voice low and breathy.

Gentleman. That’d be the last word I’d think of when I look at him. In fact, something tells me I should be less concerned about monsters under my bed and more worried about what’s right in front of me. But I can’t help it. Those blue eyes vine their way right inside me, unraveling me, shaking loose every last care in my head. I can barely think.

“Well,” I venture timidly, looking at the bare mattress in the center of the stark room. “Are there any?”

He tears his eyes from me, and it’s like physical pain when he steps away, retreating into the bedroom. He leans over, dips his head close to the ground and glances under the bed for barely a second. “Nah. You’re good.”

You can cut the tension in the room with a knife. Sexual tension, that’s what this is. I’ve never experienced anything like it before, not with any other boy, and definitely not with Brandon, but here it is, unmistakable. I can practically taste it, and already I can tell that I love it.

But how can that be? I just met him. I’m in a strange city and it’s late and obviously I’m overtired and it’s playing with my head. I need to put an end to it. What would my mom do? I throw myself into her Easy Spirits and blurt: “You’ve been so nice. Thank you. Can I maybe get you some tea?”

“Tea?” He’s definitely amused by that.

Nice going, Savannah. I flush like the innocent school-girl I am. He doesn’t seem like a tea person at all, more like a hard liquor type. And I don’t have either, so why am I playing hostess? He raises that eyebrow again, pulls off his hat, and fixes it so it’s backwards on his head. Now, he doesn’t look quite so dangerous, just slightly younger.

But still not like someone who likes tea.

“Okay,” I say, heading for the staircase, “Maybe not tea but how about a glass of—“

Before I can leave the room, his hand is on my bare arm, searing the flesh there, and as I whirl to see what he’s doing, he crushes his mouth onto mine.