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“Your age, first of all.”

“Eighteen,” I answer without hesitation.

He makes a tsking noise. “You’re a baby.”

“A legal adult,” I correct.

“Still a baby.” He hesitates. “Don’t you want to know how old I am?”

Oh right. I’m not supposed to know. “Tell me.”

“Twenty-two.” His smile is lethal. “A lecherous old man compared to you.”

“Please.” I roll my eyes and cross my arms, looking like—no doubt—a big old baby. “What’s your other criteria?”

“Your name.” His gaze locks with mine. “I need to know it. Now.”

I blink at him, suddenly terrified. There’s a lump in my throat I can’t swallow past and the truth looms before me. Big and ugly and about to come crashing down upon me the moment I reveal who I am. “I thought you liked the mystery.”

“I’m fucking over the mystery.” He reaches for me, his fingers tangling with mine for the briefest moment and I don’t try to jerk out of his hold. Which is like a small miracle because I don’t necessarily like it when people touch me. “Tell me.”

“Sinclair,” I whisper, bracing myself for the moment he recognizes my name. “Sinclair Miller.”

He studies me in silence while I sit in quaking fear, ready for him to burst out laughing when he figures out that I’m the very girl he used to taunt for being ugly. Pathetic. Dumb. “Sinclair.”

I nod once, still trembling.

“Sin.” His smile becomes pure sin as well. “I like that.”

That’s all he says and it hits me—he doesn’t know who I am. He doesn’t recognize my name. This man that has loomed large in my memories for so many years, doesn’t recall me at all.

And that pisses me off.

“What’s your name?” I toss at him, my tone hostile, which matches my new mood.

“Promise you won’t freak out?”

Is he for real right now? “I promise.”

A sigh leaves him and he runs his fingers through his golden-brown hair, messing it up in the most adorable way possible. God, he’s gorgeous and it’s infuriating. “August. August Lancaster.”

“Ahhh.” That’s the only thing that comes out of my mouth and I can tell he hates it.

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

“What do you want me to do? Slobber all over you because you’re a Lancaster?”

“Want the truth? That’s what usually happens.” He shrugs.

“Well, I’m not interested in you like that.”

“Really.”

“Really,” I return, deadpan.

“Prove it.”

I’m frowning. “Huh?”