Connor James—Ivy League royalty personified. Since I last saw him, the boy has evolved into something more dangerous: sharp jawline, carefully disheveled hair, shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at a sculpted torso. His charm still radiates like a gravitational field.

"Connor. Hey," I say, the words feeling artificial on my tongue.

"Damn, Wells. You aged up nicely."

I force a smile, swallowing my discomfort. "Thanks. You, uh, same.” I gesture vaguely at his torso, earning a laugh that sounds practiced.

"I didn't expect to see you here."

"That makes two of us," I murmur.

"Sullivan let you out on your own for once, huh?" The comment stings with its implications.

"I'm here with Jake."

"Oh yeah? Where is the little guy?" His condescension hasn't changed since I last knew him.

"He's around."

"And he's left you out here all alone?"

"Are you under the impression I can't fend for myself?"

"No, I didn't mean—uh." He runs his fingers through his hair, flustered. "I just meant⁠⁠—"

"I'm pulling your leg. Relax."

He flashes that practiced smile again. "You're pretty funny. And pretty in general, too."

I suppress an eye roll and pretend to sip my drink.

"You do not look like you're enjoying that."

"Does anyone actually enjoy drinking?" My rhetorical question draws another calculated laugh.

"What are you, sixteen going on sixty?"

"May as well be." My eyes continue scanning the crowd for a specific face.

"Do you want to go somewhere quieter?" he suggests, leaning closer.

"Go somewhere?"

"It's just really loud in here, and I don't want to be yelling all night."

"What makes you think I want to talk to you all night?"

"I take it back, you're very funny." He leans in, beer breath washing over me.

"I think I'll get another drink."

"Please, let me. I'll get you something that tastes less like ass and is actually enjoyable." He winks and vanishes into the crowd before I can protest.

The social overwhelm hits its peak, and I decide it's time to find Jake. Maybe I should take him up on his offer and get out of here. But as I turn to search for him, fate proves its cruel sense of humor—Nate appears before me, his presence both magnetic and suffocating.

And boy does he looked pissed to see me.

His arms trap me for the second time today, but this encounter crackles with a different energy. He plants his palms against the wall on either side of me, his muscled forearms flexing as he leans in. I'm caged between his broad shoulders and the cold wall at my back, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne.