While blotting my dress with napkins Margo pushed into my hands, I take in our group and see Connor Dimpleshitz, Margo’s man. He’s chatting with some of his nerd friends, and I say that because out of the four guys, three wear identical Regional Chess Champions shirts. Digging up resolve, I flash a big pretend smile. Fresh guys—I can get behind that. They check me out with a bit of fascinated wariness, and I almost claw and purr at them, but my heart isn’t invested. Old Charisma would have. She was outgoing and always ready to party, but she hasn’t reared up yet. She might have teased them for their matching shirts or enjoyed a long conversation about the intellectual benefits of chess on the brain. She might have hooked up with one of them if they agreed to her rules: no kissing on the lips and no sleeping over.

The truth is, sex for me is a carefully thought-out plan with the right guy selected. The moment I arrived at Waylon, I set those guidelines in place to keep my heart safe, and I only broke the kissing rule once, but that was way back in freshman year, and I don’t think Blaze even remembers that night at the toga party. Not surprising since we were both trashed and didn’t exchange names. Plus, he never brought it up during the three weeks we were hooking up last fall—rules emphatically in place.

Not once did he kiss me. Not once did he ask me to stay over.

“Glad you came out, Charisma. We’ve missed you,” Connor calls out, grinning as he raises his dark beer, and I throw up a wave.

“Blaze and company should be arriving any minute—or at least that’s the word from social media,” Margo says in my ear.

She needs to not bring his ass up.

“Haven’t thought of him in ages. Can’t recall a thing about the guy. Is he well?”

Her eyes squint at me. “They did win the national championship against UT two days ago, so yeah.”

“Good for him. I hope it brings him the millions he wants in the NFL someday.”

“You didn’t watch the game?” Her mouth gapes.

“Nope. I had better things to do. Went to the dentist, washed my hair, cleaned out Vampire Bill’s birdcage.” I avoid her eyes and take in the packed area. Bodies jostle around the bar, bumping and moving like molasses as co-eds do a loop from the end of the bar to the pool tables. This place was my go-to party place last year—until him.

My eyes narrow in on a huddled group near the back of the room.

Welcome Back, Wildcats! has been printed on a huge white banner and put up on the wall. Jersey chasers on dick patrol linger underneath it, waiting for their idols. My lips tighten.

“Yeah, the piranhas are circling.” She takes a sip of her drink, her gaze darting from me to them.

“IDGAF.” Acronyms—it’s my thing. They save time and get the point across.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her frown and give me a searching, almost worried look, reminding me she witnessed my spectacular breakup with Blaze at our party—although, was it even a breakup when we weren’t a real couple? I guess not, though the pain of us being over hurled me into a darkness I don’t like to think about, as if we’d been together for months.

And Blaze? Just the memory of his stony face and hard eyes, his hands on my shoulders, pushing me away, telling me I wasn’t—

“Right. Forget him. How was your Christmas?” she asks.

“It’s been almost four years, and Ma’s still upset I didn’t stick around the Bronx and marry a nice Italian guy across the street. Pop and my two brothers are rowdy as ever.” I manage a smile. “I did miss them though. Paulie’s kids are adorable, and Mattie’s still living at home and going to law school. He’s the one dealing with Ma’s meddling right now, not me, so halleluiah for that.”

She cocks her head. “Nice. You look pale.”

I don’t glance at her, keeping my eyes carefully focused on a point on the bar behind her. “I’m fine,” I say, but the truth is, I haven’t gone a day without thinking about Blaze.

I just…I just…can’t stop thinking about those words he said.

We’re over. You’re not my type.

At the time, we were on the dance floor, jammed between writhing, drunk partygoers, and I thought I misheard him. I knew we weren’t serious, but for the first time in my life, the walls around my heart were cracked, just a little, and even though I had my rules, I wanted him to be the one who stuck around. I wanted him to ask for more.

He didn’t.

He dumped me and went on with his life, like I was nothing to him but a notch on his bedpost.

Anger flares, building and growing.

“Not his type, indeed,” I mutter. Deep down I’m still that chubby girl in school with thick legs and huge boobs. Chubby Charm, Bouncing Boobs, Thunder Thighs—those nicknames stick in my throat like cement. Most days I’m past those old insults; I’m not normally one to wallow in adolescent self-pity, but when your thighs still touch and the guy you’re with dumps you and starts dating a toothpick who looks like she might break in half if a hard wind blows, it brings the memories back, sharp as a knife.

Margo frowns as she looks at me—again. Digging up some of my old flair, I paste on a big smile, catch the arm of a passing waitress, and order a round of drinks for the table: a shot of tequila for me, prosecco for Madame President, and a Guinness for Connor. The other guys decline my offer. Maybe they’re still wary of me, but I barely notice. My senses are heightened and taut, tight as a wire as I try to keep one eye on the door and one on my friends, hoping I look casual and not anxious.

Come on, football players! Let’s get this over with so I can get my ass home and put on regular clothes, raid my fridge, and watch Big Bang Theory.

Three tequilas in and only half an hour has passed. Plus, I’m still sober. I glare at my shot glass, contemplating an entire bottle. Why does each moment that passes feel so dang slow? Still, I look back up and give the group a sweeping smile. Here I am, happy as a clam, it says.

The front door of the bar creaks open, and I pause mid-sip. The music is loud, tons of students going back and forth, yet somehow the noise of the door skates down my spine like a ghost brushed past me dragging chains.

I feel the electricity in the room before I lay my eyes on him.

He blows in like a king ready to receive his subjects.

At six foot three and almost zero body fat, he’s tall and lithe and tightly muscular—and beautiful. Can a man be beautiful? Fuck yeah. His thick, dark brown hair has grown out, and the top strands are swept back off his forehead, carefully styled, the sides cut shorter. The lengthier hair on top is edgy looking, totally different from how he wore it last fall in a short fauxhawk. Douchebag Extraordinaire has lighter colors interwoven, giving it depth and accentuating ice-blue eyes. He asked me to highlight his hair once during our whirlwind. We never got around to it—but someone has.

Another change? He’s sporting dark scruff on his jawline, giving him a slightly dangerous look.

I suck in a gulp of air. I never pictured him with sexy facial hair, and it’s…it’s…

It’s nothing. My heart is pure, hard steel.

The lights from the ceiling bathe him in a spotlight as he presents the entire bar with that famous sexy grin, the one that melts your insides and makes girls fall at his feet.

He turns when someone calls his name, and my eyes eat up the line of his profile, strong and defined and chiseled. His nose is straight and patrician looking, his cheekbones high and sculpted, carving out a perfect face. And even though it’s January, his face is sun-kissed from playing football outside for months at a time. He’s a damn Adonis.

Piercing, intense eyes are set underneath dark brows. His lashes are long and thick and you’d think it would make him look feminine, but nope. All it does is call attention to the hint of laughter there, as if he knows something you don’t, as if he’s playing you.

Which he is.

Blaze Townsend is a player.

Tonight he’s wearing a Wildcats National Championship long-sleeved navy shirt that clings to his biceps. I think about the skin under that shirt, those granite-hard abs he works so hard on. I’ve had my hands there. I’ve kissed each rippling muscle, worshipping him with my lips and tongue. God. I was crazy about his body.

My eyes move down, taking in the dark jeans encasing long muscular legs. I recall those powerful thighs under my hands, the dark curls I ran my fingers through.

Oh, just stop already!

F’ing hot.

F’ing asshole.

My libido frosts over when I see who’s with him.

On either side are two gorgeous girls with varied shades of blonde hair. They’re everything I’m not: tall, skinny, beautiful. My throat tightens at the perfection of them, and for a second I want to run out of here, but I hold steady. I’ve had three months to prepare, and I’m tough. I CAN DO THIS.

Yeah, but you can’t compete with that, a mean voice whispers in my head.

Applause breaks out inside the bar. Blaze lifts a hand and mimics a Miss America wave, his full, carnal lips tugging up in a slow smile that grows, becoming broader and wider. Dude could be a toothpaste model. I swear I hear a gasp from every female in the room. The effect of his mouth is positively infectious. If he were a preacher, he’d be saving souls left and right.

I roll my eyes.

He’s with Dillon McQueen, the backup quarterback, and several other players.

“Oh, yay, the team is back on campus. Let’s celebrate. Yippee,” I mumble to myself as a girl in a Wildcats shirt nearly mows me down in her quest to get to them.

“I know, right?” She stops next to me, stars in her eyes. “Blaze is just…gorgeous, right?”

My lips flatten. “Totes.”

She licks her lips, her eyes darting from him to me. “Wait…did you date him?”