• • •

Five reasons why I, Jules Demarco, am furious:

1. The pizza I was ten feet away from delivering properly is now something only Trey would eat

2. My stupid wenus* is broken and hurts like hell

3. It’s a snowy Super Bowl Sunday and I’m already running forty-five minutes behind

4. Some loser (even though I’m in love with him) wasn’t watching where he was going, and I’m the one who has to suffer for it

5. That loser just delivered his pizza without consequence, and also? Does not have a broken wenus

“I’m fine,” I manage to say. Embarrassed, I ignore the pain, roll away from his outstretched hand, and get to my feet, holding my sore elbow close to my side. I reach out and gingerly pick up my pizza bag. I close my eyes once again and swallow hard. The inside of that box will be pretty gross right now. I don’t want to think about it.

“I’m really sorry—I was in a hurry . . .”

It’s true that he’s being ridiculously nice about this. I almost wish he weren’t. If he were a jerk about it, I could stay furious a lot longer.

“Me too,” I confess with a sigh. “I was already off balance from the ice when you barreled through the door.” Shut up, shut up, I tell myself. Now I’m mad at myself for taking part of the blame. What the hell, Jules?

It’s love! I cry back to myself. How can I help it?

I hate you, I say to inner Jules. Hate. You.

Sawyer cringes when he sees how not-floppy my bag is. “Oooh. Been there. Sorry. I really am,” he says. He dips his head and looks into my eyes.

“Yeah. Thanks.” I’ve dropped a few pizzas in my day. “Not the best day for it, but there it is.” All of a sudden I sound like my dad talking about the weather. I drop my eyes because I can’t stand to look at him being nice, knowing what I know.

“Want me to pay for it?” Sawyer comes to life and whips out a wad of tips from his pocket, and all I can do is stare at him.

“Who are you?” I say, almost under my breath, but he hears me, and I see his lips twitch.

“I’m just a clumsy guy,” he mutters. “I hope your parents don’t freak out.”

I narrow my eyes, not sure if he’s just concerned about me dropping a pizza and getting yelled at, or if there’s another layer there. “They won’t,” I say slowly. “Why would they? And put your money away. It’s fine. It happens. Trey will eat it.”

He laughs then. “So would I. You sure?” He looks at me, eye to eye again, and I remember his lashes from a long time ago when we were forced to share a library table doing research. His lashes are superthick, superlong, deep brown, complemented by the green of his irises. Every blink is a sweeping drama, a sexy ornament, a mating ritual. Dear dog, I’m so hopelessly pathetic, I’m grossing myself out.

I nod stupidly.

He shoves the money back in his pocket, and we just stand there, silent and awkward. Finally he says, “Need me to call in the reorder for you?”

That wakes me up. “Shit,” I say again, and dig wildly for my phone. “No. But that would definitely make my parents freak out, if that’s what you’re going for.”

He grins. I dial and turn away so his ropy eyelashes don’t distract me. “We have a situation,” I say when Rowan answers. “There’s a pie down at Traverse Apartments. Repeat: A pie. Is down. Reorder stat.”

“Jules!” she says. “We don’t have time for that.”

“Calm it down, yo,” I say, gingerly stretching out my sore arm to see if it still works. “I’ll be back in fifteen so you can load me up . . . . I don’t know what else to say. It happened. There was ice. Sorry.”

She sighs. “Fine. Just get here.”

“Roger that.” I hang up and turn back to Sawyer, who is still smiling.

“Is something funny?” Now I’m back to almost furious again. I start walking to my car.

He shrugs. “It must be fun to work with you.”

“Oh yeah, I’m a real hoot,” I say, opening my car door and knocking my boot on the runner.

“I think you guys . . . you and Trey, and your little sister—”

“Rowan,” I say automatically.

“Rowan,” he says with a nod. “It’s cool you all get to work together. I’m stuck with the proprietors.” He says the last word with sarcasm.

And that’s the moment when I picture him at the hostess stand at his parents’ restaurant, by the jar of suckers, and that’s when I remember the phone call, and that’s when I see the body bag in my mind’s eye. My mouth opens slowly, as if it’s deciding whether to say the words my brain is telling it to say.

“You know . . . ,” I start to say.

At the same time, Sawyer says, “About last night . . .”

And we both stop and start again.

“I shouldn’t have called you,” I say.

“I called you back. After.”

I blink and look away. “I know.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You didn’t answer.”

“I thought . . .” But I can’t remember anymore.

“It was nice of you,” he says. “Kind of weird, but nice. I’m sorry I accused you of spying. Knee-jerk reaction. Or maybe just a jerk reaction. It was stupid.”

I swallow hard, and now I picture those gorgeous lashes on his dead eyes. “Sawyer,” I say, and his name sounds so weird when I say it out loud.