He stands from the chair and retrieves a black duffel bag from the closet. He tosses into it a change of clothes, his deodorant, and a toothbrush. Without looking at me, he leaves me alone.

I hear the door slam downstairs, and I collapse onto my bed.

I curl up into a ball and try my best to quiet my petty sobbing, but I do a horrible job at it.

Why is this explosion between us happening now? The past couple of months were nothing but bliss. We studied together and explored each other and were perfectly content.

My heart clenches. “Because love isn’t about sex, Evan,” I whisper to myself.

I guess I never understood love, then. I mean, I love my mom, and I love Britain. But every guy I dated who found out about my modeling was always triggered by me sexually, including Dallas. I guess I just thought Dallas was different because we connected on a million other levels.

Maybe I just didn’t know better. But our so-called love was based on a lust forced by our stupid job. And now the two of us are falling apart before we’re even physically apart.

There’s a reason for that.


Britain


I don’t go out on dates with douches often. And when I say douches, I use that term liberally, considering I’m referring to all of the male variety.

But there’s a guy name Hayden who’s was in my music class last semester. He seems like less of a douche than most of them. Of course, my first warning should be that he’s two years younger than me. Dating a younger guy never works—I mean, unless I’m like, thirty. But a guy isn’t mature until he’s well into his twenties, and sometimes, not even then.

I know I’m only twenty-two, but I’ve had my share of hookups, and I’m over them. I’d rather keep a vibrator under my pillow and focus on school until Prince Charming comes along, if that ever happens.

But when Hayden started making small talk with me in class and texting me after the semester was over, I thought, you what, he has nice eyes and a cute ass. Why the hell not?

I decided not to tell Evan, even though I know she’ll kill me when she finds out. But right now, she has her own problems and I’d feel guilty about pestering her over one tiny date. I know Dallas left in a storm this afternoon and hasn’t come back, and Evan’s been quiet in her bedroom ever since.

She must have dished the news about the launch issue, and I guess he didn’t take it well like she thought he would.

“Hot damn, girl, you look divine,” Delilah says when I make my way down the stairs in stilettos, clinging to the banister in the hopes of not falling flat on my ass. I don’t do this whole girlie dress-up thing often. I don’t have the need to, being as I’m always the one behind the camera.

“I feel like my hair looks like a washed-out curtain,” I say when I finally make it to the safe landing of the living room.

Delilah shrugs. “Yeah, it kind of does, but it suits you. Like the angelic version of Wednesday Addams.”

“Oh, that’s just great.” I comb my fingers through my hair and think of putting it up, but I’m too late. There’s a knock at the door. Delilah jumps up and answers it, and I hear the soft sound of Hayden’s voice.

“Sure, I’ll go grab her,” Delilah says, and when she turns back to me, her eyes are saucers.

Wow, she whispers. Well, at least I have Delilah’s approval.

Hayden has even dressed up for the date. Well, when I say dressed up, I mean a button-up shirt and some slacks. But surprisingly, not a lot of guys even do that. He’s tall, with thick golden hair, hazel eyes, and dimples that would probably drive any girl crazy. I grin inwardly. I could definitely see myself getting into bed later tonight with him—even though I promised myself I was done with the whole hooking-up thing.

Fuck it.

“You ready?” he says.

It’s just a standard dinner and a movie night. Nothing bravely romantic or out of the ordinary, which I’m fine with. Dating and I have had quite a break, so it’s better to ease back into the water than to jump head first, I guess.

Hayden talks too, which is great. I hate that horribly awkward silence on car rides with guys I don’t know too well, but realize the one thing running through both our minds is where the night will go—if we’ll make it to second base or further.

He asks me about school and my hobbies and where I’m from. His voice is smooth and musical. I wouldn’t mind listening to it for hours. Every time I glance over and read his face, I can’t tell if he’s asking me because he genuinely doesn’t know what my hobbies are, or he’s afraid to bring up EPE. But I’m not shy.

“I’m a photographer,” I finally tell him over dinner when our waitress begins to pour the merlot.

He raises his eyebrows in interest. “Really?”

Maybe he doesn’t read East Park Exposed. Which is unlikely because every guy on campus and even most girls read East Park Exposed. Then again, who really spends time going over the credits on the opening page? No one. They skip right through to Evan’s tits.

I’m about to break the news to him of my job, but he suddenly makes the question so much harder to answer when he asks, “So, what do you photograph?”

I swallow my wine. “What?”

“You know—cityscapes, nature, portraits, candid shots…”

Boobs. I photograph boobs.

“Uhh… people?” I tell him.

He chuckles and takes a sip of wine. “You don’t seem too sure about that.”

Here goes nothing. “Have you ever heard of East Park Exposed?”

A strange silence suddenly drops on the table. His whole body stiffens and he narrows his eyes, slowly setting down his wine glass. “What about it?”

“I photograph for the magazine.”

Tension electrifies the space between us. Suddenly the brightness in his face is gone, and he pulls up his lip in disgust.

Whoa. Totally not a reaction I’ve ever received from a guy before. Usually it’s on the polar opposite end of uncomfortable. They start giggling like they’re in junior high and ask me perverse, sexist, and inappropriate questions.

Why can’t guys just respond non-douchily? Is that so much to ask?

“So, like, what—were you seriously strapped and needed to make some money on the side?”

I curl my finger around a lock of my pin-straight hair and tug. “Not exactly.”

“Was it some weird internship or something?”

“Uhh… no. I sort of… founded the magazine.”

Now the disgust on his face practically blinds me. You’d think he was a saint or something.

Then again, I haven’t asked him any questions. Maybe he’s a missionary. Maybe he’s a pure virgin boy who’s never looked at pornography in his life.

Like any of those exist anymore.

“You’re kidding me,” he says dryly.

I’m about to respond, really, I am. I’m about to make an excuse for myself, quickly thinking of ways to paint EPE and my job in the most angelic light possible—when he walks by.

My eyes shift from Hayden to lock on him.

He’s well over six feet with short, dark hair, golden eyes, full lips, and high cheekbones. The kind of guy you could photograph from any angle and get the perfect shot every time. The kind of guy that, even in a suit and tie, I can tell he has to be perfectly cut.

I haven’t seen him in years.

“Sweet Jesus,” I whisper. “Jaime?”

“Excuse me?” Hayden asks.

I glance at him. He looks pissed—I can’t tell if it’s because I just took the Lord’s name in vain or because I’m gawking at my brother’s best friend.

I stand up.

“What are you doing?” Hayden doesn’t sound pleased in the slightest.

“Give me just a second. If the waitress comes back, order me chicken marsala.”

“But—″

I don’t hear the rest of his sentence because I’m half-way across the restaurant, following Jaime and his petite, pretty date to their seats.

He’s about to sit when he sees me. I’m standing in the middle of the restaurant with my fists clenched at my sides, wearing the glasses I’ve had since high school, my straight, signature-Britain hair, and a dress that doesn’t fit me right.

Just as gawky as the last time he saw me, four years ago.

His eyes light up. He motions to his date that he’ll be a minute before pushing his chair in and making his way toward me.

My nerves get to me, and I look around. This isn’t exactly the perfect place for a reunion—standing in the middle of waitress traffic where both of our dates will be studying our interactions closely. I turn on my heel and hurry to the lobby at the front of the restaurant, not surprised when he follows.

If anything, he’s followed me to torment me.

Let’s see how much has changed in four years.

When he reaches the lobby, he leans up against the wall and looks me up and down. Suddenly, I feel way too sexy in this dress.


“Well, well, Britain McCulley.”

I cross my arms awkwardly. “Hi… Jaime.”

A whole rush of emotions come swimming back to me. Mostly negative ones, but there are a few gems. Jaime is my older brother Cameron’s best friend. My brother was enough of a playboy himself, and, well… Jaime was a hundred times worse. They’ve been that way since they went through puberty together, an event I witnessed almost every single moment of. I’ve pretty much known Jaime since I exited the womb.

But being a playboy isn’t what puts a bad taste in my mouth when I think about Jaime. It’s the fact that, over the course of my entire life, he’s been there to tease me relentlessly about every aspect of my personality, my behavior, and my body. He was that asshole.

And I never understood why. He was popular and deviant and blew through girls like packs of gum, yet he took extra care to make my life a living hell whenever he could.

Like the time he found my tampons and strung them like Christmas lights outside my bedroom window when I was thirteen.

Or the time he was supposed to lead me blindfolded to my surprise birthday party on my family’s patio and pushed me into the pool.

Or that one summer when he intimidated my high school boyfriend so badly that he broke up with me the next day.

And here’s the kicker. It would be one thing if he grew up to be old and fat and balding at twenty-six, and I looked as hot as Evan, or Delilah. I generally don’t give half a damn about appearances, except for this moment, when I see Jaime-fucking-Rivera for the first time in four years and he looks like a god.

I knew he was attractive, I just didn’t know how attractive. Cameron told me he’d been working with him in an accounting internship at my parents’ software company when he was getting his bachelor’s at Stan State, and his modelling career took off after he graduated.

He was cute back in high school, but still had too much of a meat head appeal for me. Now, as he walks closer, reaching out his hand, he’s all swag and no sneer. He’s ballsy enough to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and I’m brought back to all of my buried, hidden fantasies of him.

Yes, even though he was a total dick to me, he was hot and gave me attention. I often toyed with the idea of him deflowering me when I was a teenager.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” he says.

I shy away from his touch. “I see your confidence hasn’t dwindled either.”

He laughs and sighs. His body is too close. “When I found out you were shooting for an erotic magazine, I couldn’t believe it. I figured that you must have gone batshit insane after high school, cut your hair off, started smoking, got a couple of naughty piercings…”

I chuckle nervously. “Surprise.”

“I mean, little Britain McCulley? My chaste, blonde, inherited sister?”

The way he calls me his sister makes me internally cringe. He reaches out again like he’s going to touch my face, and I grab his forefinger, resisting the urge to break it in my fist.

I won’t be patronized.

I used to fall for that shit as a teenager. I can’t count how many times this boy left me in tears. But I have a hell of a lot more stamina now.

“Awh, you thought I was chaste. That’s cute.”

I release my grip and he slides his hands into his pockets.

“It’s a coincidence seeing you here.”

“Why’s that?”

“I thought Cameron would have told you.”

I shrug. “I don’t really talk to him much.”

“Aren’t you wondering why I’m in town?”

“No?”

“Britain,” he elongates my name to sound all whiny. “I’m auditioning for your magazine.”