CHAPTER 1

LIGAYA

Standing in the wings of my high school auditorium, I’m forced to listen to Principal Reinbacher wax poetic about the return of the hockey hero.

Tristan Brian Thorne the Third.

More like the Turd, because Tristan is no hero. In fact, he is a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing. A gourmet burger with a side of E. coli. A five-star resort with a bedbug problem. A—

“What the hell are you muttering about, Ligaya?” Toby interrupts my mental tirade with a whisper.

Toby and I are English teachers at Centerstone High School. Despite being a good friend, he has no context for my history with the Turd.

Instead of answering, I lift my chin in the direction of the six-foot-tall hockey player dressed in a button-down shirt and fitted slacks that are stretched by obscenely thick thighs. His tousled brown hair is shorter than when we were in high school, but it is as thick as I remember. From the side, Tristan’s sharp jaw and high cheekbones are even more prominent.

How dare he look hotter than he did ten years ago?

Mouth too close to the mic, my boss addresses Tristan. “Any words of inspiration for our audience?” He gestures to the auditorium of rapt teenagers whose phones are put away for once.

“I played hockey in college but my road to the NHL hasn’t been smooth,” Tristan responds with a deep voice. “Although I won the Stanley Cup with the Denver Huskies as a rookie, I got hurt and had to work my way back through the minor leagues. But I learned the most about the sport and about myself when I had that knee surgery. I wish someone told me in high school that there are many roads to achieving your goals. As long as I put my time into getting a little better every day, I’m one step closer. The Mavericks picked me up this summer, which changed everything. If you want something, persist.”

Principal Reinbacher nods sagely, and I’m momentarily agog, because how did the Turd come up with something so . . . profound?

He more than likely plagiarized the generic advice. Tristan’s idea of persistence is the pranking kind.

“What’s it like to be back in the area?”

Tristan shrugs and smiles, gesturing at his surroundings. “It’s great to be back. I’ve always been proud of Centerstone. The high school holds a lot of good memories for me. Although I don’t remember this much Halloween spirit.”

He’s referring to the staging of The Addams Family musical that my students and I have worked incredibly hard to put together. He makes it sound like a mall display.

Tristan has always been an enemy of the arts.

“Our theater program is state recognized, all thanks to a fellow graduate of Centerstone High. In fact, you might have graduated the same year!”

No. Freaking. Way.

I turn to sprint away, but it’s too late.

“There she is, our artistic director!” Principal Reinbacher screeches into the mic. “Ms. Torres, please join us on the stage.”

Applause and whistles burst from the audience—probably my cast and crew for the fall musical—which forces me to turn around.

Our eyes catch immediately.

Tristan startles. My breath hitches. The surroundings blur. My heart rate triples.

I haven’t looked straight into his eyes in a decade, but they are impossible to forget. Hazel brown with specks of green, framed by lashes even darker than his hair.

Tristan’s mouth opens and shuts abruptly. His face registers surprise, then recognition, then something else. Something warm and enticing, like the glow of stage lights on opening night. He licks his lips, and I ignore the delectable sheen left by his tongue.

You know for a fact they taste like heaven, my brain interjects, because it refuses to purge the memory of graduation night. We were drunk on cheap wine and heady freedom. It was one kiss, and it meant nothing. Less than nothing.

Negative value, that kiss.

His eyes narrow into a piercing gaze, taking me in from my boots to my head. A blush threatens to creep up my neck, but I quell it with sheer willpower.

I step out from the wings, arms crossed, my boots clicking sharply against the wood as I stop just short of center stage.

“Hello, Tristan,” I state between gritted teeth.

“Ligaya Torres. What a pleasure to see you again,” he mumbles in a similarly pinched tone. Tristan holds out his hand for a shake. I give it a brusque tug. His warmth crawls up my arm, so I yank my hand away, no longer able to control my reddening cheeks.

“Let’s show how much we appreciate the esteemed alumni of Centerstone High School!”

At the principal’s cringe-worthy orders, the audience releases tepid applause.

It’s just loud enough to cover Tristan’s snide remarks from the rest of the auditorium. But he’s hovering by my side so, unfortunately, I hear him loud and clear.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Torres the Terror. Still making young lives miserable?”

I haven’t heard that nickname, “the Terror,” in ages. It floods me with memories of irritation. But humor, too. Oh, to be eighteen again, when my biggest problem was figuring out how to squirt shaving cream into Tristan’s skates.

I snicker. “At least I’m not Tristan Brian Thorne the Turd.”

We’re looking at the audience instead of each other, but his presence is so annoying, it’s as if no one else is around.

“As always, you are as sharp as a skate blade.”

“Wish I could say the same, Turd,” I mutter smugly. “Unfortunately, you’re about as sharp as a knife at a toddler’s tea party.”

Tristan makes a chortling sound.

I look up to find his hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh out loud. Our eyes catch again, and something tugs at the corner of my lips.

It isn’t a smile. That would be ridiculous.

CHAPTER 2

TRISTAN

A woman walks across the stage in black boots, black leggings, a black sweater dress, and black-rimmed glasses, as if she’s the star of the goth-themed stage. As a Filipina, Ligaya easily stands out in this ordinary suburb of Southwest Ohio. With those full lips, doe eyes, supple skin, and take-no-prisoners attitude, she’s a freaking knockout.

A knockout ready to rip my head off.

She shakes my hand.

Making contact with her soft palm zings awareness through my body.

The principal’s mouth is moving, and the audience seems to be applauding, but all I can register is her.

Ligaya Torres went from an infuriatingly pretty girl to a stunningly beautiful and undeniably sexy woman. A glance downward reveals how well she fills out her dress. I look away, focusing on a spot over the high school crowd’s heads. Another glimpse of Ligaya’s curves will turn this public service presentation into a gawking fest. Not that I can admit how gorgeous she is out loud.

Trading insults instead of offering praise comes more naturally.

“As always, you are as sharp as a skate blade,” I whisper for her ears only.

“Wish I could say the same, Turd,” she mutters like a ventriloquist. How does she do that? Her mouth barely shifts from the stiff smile.

After a beat, Ligaya adds, “Unfortunately, you’re about as sharp as a knife at a toddler’s tea party.”

I snort in amusement, covering my mouth to hold back a laugh. She glances up at me, her nose crinkling slightly and her lips tilting at the corners.

I lean in, getting a whiff of her scent, feminine but not flowery. Herbal, almost. The aroma tickles my memory of a late spring evening when we found each other alone, both sober while the rest of the graduation party had passed out or gone home. At the time, I held the delusion that the kiss was the start of something.

I was wrong.

My straying mind failed to notice when the auditorium got dismissed.

What pulls me to the present is a blur of black. One second Ligaya is beside me, the next she’s ten feet away heading to another hallway.

“Excuse me,” I say to Principal Reinbacher.

My long strides make up ground with little effort because Ligaya is a shortie. No taller than when she was at middle school, but with the hourglass curves of a woman. Tiny enough to pick up with one hand, but vicious enough to kick me if I tried.

Ligaya slips into a room. I follow her and close the door behind me.

When she realizes what I’ve done, her mouth opens in shock. Or anger. It’s too dark in here to be sure.

“You are as annoying today as you’ve always been,” she barks, her fists pressed against her waist. “What do you want?”

I have a flash of the girl Ligaya was in high school, even prettier when she was riled up. Except now she’s a woman whose sass keeps you on your toes and whose curves could stop traffic.

What do I want? What did I expect to accomplish by following her into this room instead of heading to the parking lot and putting Centerstone High in my rearview mirror where it belongs?

The only answer that makes sense is that I can’t very well let her have the last word. Old habits die hard.

“Had to make sure the shock of seeing me didn’t affect you too much. You looked a bit wobbly walking away, Terror. Not to mention, it’s rude to leave without saying goodbye,” I accuse with a tsk sound.

“I’m busy,” she states with a gesture to our surroundings.

A glance confirms we’re in a costume closet with garments hanging on rolling racks.

“I didn’t realize you worked here. Not like here.” I indicate the room we’re in. “At the high school, I mean.”

I hate it when Ligaya’s right. I really do sound like a turd.

“Why would you know where I work?” She brushes a strand of hair away from her forehead. Two swipes. It’s a familiar gesture. Something she’s always done, and I’ve always noticed.

I ignore the question and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “A meeting of the esteemed alumni of Centerstone High School is overdue.” I emphasize the way we were introduced onstage. “We should grab a coffee some time.”

“How can I resist? You have the charm of the IRS guy who audited my parents’ laundromat.” Ligaya’s voice is teasing as she takes a step closer.

“Charmed by IRS auditors? Sounds like you need to go out more,” I quip, taking half a step closer, too.

We’re nearly toe to toe.

“How are Fred and Cathy?” I pause on the snarky tone because I’m genuinely curious about her parents. It didn’t matter how much Ligaya and I bickered, her parents were always nice to me and my sister, Olivia.

“Pretty good, tax audits aside,” she answers simply, accepting my truce. “They watch Mavericks hockey all the time.”

“And you, Terror? Do you watch me play for the Mavericks?”

“I’d rather sit through a three-hour PowerPoint on the history of paperclips than watch you play hockey, Turd.”

“You always were a weirdo.”

Ligaya rolls her eyes like she’s exasperated with me, yet a smile lingers. She pushes her glasses up her nose. Somehow, the dark rim makes her eyes pop and her lips seem extra plump and pink. Ligaya’s tongue licks her bottom lip and the gloss of moisture tugs at my cock. Who knew that nerdy glasses, a messy bun, and an irritated glare would do it for me?

I’m used to women who get dolled up to attract hockey players. Ligaya might not give a shit about impressing anyone, but she makes my body hot and my fingers tingle. I’m tempted to tug on her hair and check if her lush mouth tastes as good as it did all those years ago.

“Tristan, are you listening to me?” Her question refocuses my attention. Whatever she was saying turned into a distant hum when she licked her lips.

“Huh? Yeah, sure.”

“Then move over. I left my bag by the stage.” She squeezes by me and turns the knob. Wiggles it. Bangs it a bit. Wiggles again.

“Shit, you locked us in!”

“No way,” I declare before trying the door myself. “We can call the front desk.” I lift my cell to search for the school’s main number.

“This closet is a freaking dead zone,” Ligaya says dejectedly. She bangs on the door and yells for attention. I join her. After a few minutes of screaming, she slumps.

“Everyone is in their classrooms, but the drama club will let us out.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching in a classroom right now?”

“I have an unassigned time block in the morning. A free period, because it’s my only break of the day. I run the drama club through lunch hour.”

“When does lunch start?”

She looks at her watch. “In an hour.”

CHAPTER 3

LIGAYA

Because we were both banging on the door, our bodies are nearly touching when I face Tristan. I’m at eye level with the deep V between his collarbones, trying to be subtle about inhaling his aroma of mint and sugar. The man is a freaking mojito in a tall glass of muscles.

That doesn’t even make sense! What the hell is wrong with me? Leave it to the Turd to provoke the most incoherent jumble of metaphors.

His insistent hotness muddles the facts: This is Tristan, who put blue food coloring in my makeup so I looked like a faded Smurf for a week. The guy who wrote a fake letter from Liam Anderson who I had a crush on for years. My nemesis who drove me up the wall all of senior year.

If I knew he would be here, I’d have called in sick and meant it.

The rapid pulse at the base of his neck calls my attention. It is nearly as fast and jagged as my own heartbeat. I close my eyes and shake my head to break the spell he has over me. It doesn’t work. The second I open my eyes, they roam over the terrain of Tristan’s sculpted torso, the granite sharpness of his jaw, the pouty shape of his lips, and those darkened hazel eyes.

They stare back at me without mirth or guile. He almost looks . . . amazed? That can’t be right.

“You’ve changed, but you haven’t changed.”

“In a good way?”

“In a great way,” he says, eyes falling to my lips. “And me? Have I changed?”

“Stop fishing for compliments,” I reprimand. “You know you’re hot.”

He offers a crooked grin and an arched brow. “I hadn’t realized you noticed.”

“But not in a good way,” I quickly add.

“There’s a bad way to be hot?”

“Like Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. Muscles and nothing else.” I point my finger and poke his chest.

“Seriously? I have a bachelor’s degree in business administration. How dare you compare me to an illiterate brute.”

“Fine. You’re not stupid like Gaston,” I concede.

Before I can pull my finger away, his circles my wrist and rests my palm over his chest.

“Thank you,” he responds, reaching for my other hand and likewise placing it on his chest.

“For what?”

“For your compliment. It’s called politeness. You should try it out some time.”

“I take it back. You’re not like Gaston. You’re like the sidekick in Top Gun. Who is he again?” I ramble while my hands remain glued to his body. “Actually, it doesn’t matter. You’re good-looking like all the sidekicks in the Top Gun franchise. Handsome and smart, though ultimately disposable.”

He leans down with a chuckle, and the result is that my arms end up on his mountainous shoulders. Tristan’s forearms bracket my back.

“How am I going to keep my ego in check when I’m around you, Terror?” he rasps lazily, clearly more concerned with the press of our bodies than the hit to his large ego.

It isn’t the only thing that’s large. He rubs his erection against my stomach. Or am I the one doing the rubbing? Does it matter at this point?

“I said don’t fish for compliments.” My fingers massage his neck, basically pulling him down.

He chuckles.

“Do you even know what a compliment is, Ligaya? Because calling me dumb and irrelevant is the farthest thing from one.”

Our foreheads roll together, and somehow it’s more intimate than the last time I had sex.

“I did admit you’re hot,” I concede with a stupid grin on my face.

“You did, didn’t you? Say it again. This time without all the bad movie references,” he insists.

Tristan pulls back, watching me intensely.

“Still fishing . . .” I say breathily.

“You can add my stellar hockey skills.”

“Deep-sea trawling at this point . . .”

His laugh warms me to my core. “Since you’re having a hard time wrapping your mind around the concept of a compliment, allow me to be of further assistance.”

If that announcement didn’t fully grab my attention, Tristan’s finger tipping my chin up does it. Suddenly, the world is made of hazel eyes and thick lashes and tempting mojitos.

“I’m about to give you a compliment.” He pushes a strand of hair behind my ear, thumb lingering on the sensitive skin behind my earlobe. “I love this badass outfit. If you were my teacher, I don’t think I could focus on anything, you’re so fucking pretty. You say the nuttiest, funniest things, and you smell great all the damn time.”

I make an effort to swallow in order to avoid drooling.

“That’s more than one compliment.”

“And so good at counting, too.”

My amused snort surprises both of us. “I smell good all the time? Even when I’m sweating?” I am sweating buckets right now. How can I not, when my blood is on fire?

He shrugs. “Actually, yeah.”

I’m transported back to our kiss. The one that meant nothing. Except that’s not quite true, is it? I had felt something then, and—heaven help me—Tristan’s effect on me remains mysteriously potent.

“You’re making me very self-conscious with this line of conversation.”

“You started it,” he whispers, nuzzling his nose against my ear.

“What exactly did I start?”

Tristan shifts so our mouths are barely an inch apart.

“This.”

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