Epilogue

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"How's uni? Psychology, right?"

Gritting my teeth was a knee-jerk response. One I tried to play off as a smile, shaking my head. "Biology."

Damon nodded enthusiastically, grinning right back—in a way that told me he hadn't heard what I said over the music blaring overhead. "Right, right."

Noah widened his eyes sympathetically, disguising his own grimace behind a sip of beer. But then Damon and his friends turned their questioning back onto him, and Noah expertly blinked his amusement away.

When I'd emerged from the bathroom of the grungy nightclub—tucked somewhere between the ski resort and Capri—I'd been surprised to find Noah shooting me torpedo alerts from the bar. But then I saw who he was standing with.

His acquaintances from baseball.

Eli's friends from baseball.

Eli's best friend, Damon.

And, by then, it'd been too late to retreat into the ladies' room and set up camp for the night.

So I smiled when they approached me. Engaged in awkward but polite conversation. And weathered the unfortunate side effects of taking the moral high ground.

Damon pretended to hear my answer to a question. Again. The conversation lulled. Again.

And maybe because Eli's friends were staring at me so expectantly, maybe because I was nervous and restless and nosey, I asked, "How is he?"

Damon choked on his drink.

The others went pale.

"Good," one sputtered.

And then they looked away. Hid their expressions behind a sip of beer. Made eye contact with anyone but me.

A lie.

I indulged it, offering a curt nod. And then Damon's gaze was fixed on mine again, piercing me differently from how it had been before.

"And you?" he asked.

Movement caught my eye, and I found myself following it. Five figures were huddled in a booth across the club. Watching me. Intently. Kara, in particular, didn't make the same effort I had to mask her grimace.

I swallowed the urge to roll my eyes at them. And realized that a smile was flirting with my lips. "Good."

Not a lie.

An understatement.

Eventually, Noah and I managed to peel ourselves away from the bar, throwing our best wishes for the new year over our shoulders. We bounded across the dancefloor hand-in-hand, weaving through the packed bodies until we were certain we were out of sight.

"What are the chances?" Noah chuckled as we crossed to the booth—and the nosey fivesome in it.

I waved him off. "The universe and I have a very toxic relationship."

Before I had a chance to sit, Kara sprung to her feet and handed me a shot. "Thought you could use this," she shouted over the music.

I groaned, throwing it back. "God, I love you."

"Then come dance with me! No one will dance with me!"

I groaned again, placing the empty shot glass on the table. "I'll need at least another two before even contemplating that."

Her hot-pink lips settled in a pout, and she turned to Shay, batting her long, feathery lashes. "You'll dance with me, right?"

"Sorry, baby." Kara's girlfriend exited the booth in typical Shay fashion—gracefully and sensually. Straightening her chic cropped blazer, she cupped Kara's forlorn face between her hands, planting a teasing kiss on her lips and leaving a ruby-red mark. "I promised Noah and Blair I'd kick their asses at karaoke."

"You are so on." Noah grinned, downing his own shot before following Blair and Shay up to the mezzanine.

I almost giggled at it—the adorableness that was Kara's expression of utter self-pity. But she was relentless, and it took her less than a second to sear Dex with a look no man could refuse.

"Baby D?" she asked coyly, the rose-gold bracelets on her arm jingling when she extended a hand his way.

Dex rolled his eyes. But he stood, and in a flash of neon light, whisked Kara away to the dancefloor.

A low laugh pricked my ears. I followed it—to find James. Still watching Kara and Dex over the rim of his drink. His black sweater and jeans merged with the shadows cradling him in the corner of the booth, but his head of golden hair was a fiend for even the dimmest light.

He pinned his eyes on me, leveling a smirk he knew would go straight to my core, and gestured to our friends with his bottle of amber liquid. "Remember when we wanted to set them up?"

I loosed a laugh. "She would eat him alive."

"Absolutely devour him," he agreed, patting the seat Dex had vacated.

I aimed for it.

And somehow wound up in his lap.

His arms were around me in less than a second, anchoring me to his lap, his fingers curling around the hem of my dress. "Have I ever told you that I love you in red?"

"No."

He flicked his tongue out over his lips, slowly dragging the bottom one into his mouth. Lowering his hand, he swept a finger along the bare skin of my leg, and I swore my whole body shuddered with the combination of fire and tenderness in that touch.

Releasing his lip, he feathered that finger. "I love you in red."

It was a good thing we were alone. And lost to the dark. But even if we weren't, I wouldn't have stopped myself from lowering my face, nipping his mouth just as he had. "I guess I'll have to buy more red."

His smirk kicked up, and I nipped that, too. But before I could capture his lips for good, my phone vibrated against the table.

I recognized that text tone. After all these months, I still hadn't changed it.

Happy New Year, M, Lola had written.

I stared at it. At the name, at the message. I didn't reply. Didn't breathe. Just ... stared.

Gripping me just a little bit tighter, his thumb stroking my leg in slow, soothing circles, James asked, "Are you okay?"

I let that breath go. Swallowed.

And typed, Happy New Year, Lo.

"Okay," I confirmed, clicking the lock screen and setting my phone down beside his drink. "You?"

Silently, James lifted a hand to my throat, tracing a finger down the column of my neck. His eyes glittered, and I knew it was because he'd found it—the necklace he'd given me on Christmas Day, each charm he'd selected with so much thought and care.

He straightened it, correcting the pendants that had flipped over. His fingers lingered on the one in the center. The tiny, golden heart.

Finally, he nodded.

I pressed a kiss to his brow. "Good."

He lifted his face, and my breath almost caught at it—the expression set there. So much relief and contentment and genuine care.

"We used to go away every New Year's," I told him. Because I needed to tell someone. Because I was done with swallowing my feelings. "To an island off the coast. Lola hates camping. But we'd camp there. There's this one cliff—over the bay—and the water's filled with bioluminescent plankton. So at night, if the moon sits in just the right spot, if the waves move just enough, the ocean lights up. Like a sea of stars."

"It sounds beautiful."

It was. It was one of my favorite places in the world. "Do you want to go sometime?"

James' smile was so devilish, so pointed, that I could have plucked it right from his lips. "Are you asking me out on a date, Watson?"

I shrugged against him, quite enjoying the way his eyes darkened when my chest grazed his. "Just hypothetically speaking. You know, if I was the last girl on earth, or if you had a gun to your head."

His resounding laugh was a lovely, uninhibited thing. Peering up at me, he winked. "I'd consider it."

I tried to replicate that laugh, recalling that first day we met in the hall. But I felt my eyes gutter, my stomach knot.

He saw it—the shift.

Brushing a loose curl from over my face, he asked, "What is it?"

"Just ..." I relaxed into his touch, but my stomach was flipping. Dread was tangling. "Why did you like me back then? I'll never understand."

"Why?"

"I was miserable, James. I was awful. I was ... mean."

"You were sad. You were hurt. You were tired."

I shook my head, my self-loathing compounding. "But if someone used me the way I used you, I'd—"

"Forgive them."

My frown deepened. I tilted my head.

But he'd never looked so certain. "You'd forgive them. That's what you do." He gestured to my phone.

Where Lola had reacted to my message with a heart.

A smile ghosted my lips. God. Why was he always right?

James curled my hair behind my ear, sliding his finger along my jaw. "You have a higher tolerance for betrayal than anyone I know. You inspire me every day."

It was strange, in a way. Here was a quality I'd come to think made me weak, and James was telling me it was one he admired.

"Still, you didn't know me then," I countered. "You saw me at my worst, and you still thought ... her. Why?"

He rolled his eyes. "You're too hard on yourself. You're a firecracker, baby, but I've never seen that as a bad thing. Besides ..." He opened and closed his mouth. I could see the debate he was having with himself, the conflict in his eyes. But he remembered at the same time I did.

No more secrets.

"No matter how many times you pushed me away," he said, looking down at my necklace, "or how much you tried to hide your smile, I knew I'd never forget it. The way I felt the first time I met you."

I scrunched my nose. "In the hall?" I'd been a miserable bitch then, too.

"No, Madi. The first time I met you. The very first time."

I was officially lost.

James basked in my confusion for a second longer, a soft, knowing smile teasing his lips. Then he opened them. He told me what he meant.

And all I could do was stare back at him silently, captivated by a love that ran deeper than I knew.

The coastal sun was brutal, absolutely brutal on the second day of Noah's round-robin tournament. Noah seemed to think the same thing, wiping the sweat from his brow as he raced across the pitch, inserting himself between his teammate and the other team's pitcher—who was shouting in his face.

The pitcher didn't miss a beat. In a flash, he turned, redirecting his assault onto Noah, dropping the ball to curl his fists. Fire. There was fire in that boy's eyes, a thirst for blood leaching his knuckles of color. And his teammates—they just watched.

I'd risen to my feet before I realized it, but the umpire finally wedged himself between the warring factions before I made good on my intention to jump the fence myself.

"What's wrong with your face?" Harriet shrieked from beside me.

I turned to her, offering a sheepish smile. Her whole face was screwed up in something a lot like disgust, and she was leaning so far away from me she may as well have been sitting in the next seat. Still, that little scrunch of her nose was adorable, like a bunny, and even scowling, she was a vision. I guess she was the prettiest girl in eighth grade for a reason.

I ducked my head, sitting down beside her. "Sunburn."

"You're not wearing sunscreen?"

I opened my mouth to remind her: I'd given the last of it to her after she spent the whole day prior complaining about the coast ruining her skin for her photoshoot on Monday.

But, before I could, her phone pinged. She looked down, her amber eyes suddenly gleaming. "I'm thirsty."

"What would you like? Coke?"

"Ew. Anything but Coke."

I leaned over Harriet to where my best friend sat with hers. "Do you guys want anything—"

But Dex was already halfway to the ice cream truck.

The closest concession stand was buzzing when I finally broke through the crowd, but the line moved quickly, the fourth inning set to start.

A blur of crimson whizzed up the length of the queue, long, brown hair swishing and fanning before coming to a crashing stop.

"Grace? Eli said there were some drinks put aside for the team?"

"A little busy, sweetheart," the volunteer in the stall—Grace—replied, heaping hot fries into a paper cup. "I think they're in the fridge."

That was all it took for the girl in the red sundress to hoist herself up and over the counter. And then the line was moving at double-speed, Grace's customer-turned-assistant taking orders while collecting her own.

Her slender arms overflowing with blue and red sports drinks, she beamed at me over the confectionary display. The sun was glaring behind her—a halo of light that made it hard to pin my gaze on her, or to make out anything but a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks, the latter rosy and pink from her sprint.

"What can I get for you?" she asked breathlessly, popping a wad of cash into the till to pay for her order.

I froze. Anything but Coke. That left a lot of room for error.

A customer cleared their throat behind me.

The girl smiled at him politely, then tilted her head at me, her loose curls—not brown, I realized, but a dark, golden blonde—brushing her exposed shoulders. "Sorry, can I help you?"

Right. Words. "Just ... Just two Fantas, please."

"Ah, the superior choice." Her eyes were dark blue, and they twinkled as she twirled, simultaneously collecting another few sports drinks while retrieving my sodas from the fridge. "Four-forty."

"Thanks." I fumbled for dad's card, scanning the counter for the terminal. She did the same, frowning softly.

"Grace?" she asked.

Grace's head popped up from behind the grill. "Machine's broken."

The girl grimaced apologetically, spinning back to me. "Machine's broken."

I chuckled, dismissing her apology with a wave, and fumbled around for some cash. All I had was the hundred-dollar bill dad had given me to take Harriet out for a nice dinner. So it was my turn to grimace apologetically, but the girl only rolled her eyes, waving her hand, just as I had.

Until she opened the till, and her little smile fell.

"I've got four tens, some fives ..." Her fingers roamed around in the drawer, rattling something in the process. "And three buttons. You don't have anything smaller?"

"I don't. Sorry."

That smirk of hers ... it was a little pointed. Then again, with that unrelenting sun, it was hard to tell.

The man behind me cleared his throat again.

"Don't ... don't worry about it." I backed away from the counter before she could reply, leaving the sodas behind. And braced myself for Harriet's inevitable wrath.

I was breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth, halfway to the stands when a voice called through the crowd, "Hey Rothschild!"

And—hell, it was presumptuous of me—but I spun around.

And saw the girl from the concession stand running across the lawn.

I squinted through the sun spraying out behind her, turning her into a blur of crimson and brown once more. But now I knew her red dress was peppered with tiny white flowers, her hair not brunette, but a gilded, honey-blonde. And her arms ...

"What's this?" I asked, motioning to the pile of drinks she was juggling against her chest. And the two cans of Fanta right on top.

"Pity." She leaned in closer, her voice sweet and sarcastic all at once. "And ... it made me feel good. To be able to do something for someone with a black card."

"You didn't have to—"

That ridiculous pile of drinks spilled out of her hands, and part of me wondered—mere coincidence?

We both fell to the ground to collect the sports drinks, and when she had them balanced against her, she stood. Leaving only those two Fantas—and two chocolate bars—lying on the grass.

She eyed them pointedly.

I didn't realize I was grinning until I saw that she was, too.

Loosing a laugh, I bent over, scooping the snacks up. "Well, thank you."

"​​You're not from around here."

I straightened, a little dazed by the question. "We're not far. My friend"—I motioned to the field where Noah was huddled with his team—"his dad sponsors the tournament."

A wicked smile curled her lips, and she arched an eyebrow. "Of course he does."

I would have quipped back. But her eyes ... Even through that overbearing sunlight, I sensed her eyes running down the length of my body. And I knew she was judging me, knew I'd only confirmed whatever assumptions she'd crafted about me in her head, but ...

I didn't mind. I didn't mind one bit.

Her eyes moved up again, locking with mine. And I was suddenly grateful for the sunburn. Grateful that it hid how hot my cheeks had become under her stare.

"Well ..." She gestured behind me, and I followed the line of her hand to a small, pastel-colored van across the way. "My dad runs the ice cream van. And he does take black cards."

I chuckled. "Thank god for that."

"The codeword is 'bandit' for a VIP discount. My favorite's the cookies and cream." She paused, and I could practically hear her eyes fluttering over me again. "Although I'm getting more of a vanilla-with-flake vibe from you."

I whirled back to face her. And, yeah—she was doing it again. Looking at me. Seeing.

And ... waiting, I realized. For me to say something. Because ... because that's how conversations worked.

I shook my head, clearing my throat. "Let me at least find a way to pay you back for the soda."

On the field, a whistle blew.

The girl's eyes widened, a sudden sliver of urgency creeping in amongst all that sun, all that spunk.

"How about this?" she decided, backing away. "You can owe me a favor."

Another whistle blew.

And then she was gone.

Seconds. We'd been talking for a handful of seconds, barely even a minute. And yet ... Peering down at the chocolate bars—Flakes, indeed—I realized I was still smiling. I didn't really stop until I was rounding back to the stands and two excited, sly voices pricked my ears.

"Are you texting Dirk Wellington?"

"Technically, he's texting me."

"But you're texting back."

A giggle.

I stopped walking.

I knew that giggle.

"So what about Bennet?"

"What about him?" Harriet snorted. There was a considerable pause before she groaned, and added, "Haven't you heard? His dad's running for mayor."

My eyes popped a little. That would be news to my dad.

"And?" her friend urged.

"And ... Jeez, Gwen, think about it. Imagine the events I'd get to go to. The photo-ops. A ticket like that would raise my profile."

A frown ghosted my brow. My pulse—it was racing.

"Plus, he's easy enough on the eyes. When his face isn't the same color as my father's Ferrari."

The resounding laughter from both Harriet and Gwen ... Yeah, my face was burning.

I was silent when I rejoined them, handing

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