I work hard.

I study all the freaking time.

No one needs to worry about me.

I’m the same girl I’ve always been.

I’m not like the typical Pointe crowd, and that’s why Harbor likes me.

He likes me for me.

Genuine.

But just in case, I should take a shower and wash away the smell of work. I set the tip Larry gave me aside for tonight and then hurry to take a quick shower.

As soon as I’m dry, I pull on a dress that I never thought I could pull off, but Harbor inspires me to want to try. The T-shirt material of the dress clings when I roll it down my body. The dusty-rose color makes it lean toward sweet instead of being too showy, which I prefer.

The lace line of my undergarments wraps around my hips, but it doesn’t bother me. Trying to be as fast as possible and still look my best, I run a towel over my hair once more and decide to let it hang naturally.

I struggle to apply my makeup while taming the butterflies that have been fluttering inside my belly since I got home. I left Dane’s words at the door. Harbor’s given me no reason to second-guess his intentions and given me plenty of reasons to trust him and continue to do so until he proves me otherwise.

Like I told him, he’s a risk I’m willing to take.

I grab my phone from the dresser, finally almost ready. I text him: Hi, I’m ready when you are.

A return text pops up: Is it bad that I’ve been here for twenty minutes?

I can’t stop the giddiness from swelling inside and let the butterflies fly freely as I slip on a pair of white Converse sneakers. I know myself too well, and unlike Amanda, I’m not great in heels.

I text him: Not bad at all. I’ll be right out.

Looping my purse over my body, I realize it’s midnight. I don’t stay up this late unless I’m studying. I definitely don’t go out this late to start partying. Who am I?

I laugh as I hurry out of the apartment and through the house's entry. Leaning against his sleek car, he waves, his lopsided grin endearing.

My heart just about beats right out of my chest when I realize what he’s doing.

“Me?” I mouth.

“Yeah, you.”

Standing so assuredly in front of me with his hands in the pockets of his jeans and pushed-up sleeves of a gray Henley, he gives me a good look at his biceps. Every dip and peak of his muscles pushes against the fabric. He finally pushes off the car, starts up the path to greet me, and says, “That movie doesn’t age well.”

“The romance of it clouds my mind, and I saw it when I was seven, so I probably didn’t understand it, either.” We stop in front of each other, and he takes my hands in his, holding them between us. “He cheats on his longtime girlfriend.” I didn’t understand that at seven, either.