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George-Arthur Milton was nothing like I’d expected. Sure, he was blond. That part was no surprise. Every single member of his family was. He had the Milton charm—serious to a fault. Just like his dad and his three siblings, he was tall with a pale complexion and a smattering of moles on his throat. But aside from that, he wasn’t at all who I’d thought he’d be.

For one thing, rather than exhibit the stoic demeanor his siblings shared, George was positively fiery. He was an open book. His nose scrunched, his eyes squinted. Wrinkles and divots, and pursed lips to demonstrate his displeasure. His facial features were so incredibly responsive, I had the urge to collect each new expression like they were Pokémon.

He was also gorgeous.

A delicate, sharp sort of pretty. Constantly marred by each scrunch and scowl.

The most interesting thing about George, however, wasn’t his expressiveness or his fire. It was the fact that, unlike the rest of his family, he didn’t fall for my charm.

I spent the majority of our shared flight doing my best to crack his hard shell, only to be wildly unsuccessful. He didn’t respond to my flirting the way most people did. Questions only seemed to make his hackles rise. And like a grouchy cat, he was unafraid to swipe me with his goddamn claws.

He showed no remorse about that either. In fact, his soft-looking lips and been pulled into what could only be described as a triumphant smile as he’d pocketed his pen and proceeded to ignore me immediately after he’d literally fucking stabbed me in the leg.

Unexpected—totally fucking unexpected.

He was a challenge.

It wasn’t often that I encountered challenges.

Most of the time, all it took was a flash of my dimples to get what I desired.

George was honestly the first person I’d met in a very long time who didn’t simply bend over and take my flirty bullshit. His dark blue eyes held a guardedness that I could relate to, even if I couldn’t understand. When I pushed, he pushed back. Unyielding.

Which was, suffice to say, electric.

I couldn’t wait to see him again.

Couldn’t wait to surprise him the way he’d surprised me.

It was going to be amusing to watch those expressive brows twist. Maybe he’d scowl again? God, that scowl was adorable. He had this little dimple in his chin when he frowned that I found disarmingly captivating. It was the grumpiest dimple I’d ever seen.

A grimple , if you will.

So fucking cute.

Seriously.

When I’d finally annoyed him into abandoning his book, George had evaded as many of my questions as he could. The flight duration was nearly two hours, and I’d learned very fucking little about him, despite how doggedly I’d worked for answers. When I’d asked him if he’d been raised in Ohio, he’d flicked an eyebrow and said, “Obviously.”

It hadn’t been obvious at all.

At least, not if you looked at how tightly wound his ass was in his dark suit and silver cufflinks. He had New York practically tattooed on his face. It was hard to believe he was from the same small rural town that Roddy was from. Raised surrounded by cornfields beneath the same wide blue sky I’d always called home.

There was nothing “small town” about George.

He was the opposite of friendly.

Not that I’d necessarily call the rest of the clan “friendly”, per se, but George had bite .

A fact I begrudgingly respected at the same time I found fascinating. Maybe that was why he’d moved so far away? Why he’d become the black sheep of the family despite being Mrs. Milton’s golden boy. Her pride and joy. The only Milton to break the mold.

He was as tightly wound as a yo-yo, and I couldn’t wait to watch him spin. I felt no remorse. Why would I when I knew this would lead nowhere fast? This was a bit of flirty fun. Nothing more.

I mean…sure, I hadn’t planned on flirting at all—I certainly hadn’t with June’s other matchmaking efforts. But…a little wouldn’t hurt.

I didn’t date.

I never would.

I knew better than anyone that I was unpalatable. Too much. There was no point pretending otherwise. And I wasn’t going to. If I found George fascinating, that was private information.

It didn’t mean anything.

Nothing at all.

Especially when he made it so goddamn clear how incredibly uninterested he was in me. I wasn’t used to being disliked .

“Favorite thing to do in your spare time?” I tried, ignoring the heat that pooled between my legs when he glared at me.

“I’m not playing twenty questions with you.”

“Harsh,” I laughed, unrepentant. I maybe shouldn’t have pushed, but I couldn’t help myself. Not when he was so fucking cute—especially when he was annoyed. He didn’t want to be vulnerable when it wasn’t on his own terms. This wasn’t about privacy—at least, I didn’t think so. It was about control. I could respect that.

“Please?” I said, curious to see what he’d do next. There were limits to how far I’d go. I didn’t want to actually make him uncomfortable, and though I continued to prod, I was careful not to cross the line.

George didn’t reply.

I’d stumped him.

I could see the flicker of confusion in his eyes as he scrambled to figure out what to say.

George had the kind of eyes poetry was written about. There was a sadness in them I recognized far too intimately. My own neediness projected onto him—given how brutally and efficiently George shut me down.

A vivid, bottomless blue, as dark as mine were light. It was difficult to look away once caught inside their depths. Like the Mariana Trench, his irises were so blue they were nearly black. Layers on layers, rippled waves of emotion buried on top of one another so far down they muddied. And though the color was gorgeous, best of all was their shape. Angled upward at the ends, the wrinkles at the corners of George’s eyes betrayed how often he scoffed or squinted. Years of emotion bundled in every permanent crevice. Framed by see-through blond lashes, he was a study in contrast.

Dark eyes to complement the honey blond of his hair.

A plush mouth with a sharp tongue.

Long, long legs. Lean shoulders. Sharp angles and soft hands.

I’d never been a poet, but looking at George made me want to try my hand at it—if only so that I could attempt to remember how frustratingly fascinating he was. Which was infuriating seeing as I’d promised myself I wouldn’t be drawn in by him.

It would have been impossible not to be.

He was as stunning as he was prickly, and I couldn’t recall the last time I’d flirted with someone and been shut down so goddamn efficiently.

“I’m not going to tell you my hobbies,” George finally settled on, though it’d taken him a solid forty seconds—and counting—to get there.

“I play sports,” I offered in reply, hoping that if I opened up, he would too. I’d yet to meet a single person who’d glimpsed beneath my walls and liked what they saw, so I didn’t understand why my mouth kept fucking opening, bullshit spilling free.

“Good for you,” George huffed, sinking lower into his seat. He had narrow shoulders, though his suit had done a pretty good job of concealing it. Narrow shoulders, narrow hips, long, limber legs. God, those fucking legs, kill me now.

Made me want to squeeze and knead and shove them wide apart.

“I’m not picky about which one. I’ve dabbled in most—” I continued, like he hadn’t spoken. “Though hockey is probably my favorite—and the one I play often. Recreationally. I’m by no means a professional.”

Jesus, Alex. Why are you telling him all of this?

George’s mouth opened like he was about to ask a question, then it snapped shut the moment he thought better of it.

“What?” I asked, excited that I might have finally inspired something other than a biting remark. “You a hockey guy?”

“No,” George scoffed. “I’m wondering if a puck to the head is the reason you don’t know when to shut up.”

“Oof,” I slapped a hand over my heart. “You wound me.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” George sighed, gaze fixed resolutely on the seat in front of him. “I literally wounded you, and you’re still bothering me.” His cheeks were pink, though, which was adorable.

Christ. It was impossible to break through his walls.

This was not a script I had memorized.

Normally, by this point, I had people eating out of my hand. Sometimes literally. Other times, there were fingers on my biceps, and dark pupils peering up at me as whoever I was trying to woo inquired if sports were the reason my physique was as sculpted as it was.

To which the answer was no.

But I’d lie and say maybe.

They’d titter and laugh.

Five minutes later I’d have my dick snug inside whoever I had seduced.

Rinse and repeat.

It was the same thing over and over and over again.

But not with George.

No.

George was…

George was George .

A lost cause, honestly. He wasn’t interested in me. Which was fine. Anything with him was bound to be messy, and I seemed to be the only person who realized that.

That didn’t mean George wasn’t super entertaining, though.

Or that I wasn’t fascinated by him.

Fascinated enough that I couldn’t seem to stop flirting, even if my usual MO when it came to June’s set ups was to go icy cold.

When our flight landed—unfortunately too quickly for me to get anything real out of him—George was gone before I could blink. Those leggy legs had eaten up the distance as fast as they possibly could. He’d practically teleported off the plane.

I would’ve been offended if I truly cared.

Which I didn’t. Except, apparently I did. At least…a little .

Again, he wasn’t interested.

A thought that rankled more than it should have, considering I was bound and determined not to feed into the madness that was my sister and her matchmaking.

“What’s up with your face?” The aforementioned twin sister, June, said in greeting.

“Nothing’s up with my face.” I yanked the passenger door to her truck open. We both knew I was lying. I hadn’t schooled my expression quickly enough. And besides, she knew me better than anyone. My thoughts were full. Full of soft lips, chin dimples, and scowl lines.

“You look constipated.”

“Thanks,” I replied dryly, sliding into my seat.

June drove a hilariously massive pickup truck. Hilarious because of how fucking tiny she was. Climbing in and out made her look like a cartoon character straight out of a picture book. Which was exactly why she’d bought the car in the first place. She enjoyed the looks she received when she hopped out and people realized the monstrosity was being manned by a big-boobed hobbit. (Her name, not mine.)

If there was one thing June didn’t lack, it was good humor.

Case in point.

That was one of the things I loved most about her.

That and her knack for calling me on my bullshit. As frustrating as it could be, she grounded me. Constantly proving that not everyone in the world was a superficial asswipe, even if it sometimes felt like it.

“So…” June said as I grabbed a couple empty Coke bottles at my feet. I tossed them into the back to make room. A wayward fast-food bag crunched beneath my heel, but I left it alone. Too much nitpicking and I’d incite her ire.

I didn’t want to do that.

Not when I knew I was about to piss her off—a fact I hated, even if I couldn’t really help it .

I knew what she was hinting at.

As infuriating as it was.

“So?”

“You met George.” She grinned a shit-eating grin. The kind of grin that made me want to smother her with a pillow.

“Yes.”

“ Aaaand ?” June waited eagerly, already slamming her cowboy boot on the gas and peeling out of the arrival zone at the airport. She drove like a woman possessed—and yet somehow, we always managed to be late for everything. Like being chronically behind schedule was simply a facet of who she was. She blamed the trains that ran through Columbus, even when it wasn’t their fault.

Almost like I’d summoned one, we were cut off from the road by the gates lowering. With a groan, I leaned back, the ding, ding of the approaching train acting as background noise as I settled in for an interrogation.

“And he’s…” Sexy, cute, grumpy, not interested? “Blond,” I finally decided.

“ Blond ,” June echoed unenthusiastically.

“Okay, he was nice.” He was not nice.

“Nice? Wow . That’s boring.”

“Shut up.”

“Nice is what you call the weather, Alex. Not a cute guy who is exactly your type.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Sure you do. You know, anything with a pulse.” June’s grin grew wolfish. It was the same smile I wore half the time and I decided I really didn’t like it being directed at me.

“Ha, ha . Fuck you.”

“Fuck yourself.” June flipped me off.

I flipped her off back.

The train finally departed, and we were on the move again.

Silence filled the cluttered truck as June gathered her thoughts .

Leaning my head against the headrest, I watched the city melt into the country. Endless fields, tall golden corn, trees that drifted along the sides of the road casting long shadows we drove right through. A sunny summer sky and puffy white clouds spread as far as the eye could see, no high-rises or mountains to break the never-ending blue. The dotted yellow line that curled like a serpent down the winding road led us deeper and deeper into the countryside. Away from Columbus and toward Chesterton, the small town Roderick—and George—had been raised in.

“For real, though,” June spoke again, quieter this time. “Did you like him? We were hoping you’d like him.”

“We” as in June and her gaggle of matchmaking accomplices—Roderick, her fiancé, among them. Most of June’s matchmaking efforts had been made on her own. Not this one, though, nope. Because apparently, one person trying to hook me up for her wedding wasn’t annoying enough. I needed a whole goddamn army.

Though I highly doubted Roderick had been outright involved in the ticket purchasing aspects of June’s plan. He wasn’t diabolical enough for that.

“I know you were.” I knew why June had set this up in the first place. And because I knew, even though my first instinct was to blow her off, I couldn’t do that. Not when she looked so cautiously hopeful. Not when her pale blue eyes were bright.

Not when she’d admitted to me in confidence before I’d left home for my business trip in New York that her greatest wish for her wedding was to make sure I wasn’t alone, even if it was only temporary.

It was my own fault, really.

For stupidly trusting her with my secrets.

She knew better than anyone how badly I wanted what she had. When I’d informed her I wasn’t bringing a plus-one, she’d made it her mission to find me one. Even though she also knew I’d written off love.

Love meant being known .

Being seen.

Being accepted for all your flaws.

And I knew, least of all, no one was going to look at my pile of dirty socks and think “wow, this one’s a keeper.”

I was a romantic.

A romantic who was terrified of romance.

What a joke.

“George is cute,” I admitted, because it was true. I didn’t often open up about real feelings. But I figured I owed her something . “Especially when he’s grumpy.”

“When he’s…” June groaned. “ Christ , please tell me you didn’t intentionally piss him off?”

“I don’t want to lie.”

“ Why , Alex?” June slammed on the brakes, the truck screeching to a halt at a stop sign she’d only now noticed. Fuck, she was the worst driver I’d ever had the displeasure of riding with. Because of our dad’s recent accident, I was even more on edge. I could feel my pulse skittering as she hit the gas again, accelerating fast enough the wheels squealed. The engine roared, this angry, awful sound—that she ignored.

Of course she did.

She ignored lots of things—like my attempts to thwart her plans, and my protests.

An engine light popped up on June’s dash, and before I could point it out, she slammed her fist on the glass until it turned off.

“Stupid thing.”

“You should get that checked,” I replied, attempting to change the subject. “Just because the light is off now doesn’t mean you fixed the underlying issu?—”

“You should get your brain checked,” June interrupted. “ Why did you piss him off, Alex?”

I blew out a breath. I should’ve left it at “he’s cute” and let her think what she wanted.

“I only teased him a little ,” I defended, as if that made it any better.

“What, did ignoring him like you have with every other plus-one I’ve arranged not work? So you had to outright antagonize him?”

I didn’t know what to say to that, called out as I was.

“You make it really fucking hard to set you up with somebody,” June growled.

“Did it ever occur to you that I might be doing that on purpose ?” I replied, more biting than I’d intended. “I don’t want you to set me up with people. I have told you that, repeatedly.”

Play nice, Alex.

Stop antagonizing the dragon.

“I don’t know why you thought setting me up with a Milton would go any better,” I muttered. “Way fucking worse, actually. Because I actually know his family.”

“I hoped ,” June stressed, “that the fact we know his family might make you act like less of a dick.”

“Yeah, well. Sorry to disappoint.”

“I don’t get you,” June lamented. “You want a partner to spoil. You want a family. You want kids. And yet, you’re allergic to monogamy. You do realize you can’t have the picket-fence kinda life you want without dating someone first, right?”

“I know.”

“Then why do you choose to be such an asshole? You’re intentionally self-sabotaging. Not a cute look, dude. At all.” June’s words hurt more than she’d intended them to. She cared about me. More than anyone had ever cared about me. We’d literally shared a womb. And since the day she could walk, she’d made it her mission in life to look out for me.

She’d always given me everything I’d ever asked for.

All her toys. All her treats. All her attention.

She was the best sister in the world .

So why did I always feel the need to…to upset her like this?

Maybe something really was wrong with me.

“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. I genuinely felt like a dick. “I…I honestly don’t know.”

Maybe I did know, though.

Because any time I’d given someone a part of myself that was vulnerable, they’d crushed it. There was no point trying. Not when I needed too much. When my heart was an open, gaping black hole—and I was “too much” for anyone to handle. George had certainly thought so, if the way he’d bolted from me as soon as he could was any indicator.

“I know.” June wilted, taking a hand off the wheel—oh god—to give my shoulder a squeeze. Her hand was so fucking tiny. Ridiculously so. Sometimes it was difficult to believe we’d been the same size at birth.

“I’m sorry for pushing you when you’re not ready,” June said, putting her hand back on the wheel. I missed it when it was gone. That simple contact had been more than welcome.

June had no ulterior motive.

None at all.

Not like the people I hooked up with. Not like the clients I worked with at Dad’s company. Not like the socialites I schmoozed at the parties I had no choice but to attend, lest I make our father look bad.

She loved me.

Simple as that.

She wanted to see me as happy as she was.

She knew my aches, my hollows, my wants—how could I fault her for doing her best to help?

I couldn’t.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I replied, because I hated the idea that she’d feel guilty about this. “You’re trying to be helpful. And you were right. He is my type. ”

“You’re not just saying that because it’s what I want to hear?” She sounded dubious, not at all excited like she had earlier.

Self-loathing curled black and heavy in my gut.

“No.” Honesty felt odd and unfamiliar.

Why couldn’t I have just said I liked him in the first place?

Why had I pushed her?

Why was I always pushing?

What was wrong with me?

“I’m not his, though,” I managed. I couldn’t help but recall how very uninterested George had been on the plane. “So it’s pointless.”

June’s smile was back, even brighter than before. Sunnier than the summer day. She arched a brow at me. “You’re everyone’s type.”

I snorted. “That was suspiciously nice.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.

The fact that I’d caused that grin made me feel like I’d won an award, and yet, guilt still waged a war in my gut. Because the truth was, though George had walls—so did I. Fortresses, really. And as selfish as it was, I’d rather disappoint than be disappointed.

Which meant I was going to do what I always did. Treat George the way I’d treated the rest of June’s “miss-matches”. Stop flirting with him—when it was clear he didn’t want it.

I wasn’t sure if I was protecting her, or myself. Maybe both?

I’d prefer to get the awkwardness over with before the beginning of her “wedding summer camp”. It would be better that way.

George-Arthur Milton wasn’t my soulmate.

He was a grouchy size queen from New York.

There was no way he was the one person in the world who’d want all I had to offer. It was glaringly obvious that I was the real lost cause. And once again, June had given me no choice but to show everyone that.