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Three weeks of waiting for the test results, and now that I’d gotten the email back, all I knew for sure was that my mom had been lying to me my entire life.

Keith Huxley-Beck wasn’t my dad after all. Everything I’d known to be true growing up, all the pictures my mom had shown me of her meeting him at a fan convention, all the times we’d watched his movies and she’d told me about how he’d flipped his hair like that in person too.

Lies. All of it.

I’d learned sign language for this man. I’d once read an article about how he had to know it for a movie role, and I’d wanted to have something in common with him. So I’d taken it as an extracurricular all through high school, then continued studying it through college. There weren’t any other ways to keep up with it where I lived, so I’d attended a Latter-day Saints church that had an ASL congregation simply so I could speak with Deaf people every Sunday. I wasn’t even all that religious. I just wanted to have something to talk to my dad about if I ever got a chance to meet him.

But he wasn’t even my dad.

On the plus side, according to my DNA results, I did have a genetic likelihood toward developing eczema and irritable bowel syndrome, so that was just great. Good news all around.

I closed the email and dropped my phone on the table. Probably for the best that the results came in close to the end of the workday. I didn’t need my coworkers asking me what was wrong, because there was no way I’d be able to hide the shock and disappointment on my face. I wasn’t an actor. Not like my…well. I couldn’t even say he was my father now. He was nothing to me.

Rob knocked on my office door, poking his head in when I didn’t answer.

“You ready for that meeting now?” he asked.

This literally could not have come at a worse time.

For the past three weeks, he’d been pushing me off and giving me half answers on whether we’d adjust our finale to include my design. He’d asked for files with the final specs and told me he needed a week to analyze the cost-benefit ratio, the amount of supplies, the budget with the remaining fireworks, yada yada yada. One week had turned into two, then two had turned into three, and no matter how many times I’d pestered my creative director about it, he hadn’t been in any hurry to give me his final answer. Now when I wanted to hide my head in the sand, he finally wanted to talk.

Figured.

Rob pushed his way into my office, taking my other chair and turning it around so he sat in it backward, straddling it like a horse.

“So, listen,” he said, his voice dropping in pitch at the end like he was speaking to a child. “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, and I just don’t think it’d be fair to the other designers and all the work they’ve put into the finale if we scratch their ideas for something you put together on your own. This was supposed to be a team effort, Andee.” He crossed his arms along the back of the chair like he was perfectly at ease with this conversation, even though I was dying inside.

I furrowed my brows. “I wasn’t suggesting we get rid of their ideas,” I cut in. “I only thought we could add this—”

“It won’t work.” He shook his head. “If we’d had more time, a few more weeks, maybe it would have been possible to get everyone on board.”

He was the one who had wasted three weeks on this ridiculous runaround. Three weeks when I’d already figured out how to do it, which was the hardest part. It was literally groundbreaking (sky breaking?) firework design, and he wanted to postpone it for a later, less prestigious event that would get less national attention because I bruised his ego?

I opened my mouth to respond, but Rob stood up and made his way to the door.

“I’m sure one day you’ll understand how things work around here. You haven’t been with us that long, after all.”

Was that some kind of threat? It certainly felt like it.

Rob put his hand on the door handle, clearly done with this conversation. “You all right, Superstar?”

As if I needed any reminders that I was not a superstar, nor was I even related to one. Everything came crashing down at once, reminding me that this day that had started out so promising was just a big fat lie covered in equally awful office politics.

I nodded anyway, just so Rob would leave and I could break down in peace.

I was supposed to stay and arrange some stars into casings, but suddenly the walls seemed too thick. Too close. I had to get out of here. I didn’t need any of my coworkers seeing me like this. All shaky and pale, eyes wide like a child that’d been burned by a sparkler—just begging for them to ask questions.

No, thank you.

I grabbed my things and slung my computer bag over my shoulder, striding out into the hall like I had a purpose. People didn’t question you when you looked like you had places to be.

If only I had someplace to be.

I made it to my car and stared at my hands on the steering wheel, pale white against black. But nothing was ever black and white in this world. It was all question marks and unfinished sentences, aspiring actor boyfriends cheating on you once they realized you wouldn’t use your connections to big names in Hollywood. Connections that turned out to be false anyway.

I rested my head against the wheel and breathed in through my nose.

Five minutes later I pulled into a bar without even remembering how I’d gotten there. That was a promising sign. Also, a good sign I probably shouldn’t be drinking right now.

Instead, I unlocked my phone and called my mom, listening to it ring on speaker since my hands were shaking too hard to keep it held up to my ear. It clicked over to her voicemail, and I hung up. I wanted to complain about my boss, but that would have to wait until after I’d gotten answers about my dad. I called again, just so she’d know to call me back. In case she was ignoring my call because she was busy clipping her toenails or something equally important. She still didn’t answer, so I gave up and went inside the bar, which was surprisingly busy considering the time of day.

Once I was settled into a spot at the counter, I realized I hadn’t thought this through. Simply getting drunk and forgetting all my problems wouldn’t get rid of them—namely, I’d still have the problem of my car being parked outside and me having to somehow get home without driving it.

I sighed and asked for a water, wondering why I bothered coming. Even something simple like getting a drink had to be overanalyzed and dissected within an inch of its life. Sometimes I wished I could turn off the scientific part of my brain that insisted it needed an answer for everything.

Yes, fireworks designers were scientists too, and I had a chemical engineering degree to prove it. Mixing all those combustibles wasn’t something that happened without very precise calculations and scientific know-how. And my brain liked getting answers like any other scientist.

The only thing I’d never questioned was getting proof of who my father was. I’d finally caved, and now look what that had gotten me.

My sigh was so loud it was practically a gust. It could have flattened an entire field of innocent wildflowers.

“Long day?” a man next to me asked. He’d arrived a minute or so after me, but I’d been too preoccupied with my own internal drama to notice specifics. He was white, with buzzed hair and a muscular build, giving off military vibes. He had tattoos covering every inch of exposed skin below his face, which was normal enough here in Virginia, and a wicked-looking knife attached to his belt, which wasn’t. He looked to be a few years older than me, but he wasn’t really my type. Most of all, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for flirting.

“You could say that,” I said, twisting my glass of water in my hands.

“What do you do for a living?” he asked.

I glanced at the door wistfully, but the man didn’t take my hint. So I pursed my lips and answered, “I’m a pyrotechnic engineer.”

That was my stuffy, official job title. But if I told people I was a fireworks designer, they usually asked more questions. I didn’t want more questions.

Pyrotechnic engineer, on the other hand, sounded smart. And on the whole, most guys in bars didn’t like it when women sounded smarter than them. They dropped the conversation.

The man at the bar chuckled, his teeth gleaming in the dim light.

“I could see how that could lead to some long days,” he said. “Even the name sounds exhausting.”

“Not as exhausting as this conversation,” I retorted under my breath, which was 100 percent the truth.

This seemed to amuse the man, who leaned forward with a smile, placing his elbows on the counter. It was only after he chuckled again that I saw my comment could have been construed as flirting by some men who thought women liked to play hard to get, and I mentally kicked myself. His laugh was like oil on water, seemingly so out of place and awkward.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

If I’d wanted a man to buy me a drink, I’d have worn cute clothes and shoes that hurt my feet. What I really wanted was to go home, forget today had ever happened, and hit the restart button like I was in the movie Groundhog Day . Maybe then I could ignore my email or make my mom answer her phone so I could finally get some answers. I could confront Rob before he ever made it to my office and explain to him again how he didn’t need to scrap the existing finale to incorporate my design. I wouldn’t have to give up so easily.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and refocused my attention on the man beside me.

From the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something green between the man’s fingers. It was small and could have been a pill.

Was that a roofie?

I was being paranoid.

Right?

Definitely paranoid. I couldn’t prove anything. Even if I got the attention of the bartender, there wasn’t anything he could do. Besides, weren’t roofies white? Still, I scooted back on my chair and looked around to see if anyone else had noticed.

With a start, I remembered a chemistry article I’d read online about how scientists had changed the color of the pill people got from prescriptions so it would alter the color of your drink and you’d notice if it had been spiked. But only if your drink wasn’t dark to begin with. If your drink was light, or clear, like water…then the person with the pill would want to get me a different drink.

My brain went fuzzy for a second, and I struggled to remember what the man had asked me. Yes, he’d definitely asked me if he could buy me a drink.

“Oh, uh, I have a boyfriend,” I answered belatedly. I looked at my phone like I was checking the time. “Actually, I’m meeting him soon, so…”

I didn’t really have a boyfriend, not anymore, and no, I didn’t really want to talk about it. But this man didn’t need to know all my emotional baggage.

He set his bottle down on the counter.

“Want to get out of here? My place isn’t far.” His smile had disappeared, and his expression was suddenly intent. Focused.

I cocked my head. Had he not heard the first part of my statement, or was he just that persistent? Joke was on him, because he was not that attractive. Plus, the vibes he was giving off now weren’t exactly…normal. More like a serial killer finding his next victim in a dive bar. Maybe I was stereotyping that this guy seemed like bad news, but I also was listening to my gut, and my gut was telling me it didn’t want to die today. Sweat wound down my spine, and I bit my lip.

“Sorry.” I shook my head, hands slipping a little on my glass. “My boyfriend probably wouldn’t like that.”

“Come on, don’t be like that.” The man stood up and leaned closer. “Just one drink.” He reached out to stroke my hand, and when I tried to pull it back, he grasped it tightly in his. I tried to yank it away, but he only gripped harder. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, blood rushing through my veins.

“She said she has a boyfriend,” a new voice said. It was male and low, with an edge to it that was unmistakably dangerous. A man I didn’t know, but who must have been nearby long enough to catch the tail end of our conversation, came to stand by my side, draping an arm over my shoulders. His leather jacket was warm, and I leaned into it, not even caring who he was or what he looked like.

“Sorry I’m late, babe,” he said, squeezing my shoulder lightly. “Looks like the vultures have been circling.”

The man at the bar who’d grasped my hand finally released it, and I wrapped my arm around my rescuer, simply so it wouldn’t shake and give me away.

My attacker eyed us both, taking in the man at my side. If it turned into a fight, it would no longer be just him against me, pulling me out of a noisy bar. Finally, he leaned back and crossed his arms.

I cleared my throat. “I want to leave,” I said, glancing up and getting my first good look at the man who’d stepped in. I almost stared and gave everything away—he was that good-looking. He was Asian American, tall, and broad shouldered, with a muscular build that spoke of years of hitting the gym. His jaw looked sharp enough to cut glass, but he had smile lines around the corners of his eyes that said he knew how to laugh when the situation wasn’t so serious.

He nodded and steered me toward the door. When I glanced back, the man from earlier was busy on his phone, having seemingly forgotten all about me. An uneasy feeling settled over me all the same.

I promised myself that after I made it back to my car, I’d call the bar and report my suspicions about the man. Just in case. Maybe I wasn’t sure, but if I could save even one girl from a horrible fate, then it’d be worth it.

The front door swung open, and cool air hit me, bringing some relief to the heat that had risen to my face and cheeks.

“Which car is yours?” my rescuer murmured low.

I pointed it out and he led me to it, resting his arm against the open frame of the car door while I settled into the driver’s seat. We both watched the front doors of the bar for a few minutes, but no one followed us. My heartbeat began to slow.

“You okay?” The man ducked his head a little so he could look into my eyes.

I took in a shuddering breath. “I think so.” I wiped the palms of my hands on my pants. “Thank you for saving me back there. I’m Andee.” My breath finally returned to normal, and I felt my body relax.

“Adam Chan. My friends call me Chan.” He smiled, and I didn’t think it was possible for him to get any more attractive, but the evidence was right there in front of me. I was nothing if not a woman of science, and I couldn’t deny the cold, hard facts.

I drummed my fingers against the wheel. “Nice to meet you, Chan. And I don’t actually have a boyfriend.” For some reason it was vitally important that he know that fact. I blushed, then looked down at my feet. The floor of my car needed a good vacuuming, and I wondered whether he noticed.

He pushed off my door and took a step back. I thought he was about to leave, and my chest tightened with disappointment. But he simply leaned against the car parked beside mine, the picture of casual ease.

Inwardly, I wondered at my reaction. Was it some kind of savior complex? I was interested in him because he had rescued me. That had to be the scientific explanation. Because I couldn’t see how else I’d been having such a horrible day and he’d managed to make me forget it with just a smile. That sort of thing didn’t make logical sense any other way.

He crossed his arms, his muscles straining the limits of his jacket. Inwardly, I fanned myself. Okay, so maybe it was a hormonal response then.

“I’m glad to hear it.” His voice was like liquid honey. “Can I see your phone?”

I unlocked it and handed it over. If I did it with a touch too much gusto, he didn’t comment. He simply texted himself from my phone, his own buzzing in his other hand a second later. I reached out to take mine back, but he held it to his chest with a grin.

“I’m not done yet.” He returned his attention to my phone, laughing at my Dynamite comes in small packages phone case, then he resumed whatever it was he’d been doing on my screen. When he returned it, I saw he’d shared our contact cards with each other so we had the other’s photos and names attached to the most recent text.

His picture was unfairly handsome. I planned to stare at it all night.

The text he’d had “me” send to him read:

I think you’re cute.

A second later my phone dinged with a text from him.

I know.

I raised my eyebrows.

“I’m getting some serious Han Solo vibes from your text,” I said dryly. “And how nice of you to put words in my mouth.”

He shrugged and put his hands into his pockets, his grin showing the smile lines around his eyes.

“I had to say it for you, otherwise it might not happen.” He nudged the runner of my car with his foot. “And I really wanted to hear you say it.”

My heart fluttered.

“Ah,” I said, my voice a little breathy. “But you see, I didn’t say it. I wrote it.”

He cocked his head. His hair covered his ears and curled a little at the nape of his neck in a way that was begging for me to reach out and run my fingers through it. I resisted. Barely.

“So, you’re admitting you wrote it,” he said.

This made me laugh out loud. Smooth, Adam Chan, smooth .

With my fragile emotional state, I knew I had to get out of here before I did any irreversible damage. Like inviting Chan back to my place or telling him I wanted to have his babies.

“Thanks for turning my day around, Chan,” I said, pushing the button to start my car. “And for saving me back there. I really should be heading home.”

He inclined his head ever so slightly. “Nice to meet you, Andee. Be safe.”

He leaned forward to shut my door for me, then moved back to the sidewalk, giving a small wave as he walked toward his own car, his other hand typing on his phone.

My own phone dinged on my lap.

For the record, you’re more than cute.

I was glad he was facing the other way because I blushed all the way into my hairline. I was going to be thinking about that text the entire way home. Scratch that, for the whole next week.

Maybe I’d blown some things up in my life. But maybe, despite everything, I’d managed to light some fireworks too.