Not to mention that he was the culprit who got me kicked out of my old school.

He was evil. He is still evil, I’m certain, but more somber, and—if we’re doing an honest evaluation—even more appallingly, unnervingly beautiful.

“Never mind,” he says, setting the chocolate down flat on the crimson tablecloth, the heart pressed beneath his palm. “I can already predict the answer.”

Like a fool, I rise to the bait. “How could you—”

“It’s the cologne,” he says. “I started using it last year. Nice, right?”

Entirely against my will, I find myself shifting forward and breathing in the clean, sandalwood scent of his shirt. It is new, and it is nice, not overpowering like the colognes the guys at my school seem to soak themselves in, and—I should absolutely not be smelling him right now.

I jerk back with a scowl. Then I remember the other guests in the room and stop myself. Force my facial muscles to relax. Multiple sources have informed me that I have a severe case of Ready to Kill You Face whenever I’m not making a concentrated effort to seem friendly. I blame it on my features. My arched brows and sunken cheekbones and angular chin might help me stand out in a photo, but they also make me look downright hostile and unapproachable—both quoted from other sources—in real life.

Cyrus leans over a little. “What happened to your face just now?”

“It’s called disgust,” I tell him, keeping my expression as serene as possible, just in case one of my cousin’s maids of honor chooses this moment to glance over at our table. I must appear perfect at all times. “Something I’d think you would be very familiar with.”

“It was disgust, perhaps. Now you look like you’re about to begrudgingly embark on a journey of inner healing somewhere deep in the woods,” he remarks.

“Then you’re disrupting my journey,” I say.

And he continues to disrupt it. “You’ve changed too.” His dark eyes trace my dress, my lips, then move up to my bangs, which get in the way of relatively important things like seeing, but help cover my forehead. The wedding seems to fade in my periphery, until the only sound I can hear is the strain in my own throat when I swallow. Part of me is surprised that Cyrus even recognizes me when I hardly recognize old photos of myself.

The last time he saw me, I wasn’t a model yet. I wasn’t pretty at all.

“Of course I’ve changed. It’s been two years,” I say, like the dramatic transformation in my style and face can be explained away by something as simple as the natural passage of time.

“I know,” he says, “but you just seem really …”

Gorgeous? I fill in. Elegant? Well-adjusted? Sophisticated? Glamorous?

“Worn out.”