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The only thing worse than having a ‘one that got away’ is knowing you’re the one who pushed her to leave.
It's a lie. There's a huge problem. Seventy-six inches of problem. Two hundred and twenty sculpted pounds of problem. A four-letter problem. Nash.
“Listen, fuckers.” All eyes in the room fall to me. “All any of you need to know is that Violet is one hundred percent out-of-bounds. If any of you even think about touching her, it’ll be a career-ending move. Because I will end you. Immediately.”
I want those goddamn butterflies—and only Mr. Wrong has ever given them to me.
But broken people break things, and I leave behind a path of destruction in my wake.
“I thought you said we couldn’t be friends,” I blurt, stepping off the curb to cross a utility road. His gaze slides over to me. “We can’t.” “Then why do you care what happens to me?” We slow to a stop under a yellow-tinted streetlamp. It casts half of his face in shadows, making him even more difficult to read than usual. “Same reason I can’t be your friend.”
We’re ancient history.” “Hardly.” Taking another step, he comes to stand directly above me, the warmth of his skin heating mine. “We were too many things to ever be ancient history.”
There’s a pecking order inside this vehicle, and stray puppies trump asshole ex-boyfriends.
