Chapter 2

Tyler's hand was warm in mine as we walked toward the parking lot. His BMW sat in the spot reserved for star athletes, gleaming silver under the October sun.

"You sure you want to skip?" he asked, but his thumb was already tracing patterns on my palm.

"Positive." I squeezed his fingers. "Ms. Peterson can wait."

Tyler opened the passenger door for me, and I slid into the leather seat that still smelled like new car and his cologne. As he walked around to the driver's side, I caught a glimpse of the football field in the distance.

That's where it all started.

One year ago. September.

The Westfield Academy auditorium had been packed for the annual scholarship ceremony. I'd sat in the third row, wearing my best dress—which wasn't saying much. Navy blue from Target, slightly too big because I'd lost weight over the summer working double shifts at the diner.

Headmaster Roseheart had stepped up to the podium, his smile practiced and political.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to announce this year's Presidential Scholar."

I'd known it was coming. My guidance counselor had pulled me aside two days earlier with the news. Full ride to any university. Four years of freedom from foster care, from depending on people who saw me as a paycheck.

"Ashley Connor."

The applause had felt distant as I stood up. My legs were shaking, but I'd made it to the stage without falling.

Headmaster Roseheart shook my hand, and the photographer's flash went off. Standard stuff. But when I looked out at the audience, my eyes found her immediately.

Valentina Roseheart. Front row center, of course.

Her face was perfectly composed, but her hands were clenched so tight in her lap that her knuckles had gone white. Her father had just handed her inheritance to some nobody from the wrong side of town.

And she looked like she wanted to kill me.

The next day, I was sitting in the bleachers during lunch, trying to catch up on AP History reading. The football team was running drills, and I wasn't paying attention until I heard someone shout "Brooks! Focus!"

I looked up just in time to see Tyler Brooks catch a pass and sprint toward the end zone. Even from a distance, he was impossible to ignore. Six-foot-two of pure athletic grace, golden hair catching the light as he moved.

He was also Valentina's boyfriend. Had been since sophomore year.

I went back to my textbook, but some sixth sense made me look up again twenty minutes later. Tyler was standing at the edge of the field, helmet tucked under his arm, talking to Coach Martinez. But his eyes were on me.

When our gazes met, he smiled.

Not the charming, practiced smile I'd seen him use on other girls. This one seemed almost... surprised. Like he hadn't expected to be looking at me at all.

I looked away first.

A few days later, Jake Morrison jogged toward my usual spot in the bleachers.

"Connor! You coming to watch practice?"

I turned to find one of Tyler's teammates approaching. We'd been lab partners in Chemistry last year, which apparently qualified as friendship in his mind.

"Just reading," I said, holding up my textbook.

"Come on. We're scrimmaging against Fairfield Prep tomorrow. You should see Tyler throw—guy's got an arm like a cannon."

I glanced toward the field where Tyler was stretching with the rest of the team. He'd changed into full gear since I'd seen him last, and the effect was... significant.

The shoulder pads made him look impossibly broad. The tight pants showed off legs that could probably benchpress a car. And when he put his helmet on and ran onto the field, every girl in the bleachers sat up a little straighter.

Including me.

"Sure," I heard myself say. "I'll watch for a bit."

Jake grinned and jogged back to the field.

What I didn't expect was for Tyler to throw the ball directly at my head.

It happened fast. One second I was watching the team run plays, the next a football was hurtling toward the bleachers like a missile. I had just enough time to duck before it slammed into the metal seat beside me with a sound like a gunshot.

The entire field went silent.

"Holy shit!" someone yelled. "Brooks, what the hell was that?"

Tyler was already running toward me, pulling off his helmet as he moved. His hair was damp with sweat, and his face was flushed with exertion and what looked like genuine panic.

"Are you okay?" He reached the bleachers in record time, climbing up to where I was sitting. "Did it hit you? I'm so sorry, I don't know what happened."

"I'm fine," I said, but my voice came out smaller than I intended.

"No, you're not." He sat down beside me, close enough that I could smell his deodorant mixing with sweat. "You're shaking."

I was. But not from fear.

"I think I'm just a little rattled," I said, which was true. Just not for the reasons he thought.

Tyler's hands hovered near my shoulders like he wanted to touch me but wasn't sure if he should. "I am so, so sorry. I've never had a throw go that wild before."

Sure you haven't, I thought.

Because this wasn't an accident. The throw had been too precise, too perfectly aimed at exactly where I was sitting. Tyler Brooks didn't make mistakes like that.

Which meant Valentina had already gotten to him.

"It's okay," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Really."

"No, it's not okay." He was looking at me with those ridiculous blue eyes, and I could see why half the school was in love with him. "Let me make it up to you. Dinner? Movies? Whatever you want."

And there it was. The trap, laid out so perfectly I almost wanted to applaud.

I should have said no. Should have seen through the act and walked away. Should have protected myself and my scholarship and my future.

Instead, I looked at Tyler Brooks—all six feet and two inches of golden perfection—and made what felt like the worst decision of my life.

"Okay," I said.

His smile was blinding. "Really?"

"Really." I stood up, clutching my textbook to my chest. "But I should probably get going. I have to work tonight."

"Work?" He followed me down the bleachers. "Where do you work?"

"Murphy's Diner. Downtown."

Something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or pity.

"Right," he said. "Well, I'll pick you up Friday at seven?"

"Sure."

I was already walking away when I heard him call my name.

"Ashley?"

I turned back.

"I really am sorry about the ball."

I believed him. And that was the most dangerous part.

When I reached the parking lot, I was fishing for my car keys when I spotted them in the far corner. Tyler and Valentina, standing beside her white Mercedes. They were too far away for me to hear what they were saying, but their body language told the whole story.