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Chapters (42)
  1. TITLE PAGE
  2. COPYRIGHT PAGE
  3. CONTENTS
  4. START READING
  5. PLAYLIST
  6. PROLOGUE
  7. PART 1
  8. ONE
  9. TWO
  10. THREE
  11. FOUR
  12. FIVE
  13. SIX
  14. SEVEN
  15. EIGHT
  16. NINE
  17. TEN
  18. ELEVEN
  19. TWELVE
  20. THIRTEEN
  21. FOURTEEN
  22. FIFTEEN
  23. SIXTEEN
  24. SEVENTEEN
  25. EIGHTEEN
  26. NINETEEN
  27. TWENTY
  28. PART 2
  29. TWENTY-ONE
  30. TWENTY-TWO
  31. TWENTY-THREE
  32. TWENTY-FOUR
  33. TWENTY-FIVE
  34. TWENTY-SIX
  35. TWENTY-SEVEN
  36. TWENTY-EIGHT
  37. TWENTY-NINE
  38. EPILOGUE
  39. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  40. PREVIEW: PLAYING WITH FIRE
  41. PROLOGUE
  42. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Huge thanks to my agent, Kimberly Brower, at Brower Literary, and Tijuana Turner and Jill Glass for being PR superstars. A lot of thanks go to Caroline Teagle Johnson and to the amazing editorial team at Montlake, who are an absolute delight to work with, including Anh Schluep, Lindsey Faber, Cheryl Weisman, Bill Siever, and Elyse Lyon.

Most of all, and as always, I would like to thank my readers. In an ever-changing world, there is one constant I will never take for granted—you. Thank you for taking a chance on my books. I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart.

L.J. Shen

PREVIEW: PLAYING WITH FIRE

PREVIEW: TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PEEK OF PLAYING WITH FIRE: A ROMANTIC STAND-ALONE

PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

GRACE

The only thing to remain completely untarnished after the fire was my late momma’s flame ring.

It was a cheap-looking ring. The type you get in a plastic egg when you shove a dollar into a machine at the mall. Grandma Savvy said Momma always wanted me to have it.

Fire symbolized beauty, fury, and rebirth, she explained. Too bad in my case, it symbolized nothing but my demise.

Grams told me bedtime stories about phoenixes rising from their own ashes. She said that was what Momma wanted for herself—to rise above her circumstances and prevail.

My momma wanted to die and start over.

She only got one out of the two.

But me? I got both.

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November 17th, 2017

Sixteen years old

The first time I woke up in a hospital bed, I’d asked the nurse to help me put the ring back on my finger. I brought the ring to my lips and mouthed a wish, like Grandmomma had taught me.

I didn’t wish for the insurance money to kick in quickly, or to end world poverty.

I asked for my beauty back.

I passed out shortly after, exhausted by my sheer existence. Asleep, I caught specks of conversations as visitors flooded my room.

“. . . prettiest girl in Sheridan. Elegant little nose. Pert lips. Blonde, blue-eyed. Crying shame, Heather.”

“Might as well been a model.”

“Poor thing doesn’t know what she’s wakin’ up to.”

“She ain’t in Kansas no more.”

I treaded out of the induced coma slowly, not sure what was waiting for me on the other side. It felt like swimming against crushed glass. Even the slightest movement ached. Visitors—classmates, my best friend Karlie, and boyfriend Tucker—came and went, patting, cooing, and gasping while my eyes were closed.

Oblivious to my consciousness, I heard them crying, shrieking, stuttering.

My old life—school plays, cheer practice, and stealing hasty kisses with Tucker under the bleachers—felt untouchable, unreal. A sweetly cruel spell I’d been under that evaporated.

I didn’t want to face reality, so I didn’t open my eyes, even when I could.

Until the very last minute.