He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look mildly pissed. He just says, “If that’s what you think.” He tosses the bottle in the nearby trash.

I’m stunned for a second. I had my first beer at twelve. You’re a man now, kid, Davis told me and rubbed my head. My dad laughed.

In this moment, Loren Hale looks and acts more like a man than I do, and I was holding a fucking handle of vodka. I have no fucking clue what’s rolling around inside of me.

I can’t look at him anymore. Rubbing my mouth with a shaking hand, I pull my hoodie back, and the door chimes as I push through, catching up to Nathan.

When I glance back at the store window, I see that girl—the one with the braid and worn overalls. I see her stand up and approach Loren Hale.

I nod to myself. Good for her. She finally found him. And she didn’t need me to do it.

7 BACK THEN – September

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

WILLOW MOORE

Age 17

“Loren?” I ask in a soft, timid voice. I scoot around Ryke Meadows.

Both brothers are so tall that I have to tilt my head back and look up. Maybe if they were shorter, I wouldn’t be nervous. Maybe if they weren’t famous. Maybe if I didn’t know more about them than they know about me. Maybe if they weren’t the current focus of every teenage girl in Superheroes & Scones.

If all of that changed, maybe it’d be easier.

My heart thuds harder and beats faster—their gazes suddenly zeroed in on me. Looking down while I look up. I can’t really unmask their expressions. Ryke is stiff and unmoving while Loren shakes his head a little, his eyes flitting over my awkward frame.

I truly feel seventeen. I truly feel like Loren’s little sister.

Please let him believe so too. I made it this far—I made it to him. It only took almost a month of scavenging Philadelphia for Loren Hale, and the closest I came before today was a house party that amounted to a beer-stained shirt and mortification.

It took me a solid five-minutes to even climb out of my car and enter that house, my first ever high school party, mind you.

I felt in the way. I never knew where to stand, where to scoot to, and even then, I bumped four or five elbows and shoulders. I left with my stomach twisted like a pretzel. And it solidified what I’ve always known: Willow Moore is not meant for high school parties. I’m just not built to live through them.

Fast forward to today: My bank account is creeping close to just $50, barely enough for another night in a Philadelphia motel. I’ve already spent five nights in my car to save money, and my last hope was staking out Superheroes & Scones. Which proved to be the winning strategy, even though I always thought it was a long shot.

But I’ve found him.