But Nick should have told me not to tattoo a random line of poetry on the inside of my wrist. He should have pointed out that my obsession with Edna St. Vincent Millay was new and likely fleeting, and he would have been right.

“So,” Nick said, pulling away slightly, his lips swollen. “You got a bed in here anywhere, or have you just been sleeping on a pile of boxes?”

“Let me give you the grand tour,” I said, tucking my fingers into his waistband and pulling him toward my bedroom.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN HIM

At home, I sat on my couch, staring at Audrey’s most recent Instagram post while holding a newly acquired container of animal crackers on my lap. One by one, I pressed the misshapen beasts against the roof of my mouth before crushing them between my molars, savoring the taste, knowing that the inside of her mouth tasted just like this: bland, slightly sweet, faintly lemony. I closed my eyes as I chewed, rolling my tongue through partially masticated cracker, thinking of the warm, wet interior of her mouth and her perfect rosebud lips.

The thought ignited a series of explosions beneath my skin, miniature bursts that toed the line between pain and pleasure. I focused on the glimmer of Audrey’s hair, the pale glow of her skin, and then dragged a hand up my bare arm. My overstimulated flesh crackled and burned, just the way it did when I was near her.

Her physical perfection captivated me, and her sparkling personality spoke to my very soul. Still, there was something faintly dangerous about her, a warning in her flame-streaked hair and seductive turquoise eyes. She will ruin you, a voice deep in my subconscious cautioned, but it was too late. She had ruined me already.

I wanted nothing other than her, wouldn’t, couldn’t stop until the drumbeat of her heart reverberated against my own chest for all time.

For now, I put another animal cracker in my mouth.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN AUDREY

The first time a follower recognized me, I was half-naked in the Equinox locker room. I’d just finished an intense HIIT class, and I was so sweaty that my skin felt slick and my eyes stung. As I peeled my soaked Lululemon tank from my body, a ponytailed, college-aged woman in neon-pink exercise pants bounced up to me.

“You’re Audrey Miller!” she announced, beaming.

“That’s me,” I said, offering an exhausted smile and desperately wishing I’d taken more care with my hair that morning. I’d tied it up in a sloppy topknot before class, and I could feel the weight of it tugging against the elastic, surely pulling strangely across my scalp.

Pink Pants turned to a pair of women across the locker room and called, “Danielle! Reina! Come over here! I told you it was Audrey Miller!”

Her friends in similarly bright-hued workout gear surrounded me, telling me how much they loved my blog, loved my hair, loved my Stories. They pulled out bedazzled iPhones and pleaded to take selfies with me; I made them wait until I’d showered. I half expected them to have vanished before I emerged in my towel, but there they were, eagerly waiting, phones in hand. Their enthusiasm was overwhelming.