“Josie Saint-Martin, as I live and breathe,” he says.

“I didn’t see you there,” I quickly say. “I wasn’t …” Following you? Stalking you? Always managing to bump into you whenever I step outside my door? “I didn’t realize you were out here. Or here. At this party. Here at all.” Good God, I sound like a moron.

“Oh, I’m here, all right,” he announces sarcastically, lightly lifting both hands and then dropping them. His gaze trails over the long, single braid of my hair that falls over one shoulder. “Question is, why are you here? Didn’t peg you for a partyer. Especially surprised to see you popping up at a Golden event.”

“Evie brought me along,” I say, gesturing toward the lights and sounds of the pool that seep between the dense branches of the shrubbery behind me. I try to remember the names of her friends. “Vanessa? From Barcelona? I think she’s taking a class at community college with Evie? I guess they’re friends or classmates or whatever.”

Lucky chuckles. Black lashes cast shadows over high cheekbones as he looks down.

“What?” I say, feeling defensive.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Look,” I tell him matter-of-factly. “I’m just waiting on my cousin, okay?” I intend for this to be a signal. Like, hey, move along and join the party; give me some privacy. Why is he sitting in the dark, away from everyone else? He’s usurping my loner throne, and I don’t like it.

Lucky and I had one class together this semester at Beauty High: AP English. Because our teacher would do anything to avoid teaching, we watched a lot of old movies in that class—adaptations of the books we studied—and Lucky slept on his desk when the lights went out. I let him borrow my notes once; he returned them to me at the bookshop with a couple of smartass corrections in red pen. That was most intimate interaction we’ve had in the few months I’ve been in town. Unless you count all the silent staring. Staring from Across the Street. Staring from Across the Bookshop. Staring from Across the School Cafeteria.

If you count staring, then we interact on a regular freaking basis.

Like now, for instance. His gaze sweeps over me as if he’s playing a memory game and cataloging every detail of my outfit for points: loose, brown hair braid down my shoulder; striped top; tight jeans with a tiny hole in the left knee; red low-top sneakers.

No one looks at me like Lucky does.

It’s disarming. Way too intimate. And it makes my pulse speed like I’m running a marathon. Especially since this is the first time we’ve been alone together since I’ve been back.