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“For what it’s worth,” he says, voice quieter now but still cocky, “I think the folders are a front. You’ve definitely got trouble hidden somewhere in that highlighter collection. After all, you are a Fields.”

My hand pauses on the doorknob to my apartment. “And wouldn't you like to know!"

He smiles a big smile. “Maybe I would.”

I should laugh it off.

But instead, I blush.

And I haven’t stopped thinking about his smile since.

Which is bad. Very bad.

Because Nate Jones is exactly the kind of man I’ve spent years avoiding.

He’s gorgeous, confident and a badass.

And he flirts like a fire alarm—fast, hot, and with enough intensity to short-circuit common sense.

I’ve got the bar exam in six months. My life is flashcards, outlines, and grinding until I make partner before thirty. That’s the plan.

Nate Jones is not part of the plan.

Chapter three

Nate

“This feel like a co-ed dorm mixer to anyone else?” James asks, stepping into the elevator with a dramatic sigh. “I’m having college flashbacks.”

“Except now we have abs and dental insurance,” Ethan replies, flashing that cocky grin.

Mikey lifts a brow. “Speak for yourselves. I’ve got a cracked molar and two gym memberships I never use.”

James elbows me. “What exactly did you promise this girl to get us into a future-attorney shindig?”

I smirk. “Just told her I’d show up. Her roommate is a total party girl and apparently a big Acers fan. She invited me and the rest of you.”

“Sounds like she’s a risk taker,” Ethan mutters.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open.

Kira answers the door with a drink in one hand and confidence in both shoulders.

“Well, well. Hockey royalty arrives,” she says with a wink. “You must be the starting lineup.”

“Only the charming half,” James says, sliding past her with a smirk.

“I’m the cute one,” Mikey adds.

Ethan raises a brow. “And I’m just here for the snacks.”

Kira’s grin widens. “This way, gentlemen. Try not to ruin the vibe.”

The apartment’s more crowded than I expected, maybe twenty people, scattered in small groups with drinks and paper plates. There’s music playing, something retro-pop with a beat that makes your shoulders move whether you mean to or not.

I scan the room and find her.

Mandy.