After paying, I walk over to the end of the counter to wait for my coffee.

“Excuse me, aren’t you Vivienne?” a girl’s voice says to my left.

I glance over to see a slim girl with long, jet-black hair. She looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place her.

“Yes, I am…” I let my voice trail off. “Have we met before?”

Irritation flashes across her pretty face. “We were both at the football party a few weeks ago. Although I guess it’s not too surprising that you don’t remember. You were pretty wasted.”

I look down at her disdainfully, grateful my tall frame allows me a few extra inches of height over her. “Or I don’t remember you because I was a bit preoccupied,” I retort.

Her face twists in a cruel smile. “You know, I came over here to warn you about Jace Dawson, but now I’m not going to bother.”

A sharp stab of pain pierces me at the sound of his name.

“You’re just his flavor of the week, and I can’t wait to watch when he drops you for the next one.”

Despite Jace’s reputation, I don’t experience even the slightest twinge of doubt that she might be right. I know in two weeks she’ll think that she was, but for the moment, I savor the opportunity to defend our relationship.

“So thoughtful of you to warn me,” I reply sweetly. “But are you sure you’re not just jealous?”

If looks could kill, I would no longer be standing.

The barista chooses this moment to call my name. I give the girl from the party a regal wave before grabbing the hot cup and heading back out the front door.

I’m both annoyed and amused as I climb back into the car and start driving toward Jace’s house, alternating between taking sips of the hot coffee and bites of the warm blueberry muffin. It was an unfortunate choice—it reminds me of eating breakfast in the Dawsons’ cozy kitchen.

When I reach the blue house, there’s a gray Honda sitting in the driveway and a gleaming silver Porsche parked in front of it. I smile, imagining the look on Jace’s face when he sees it. I pull into the end of the driveway and park, pulling a pen out of my bag and putting it in my jacket pocket before stepping outside.

I walk over to the Porsche, feeling along on top of the back right tire. As promised, my fingers graze the cold metal of a pair of keys. I grab them and walk back around to the driver’s side, clicking the button to unlock the door. Sitting on the front seat is a white envelope. I open it to see a wad of papers which list Jace Dawson as the car’s owner. I stuff them back inside the envelope and pull the pen back out of my pocket. I stare at the blank envelope, debating about what to write.

Everything I think of seems either too sappy or not meaningful enough.