For the Plot-Sneak Peek

Prologue—Skye

Ten years earlier…

I lie on my back in Archer’s bed, one leg draped lazily over the side, the other tangled in his sheets, letting the breeze from the open window ghost over my bare thighs. His room smells like dryer sheets and cheap body spray, a scent that has become my safety. 

“I’m not packing your shoes for you,” I say as he digs through the bottom of his closet, chucking sneakers and slides onto a half-zipped duffel bag.

He laughs and looks over his shoulder at me. “You say that now, but when I forget them and start stealing yours, you’ll regret everything.”

We might only be eighteen and nineteen, but it finally feels like we’re starting our life together. A life I’ve dreamed of since I met him. 

I don’t care that his bedroom still has high school trophies on the shelf and a crusty-looking laundry basket in the corner. I don’t care that his mom is long gone, his dad is rarely home, or that the entire house feels like it’s been preserved in a weird bachelor limbo since Archer was twelve.

We’re leaving soon. Only two more days and we’re finally off to college, off to freedom, off to the rest of our lives. And I am so in love with him it’s embarrassing.

“Try touching my shoes and see what happens,” I say, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at his back. “I will end you.”

He catches the pillow and grins. “You won’t. You love me.”

My smile wavers for half a second. Just enough for my chest to feel it. Because he’s right. I do.

And the way he says it, so casually, like it’s just understood between us, makes me want to believe he’ll never hurt me. That the way he kissed me last night meant forever. That we’ll live in our cramped dorm together and go to late-night diners and lie in bed on Sunday mornings, hungover, happy, and half-naked.

“Are you nervous?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

He shrugs. “A little. I mean, I already did freshman year, so it’s not really new for me. But I’m glad you’re coming.”

“Yeah?” I offer my flirtiest smile. “Is that all?”

“Mm-hmm, it’ll be nice to have you there.”

Nice. Okay. 

I tuck that word away and try not to let it dig in too deep. He turns back to his closet, leaving me to stew in it.

There’s always been something a little slippery about Archer… like he means well, but he’s not always present. Sometimes he gets this look in his eyes, like he’s already somewhere else. Like there’s a whole world spinning behind his smile that he doesn’t want me to see.

I tell myself I’m imagining it, that I’m just being insecure, but sometimes I worry that falling in love with the small-town girl and promising her forever won’t seem as fun or exciting once we’ve both left this town.

“Do you think your dad’s actually going to drive us?” I ask after a minute. “You said he was going to, right?”

Archer laughs again, but it’s a little tight this time. “He said he was. But I mean… you know how he is.”

I do, sort of. I’ve met Reece Blackwood maybe three times. Once when I snuck into the kitchen for water and he walked in, still wearing a partially wrinkled suit, the jacket slung casually over one arm. Once at Archer’s graduation, standing stiff and uncomfortable with his hands in his pockets. And once when Archer introduced me in passing, and his dad looked up from his phone just long enough to nod and say, “Nice to meet you.”

He’s… intimidating.

Not because he’s loud or overbearing, but because he’s quiet in a way that makes you feel like you’re being studied and dismissed at the same time. Not to mention the way Archer always shrinks a little when he’s around.

“Is he still working on that tech thing?” I ask, watching Archer shove socks into the corner of the bag.

He snorts. “Yeah. Blackwood Technologies or whatever. Always something. He’s obsessed with it.”

I nod, even though Archer isn’t looking at me.

Before I can say anything else, we hear the front door open and close downstairs. It’s quiet for a moment, then comes the distinct thud of dress shoes on hardwood.

My stomach tightens automatically. Speak of the brooding devil.

Archer stands up straighter, wiping his hands on his jeans. “He’s home.” The footsteps pause outside the room, then the door creaks open.

Reece Blackwood stands in the doorway, wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a phone in one hand. His jaw is tense, eyes scanning the room in a second flat before landing on Archer.

“Hey,” he says. With a brief glance in my direction, he adds, “Skye.”

My throat goes so dry, I am barely able to nod and utter the words, “Hi, Mr. Blackwood.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t come in. He just stands there like he’s about to deliver bad news.

“I have to leave for New York tomorrow,” he says, tone clipped and apologetic in the most superficial way possible. “Meeting with a group of Series A investors. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to drive you up to school.”

Archer stiffens beside me. “Okay.”

“I know I said I would. But this came up, and it’s—”

“It’s fine,” Archer cuts in, voice flat. He goes back to stuffing socks in his bag, a little more forcefully this time, and it’s obvious it bothers him.

Reece’s gaze lingers on him for a beat too long. Then he nods once. “I’ll have Marie schedule a car service if you need it.”

Archer shrugs. “We’re good. I’ll just take my Jeep like I originally planned.”

Reece briefly looks at me again, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him. Silence stretches between us. I wait five seconds. Ten. Then I say quietly, “That kind of sucks.”

Archer grabs the pillow I threw earlier and flops down beside me. “It’s whatever. He’s always like that.”

I study his profile. “You okay?”

He stares at the ceiling. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know why I still expect anything different.”

I roll onto my side, inching closer. “He should’ve told you sooner.”

He shrugs again. “He’s busy. Always is.”

And just like that, the subject is closed. But I don’t stop thinking about it. About the way Reece looked at him. About the way Archer’s shoulders tensed like he was trying to take up less space. About the quiet disappointment in his voice that he tried to mask as indifference.

Maybe it’s not my place, but I want to protect him. To love him hard enough that none of it matters. I lean down and press a kiss to his jaw, hoping it’s enough.

***

Something’s wrong.

I can feel it in the way Archer kisses me. Too quick. Too distracted. Like I’m a task he’s checking off before something else steals his focus.

We used to spend nights tangled up in his twin XL bed, whispering plans for summer internships and spring break getaways and all the things we’d do when we weren’t buried under coursework and chaos.

Now I’m lucky if he texts back within an hour.

He blames his fraternity. His econ classes. His T.A. schedule. “You know how it is,” he says, smiling like it’s normal. Like it’s fine. But it doesn’t feel fine.

It feels like I’m holding my breath every time I see his name light up my phone. It feels like trying to keep something alive without knowing where the wound is. And tonight? Tonight feels like a heavy burden that I cannot ignore, no matter how many times my best friend Maya tries to tell me I’m reading into things.

Maya watches me from our dorm bed as I swipe on mascara for the third time. “You sure he’s at the library?”

“He said it’s a group study session,” I say, capping the mascara like I believe my own words. “Econ midterm’s next week.”

She gives me a look but I ignore it. I grab my purse and coat, pretending like I didn’t see the pity in her eyes.

“Text me if you need me,” she calls out as I shut the door behind me.

The walk to the frat house is brutal, cold enough that my nose burns and the wind cuts through my tights. The sidewalk’s wet with slush, and I nearly bust my ass dodging a group of drunk freshmen singing “Mr. Brightside” like it’s still 2005.

I wasn’t planning on going out. But something in my gut told me to. Maybe it was the text I saw from an unknown number on his phone asking if he was going tonight. Or maybe it was the way his eyes shifted when he told me he’d be stuck at the library all night. Either way, my stomach has been a bubbling pit of acid the last few hours and no amount of times I tell myself that he wouldn’t lie to me will convince me tonight.

When I push open the door to Beta Chi, I’m hit with warmth, sweat, and the overwhelming stench of spilled beer and testosterone.

The music is deafening, a loud thumping beat that gives me an instant headache. Lights strobe over too many bodies, and I hate myself for coming the second I step inside. Still, I look for him. I check the couch, the beer pong table, and the kitchen. Nothing.

“Hey,” I say loudly—so loud it hurts my throat and I can still barely hear myself—to a few guys standing by a makeshift bartop. “Have you guys seen Archer Blackwood here tonight?”

They shake their heads and shrug, so I push on. 

I head upstairs, taking the narrow staircase two steps at a time. Maybe he’s actually studying. Maybe they moved the group session here. Maybe I’m just paranoid because he’s stressed and I’m— Laughter. Familiar. His. It comes from behind a closed door at the end of the hall. Room 206. I pause, stomach dipping.

Maybe he’s watching something. Maybe his study group is up here. Maybe— A soft moan cuts through the door. High-pitched. Feminine.

I freeze. Then I softly tiptoe closer until my ear is pressed firmly against the door. The music isn’t as loud up here; in fact, it’s almost nonexistent. I hold my breath, and my hand shakes as I reach out and press it against the wood.

Then I hear it… Another laugh. Lower this time. His again. Then a whisper. Skin rustling against fabric. The creak of the mattress. The sound of my heart shattering in real time. 

My hand is on the doorknob before I realize what I’m doing. I don’t knock. I open the door. And the world ends… my world ends.

Archer’s shirt is half-open, his jeans unzipped. There’s a girl on top of him. Her blond hair spills over his shoulder like liquid gold. She’s straddling him, her mouth on his neck, her hands digging into his chest.

He looks up. Sees me. And everything stops. His eyes go wide. Her lips freeze on his collarbone.

“Skye,” he says, like my name is a question he wasn’t expecting to ask tonight.

I take one step back. Then another. The hallway tilts. The door slams shut behind me, though I don’t remember touching it. I stumble down the stairs, tears blurring the lights into streaks of neon and shame. Someone calls my name—I think. But I don’t stop. I can’t. I just keep walking.

I don’t stop until I’m outside. Until the cold hits me like a slap and I realize I can’t breathe. I make it back to my dorm on autopilot. Don’t remember how. Don’t care.

By the time I collapse onto my bed, my lungs are heaving and my face is soaked. My fingers are numb and my knees are bleeding from where I slipped on the stairs, but I don’t even feel it.

I curl into myself like maybe if I get small enough, the pain won’t find me. But it does. It always does.

The door creaks open. Then I hear a quiet, familiar voice. “Skye?”

I can’t speak. I just sob.

Maya shuts the door behind her and crawls into bed with me, fully clothed, mascara smudged from wherever she was before this. She doesn’t ask what happened. She already knows.

Instead, she pulls me into her arms like a child and lets me cry until there’s nothing left but shaking. Her hand strokes my hair. Her voice is soft. Steady. “It’s going to be okay.”

I don’t believe her. Not yet. But I cling to her anyway. Because love is supposed to be enough. And tonight… I learned it’s not.

Chapter 1—Skye

"I feel like a broken vibrator."

Maya nearly snorts her lemon drop martini through her nose. "Jesus, Skye."

I shrug and swirl the straw in my drink, watching the last of the ice melt like my dignity over the past month. "I mean, think about it. All the pieces are there: looks decent on the outside, made to bring joy, solid performance history… but now? I’m just sputtering along. Burnt out. Destined for the junk drawer."

She snorts again. "Okay, now I'm picturing you vibrating down the hallway in a sad little shuffle. Thanks for that."

"Anytime," I mutter and take another sip of my very mediocre vodka cranberry.

Maya had offered to go somewhere closer to her office to celebrate at one of our usual spots near the financial district with overpriced cocktails and familiar faces. But I couldn’t stomach it tonight.

Too many ghosts. Too many people who might ask about my job… or worse, pretend they didn’t know I’d been laid off and I have to go through the entire process of explaining while they give me one of those sympathetic head nods.

So I asked her to meet me here instead. A random dive bar neither of us have never been to, tucked on a quiet street with nothing but a flickering neon sign and a good happy hour menu. A place where no one knew my name. Where I could forget, just for a couple of hours, that my life is currently a dumpster fire.

Maya looks like she belongs here, even in a gross dive bar with nicotine-stained windows, legs crossed, posture perfect, her silky blouse tucked into high-waisted slacks that scream "promotion." Which is exactly what we're toasting to. Or pretending to.

"You should be celebrating too, you know," she says gently, clinking her glass against mine. "You're free."

"Free," I echo, lifting my glass like it's a victory banner. "Unemployed. Dumped. Emotionally bankrupt. But yes, very free."

Maya sighs. "You're being dramatic."

"Am I?" I arch a brow. "Let's recap. In the last three weeks, I've lost my job, my boyfriend, and any shred of confidence I had left in my ability to function as a normal adult. Pretty sure the universe is playing Jenga with my life and she just yanked out the bottom row."

The music overhead shifts to something with a throbbing bass line and sultry vocals. I recognize it immediately, “Love on the Brain” by Rihanna. It's been everywhere lately even though it’s been out forever. It feels like it’s starting to haunt me.

"God, this song," I say, gesturing vaguely at the speakers. "I swear it's following me. It was playing at the coffee shop this morning, in my Uber yesterday, and now here. It's like the universe is trying to tell me something."

Maya tilts her head, listening. "Rihanna?"

"Yup. I hadn’t really paid attention to it in the past. It’s something about forbidden attraction and seduction.” I bounce my eyebrows. “Maybe the universe is sending me a sign that I—” I catch myself getting animated about a song when my life is literally imploding and laugh. "Listen to me. I'm analyzing pop lyrics like they hold the secrets to my existence. This is how far I've fallen."

She reaches over and squeezes my hand. "You haven't fallen anywhere. You're just… between seasons."

"Like a show canceled on a cliffhanger."

"Exactly. But with better boobs." She flicks her eyes toward my chest pointedly.

"You're not wrong."

Maya laughs again, reaching for the mini dessert menu that we’ve both picked up and set back down half a dozen times tonight. I lean back in my chair, letting the quiet hum of the bar settle over me like a weighted blanket. It's busy but not packed—just what I assume is the usual after-work crowd. A few men in button-downs, a few in construction clothes, and the lingering smell of beer. 

It’s the kind of place my ex, Shane, liked taking me to when we first started dating. When I would suggest a nicer place or maybe a place that didn’t have a sticky residue on the menus, it turned into an argument about how he felt out of place. Somehow what I felt or wanted never seemed to be a consideration.

Maya's scrolling her phone now, swiping through Hinge like a woman on a mission. "Okay. I'm finding you a rebound."

"Hard pass."

"You need to get laid. It’ll help with your stress.”

"I need a stable job, health insurance, and a reason to wear pants before noon," I tick off.

She snorts. "You're hot. You're smart. You've got a killer ass. You could walk up to any guy in this room and have him back at your place before your drink's empty."

I make a face. "Gross."

"You're just scared."

"I'm emotionally concussed, Maya. There's a difference."

"You're horny and bored and trying to pretend you're not. Classic Skye."

I open my mouth to argue but—okay, she has a point. Still. "I'm not sleeping with some stranger just to prove a point."

"I didn't say stranger. I said rebound. Ideally someone hot, emotionally unavailable, and unlikely to ghost because you never intend to text him again."

"So… A one-night stand?"

"Exactly."

I groan and drop my head to the table with a thunk. "Kill me."

"Nope. I'm going to find you a fantasy."

She straightens, eyes scanning the room like a panther on the prowl. I sit up, mildly concerned about who she's about to point out considering she and I have very different taste in men. She hums thoughtfully, tapping her chin.

“You do realize I showed up here in leggings and an oversized hoodie, right? I’m not exactly giving off on the prowl.”

"What about the guy at the bar?" she asks, nodding to her left and completely ignoring my comment. "Dark hair, light button-down, sleeves rolled up. Hot in that cocky, finance bro kind of way."

I glance casually. The man she's eyeing is maybe thirty, with a nice jawline and a touch of a smolder, but he looks too perfect. "Too pretty."

Maya wrinkles her nose. "Fair."

“And too young,” I add on. 

“Too young?” She crooks a brow. “Skye, we’ve talked about this, your penchant for older men—actually.” She pauses, her lips curling into a devious little grin. “This might be the perfect time for you to indulge in that older guy fantasy. Have a hot hookup or a sexy fling for a few weeks and get it out of your system.”

“It’s not a fantasy, it’s a preference. Look, I tried guys my age. Archer broke my heart.” I hold up a finger to keep track. “Mitch, my rebound from Archer, was also my age and he turned out to be dating me to get to you.” I hold up a second finger.

“Ugh, Mitch the bitch.” She scowls, rolling her eyes at the memory. 

“Exactly. And the other two between him and Shane aren’t even worth mentioning because one couldn’t manage to wash his clothes more than once a month and the other still insisted on calling his mom… mommy.” Maya makes a fake gagging sound. “And then there’s Shane.” 

“Fine.” She reaches out and swats away the three fingers I’m holding out toward her. “I get it. Plus, the idea of an older experienced man who knows how to please a woman is so fucking sexy.”

“Which is what I’ve been saying the entire time.”

She turns, eyes bright with mischief this time as she scans the bar again. "Okay… Oh… Wow, what about him?”

I almost jump at her reaction. “Who?”

“At the end of the bar. Black blazer. Older. Silver fox. Intense eyes." She nods with her chin.

I laugh under my breath, a slow, sardonic sound as I shake my head. "Silver fox, huh?" My tone is dismissive, but my gaze follows hers anyway, fully expecting a Santa Claus type man tucked away in a back corner. I scan the bar lazily, ready to toss out a sarcastic comment about him probably being someone's married boss on a corporate expense tab—until my eyes land on him.

I blink. Once. Twice. My stomach dips like I've missed a step on a staircase.

That posture. The quiet control. The way his fingers cradle his glass… but most of all, it’s the sharp, unforgiving line of his jaw.

My breath stalls. Ice clinks in my glass, but I don't hear anything but the sound of my own pulse.

That's not just some hot older guy.

That's Mr. Blackwood.

My high school sweetheart Archer’s dad. The same high school sweetheart who shattered my heart freshman year of college when I walked into a frat party and found him face-first in some other girl’s tits.

The song overhead swells with its hypnotic chorus about wanting what you can't have, and suddenly it feels like the soundtrack to this moment—this dangerous recognition that's making my skin feel too tight.

"No way," I murmur, leaning in without realizing it.

"What?" Maya's voice cuts through my haze. "Do you recognize him or something?"

I nod, eyes still pinned to the man at the end of the bar. "Yeah. I do."

My voice sounds strange. Low. Shaky. Like even my vocal cords are in shock.

“Well, who the hell is it?”

“You remember that fucker who broke my heart freshman year, Archer?”

“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes in recognition. “Of course I do. I thought you were going to spend the rest of second semester becoming fused to your mattress because you refused to get out of bed for so long.”

“Yeah, well, that,” I say, nodding toward the man, “is his father, Mr. Blackwood," I whisper.

"Holy shit." Maya stares, mouth open slightly. "That's him? Didn’t he become some super billionaire or something?”

I nod again, though I still half expect him to disappear if I blink too hard. Like he's a mirage sent to test my already-fragile mental state.

“What a small world.” She exhales softly. "Damn. No offense, but if I'd known your ex's dad looked like he stepped out of a billionaire romance novel, I would've forced you to spill every single detail back when we were guzzling boxed wine in our freshman dorm and crying over guys who couldn't even spell clitoris."

I let out a weak laugh, more breath than sound. "Please. You were too busy hooking up with that guy from the debate team and trying to prove that your hookup roster could beat your GPA. The last thing you cared about was the fact that my boyfriend's dad looked like he could dominate a boardroom and a bedroom with the same hand."

She hums, dragging her gaze over him with exaggerated appreciation. "God. How did I not know your ex's dad was hiding a whole DILF transformation arc?"

I glance into my glass, trying to slow my breathing. My pulse flutters hard against my throat, and there's a strange tension buzzing under my skin. I glance up at Maya who isn’t even trying to hide her open-mouthed stare. "Please stop looking at him like you're mentally redecorating his bedroom."

She snorts. "You're the one blushing. I'm just a supportive friend bearing witness to the sexual tension you're trying to choke down with vodka."

I shoot her a glare, but the way she raises a smug eyebrow makes it impossible not to laugh. 

“What are you waiting for?” She nudges me. “Go say hi.”

“What?” My eyes shoot to hers. “No way, I haven’t seen him in—a decade?”

“Even better. You can walk up with a clean slate and flirt with him.”

I groan softly, dragging a hand through my hair. "I am not walking over there."

She sets her drink down and rests her chin in her hand. "Why not?"

I blink. "Are you seriously suggesting I go talk to him? He probably doesn’t even remember me and besides, his asshole son broke my heart."

She shrugs with infuriating calm. "Why not? You're hot. He's hot. You've got history—even if it's the awkward, completely off-limits, ex's-dad kind. And look at him, Skye. That man isn't sipping his bourbon because he's in a hurry to leave."

“What does any of that have to do with me saying hi?” She lifts her brows at me with a knowing look. I stare at her. "You are absolutely out of your mind if you think I’m going after my ex’s dad to get back out there."

"And you're absolutely going to regret it if you don't at least say hi. Just a casual, 'Oh hey, small world.' It's not like you're asking him to bang you in the coatroom, Jesus. It’s just some harmless flirting to get your mind off of Shane, make you feel good."

I stare across the room, taking in the way his shoulders fill out his dress shirt a little fuller than I remember. “I’m not gonna lie, he was pretty fine when we were younger.”

“Ohhh, so you did notice?” 

"Oh my God." I press my hands to my cheeks, which are now burning. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"Of course I am. Now go be unhinged for once in your life. Go flirt with a sexy older man, babe.”

The song hits its final chorus, something about dancing on the edge of disaster, about knowing you should walk away but being unable to resist the pull. The lyrics feel like they were written for this exact moment, this choice I'm about to make that could change everything.

I groan and rub my temple. "I am not walking over there."

"Why not?"

"Because he's my ex-boyfriend's father, Maya. There are lines, and that one is in bold Sharpie."

She sips her drink, completely unfazed. "Skye. You dated Archer how long ago?"

"High school through part of college."

"Exactly. Ancient history. You haven't spoken to him in years. Meanwhile, his dad is over there looking like he could make you forget your own name. You're single, you're unemployed, and let's be honest—you're in a perfect storm of vulnerability and boredom, so really… it wouldn’t even be your fault if something scandalous were to happen.”

I give her a flat look. "You are a terrible influence."

"And yet here you are, still listening." She leans forward, eyes twinkling. "So go say hi. What's the worst that could happen?"

Before I can talk myself out of it, I push back from the table and stand. A dozen terrible possibilities stampede through my brain, but somehow, my feet are moving. My legs feel like they're made of wet noodles, but I smooth my hands over my hips and walk across the bar like I'm not screaming on the inside.

He doesn't look at me until I'm close. But when he does, his posture shifts, subtle but unmistakable. And when his eyes meet mine, a barely there smile spreads across his lips.

I swear to God, I feel it in my knees.

"Skye?"

His voice is deeper than I remember. Rougher. Like gravel wrapped in silk. I stop a foot from him, trying not to visibly shake. "Hey, Mr. Blackwood. I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me.”

He cocks his head slightly. “Mr. Blackwood? Please, call me Reece," he corrects. "It's been a while."

"Yeah, it has."

He nods, his gaze holding mine. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Same. It’s actually my first time stepping foot in this bar." I force a small smile. "You look… different."

His mouth lifts at the corner, followed by a soft chuckle. "Oh, I don’t doubt it. Let me guess. Old?" He runs his hand through his dark hair that has begun to gray at the temples.

"Yes—no. Older maybe but in a good way," I say awkwardly, and his smile widens just a fraction. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to sound rude.”

“Not at all. I’m not exactly a young man anymore.” He gestures to the stool beside him. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Chapter 2—Reece

It's been a long day. A really fucking long day. I didn't come here to be noticed. Didn't come to socialize or talk or drink anything that wasn't strong enough to cut through the headache that's been building since noon. 

I came because this place is quiet, anonymous, and comfortably tucked away from the rest of my life. A bar that feels more like an afterthought than a destination. Perfect for a man who doesn't want to be seen.

But then I see her.

I don't register it at first. Just a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision, a laugh that rises above the hum of conversation. Blond hair, slightly familiar posture. I catch her looking at me first, but I don’t think she realizes that I see her. She’s focused on whatever her friend is saying, allowing me a few seconds to take her in between her stolen glances my way.

Her long hair is pulled back, exposing a long slender neck that disappears beneath a hoodie. She leans slightly forward on her stool, just enough that I drop my eyes and catch the curve of the underside of her ass in those skintight leggings she’s wearing. 

I turn away, reminding myself that I don’t have time for stuff like this, especially not when I’m pretty damn confident she’s probably far too young for me. I bring my glass to my lips and take another long sip before glancing back over toward her one last time. 

She’s still facing away from me, leaning over the table as she whispers something to her friend, but then she turns her head and I catch her profile. And I know exactly who it is.

It can’t be. 

I glance away, then back toward her because there’s no way in hell I was just admiring the delicious curve of my son’s ex-girlfriend’s ass. But it is… it’s her.

Skye fucking Rhodes…

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