The high schoolers who’d laughed so boldly before were now mighty interested in their feet. I couldn’t tell if they were too guilty to look at me or too scared to look at Josh.

Either way, Josh gave them one last glare before telling his younger brother, “Come on.”

And then they left.

It was just a minute—maybe, two.

But I’d fallen in utter, helpless, all-consuming love. With Josh. Josh Grant.

Even back then, I knew it would become a problem.

*     *     *

I was right about that. I’d spent over sixteen years pining for Josh and pretending that my relationships never worked out because I was just too career-oriented—when the truth was no guy I dated ever passed the Josh Grant test.

I’d let him go, though. No more Google searches. No more Christmas cards. Last year, I’d even moved to Texas to work closely with my favorite client on her upcoming biography. That should have been the end of it.

But bitter bile rose in my throat when I found him in my mom’s Celebrity magazine having an intimate conversation with the same female who’d orchestrated that prank. How could he? With Shelby of all people.

It didn’t matter that he had no idea who I was. An ugly sense of betrayal filled my chest.

“Neisham, you requested an audience?”

I looked up to see my mother peering at me from over her readers. Aunt Sharon, who stood at her right, shot me a guilty look—probably because I’d arrived from Texas over two hours ago and Mom was just now emerging from her office to see me.

I snapped the magazine closed, then stood up like I always did when she entered a room.

Mom wasn’t royalty—pretty much everyone knew about her poor roots, growing up in Tennessee. And her Wikipedia page led with the story of how she wrote her first bestselling novel in under a week after getting an eviction notice tacked to her door.

But she carried herself like a queen. Everyone from presidents to her one and only daughter stood at attention whenever she came into a room.

“Hi, Mom, I’m having some problems with this project I’m working on for Senator Rustanov, and I was hoping I could—”

“This is why you’ve come with groceries?” My mother cut me off before I could complete my request, her eyes scanning the suitcase and tote bags at my feet. “You wish to use my writing cabin for one of your little speeches?”

I worked to keep my face neutral. I knew Mom was annoyed-verging-on-disappointed about how I’d chosen to direct my talents. But did she have to say “little speeches” in the same tone of voice she used to talk about ant infestations?

“Not for a speech, actually,” I answered. “It’s for a book—”