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SAWYER

B itter cold bites into my skin like thorns.

Since I’m in the midst of a low-key hazing by Granthorpe University’s Briar Club, the thorn-like chills are poetic justice.

The Briar Club is an exclusive organization of “powerful women of style and substance”—their branding, not mine—that believes beauty shouldn’t be a woman’s main currency. While I agree with the sentiment, it’s not the reason I applied for membership. My reasons are personal, private, and problematic .

I shift from foot to foot inside the yard of a Colonial Revival house. The smell of cigarette smoke curls through the cold like vines. Burying my chin in my coat, I turn my head toward the front where the chain-smoking security guard is stationed in the shadows.

GU is so bougie sometimes. There’s a student poker game inside the house, and the organizers hired armed security. It’s not like this is Vegas and the pot is a million dollars, so the cloak and dagger is a bit much. Ditto for having me stand outside, battling frostbite, to greet the late arrival. It’s all a bid to reinforce the host’s sense of self importance, and I’m over it.

My fingers burrow deeper into my pocket where I’m clutching my phone.

Come the hell on, Silver Spoon guy. Get your ass here.

People might roll their eyes at my calling out my classmates for their wealth and privilege when my adopted family—the Allendales—have enough money to bankroll a war in Central America. The difference is I wasn’t born rich. I still have memories of my chaotic life in foster care when I had nothing more than a garbage bag of old clothes and mangy stuffed animals. A time when my bio mom was allowed to contact me, but didn’t.

Stale news. Gritting my teeth till my jaws ache, I try to resist the urge to dwell. It’s hard to move on, though. Because my difficult start in life didn’t end when I was adopted, it marks me like a scarlet letter. On the surface, I’m an Allendale. It’s the last name I’m allowed to use. But the most powerful members of my family don’t accept me. Which means that, because I’m eighteen, they could cut me out of their lives. Estranged. Exiled . The threat is so close I can smell it, like moth balls in the corner of an old attic.

That’s why I’m on driveway duty tonight. I need to secure my membership in the exclusive club as proof I’m worthy of being a full-fledged Allendale. Since the loss of my adopted mom, Celine, to cancer, the future of my life literally depends on this.

Instead of grieving in peace, I’m locked in an elitist’s game of survival worthy of a reality show. So fucked up. But I’ll manage. One thing I got from my bio mom is the ability to adapt and persevere. “Your people are human cockroaches,” my adopted brother Brad once said. It crushed eight-year-old me but barely stings now. Brad’s opinion no longer matters.

The sound of a muscle car’s motor fills the night. That’s different. Moments later, a red vintage Camaro roars into the driveway, its headlights blindingly bright.

Wow. No Mercedes? No Lexus?

My internal thoughts have a bitter edge. I should probably work on that. There are a lot of foster kids who are never adopted, and they certainly don’t end up at a university with ivy climbing its walls. While I’d never call myself lucky, I’m luckier than a lot of my former peers.

I watch, intrigued as the passenger door opens and the interior light flicks on, revealing a glimpse of a beautiful blond girl as the driver. So unexpected is the driver’s gender, as well as her purple beanie with a yellow smile emoji on its front, that I only manage to notice two things about the passenger being dropped off—blond and male—before the car door closes and the interior lights go out.

The Camaro backs out of the drive as the security guy near the front door calls out, “Password?”

“Folklore,” the newcomer responds, his deep voice lazy and amused. As if he too finds this whole set-up ridiculous.

As he nears, I hurry to turn on my phone’s flashlight function, waving it back and forth as instructed by Clare Duffy, the Briar Club member who’s evaluating my club suitability. She’s super intense and definitely the type to ask whether I did my job exactly as specified. As a senior and the membership committee chair, her recommendation will make or break me.

Footfalls approach in the darkness. I turn, allowing my phone to illuminate the footpath to the back of the house. The guy’s several feet behind but doesn’t hurry to catch up. Reining in any outward signs of annoyance, I open the unlocked back door and wait for him, basking in the heat escaping from inside.

All thoughts of the temperature vanish when the guest steps onto the brightly lit landing. He’s utterly beautiful. Bewilderingly so. Looking at him warms me up far faster than the heat pumping from the vents. Sparkling blue eyes, high cheekbones, washboard abs. Yes, washboard abs, which I’m able to admire because he’s shirtless under the wool coat that hangs open even in this frigid weather.

And it isn’t just his beauty and bare chest that are unsettling. He seems to have been in a fight. The corner of his lower lip is swollen and scraped raw, implying he got on the wrong side of a fist. A glance at his knuckles reveals his hands were thrown, too.

Swallowing past attraction and curiosity, I remind myself this is none of my business. He is none of my business. I’m just here to do a job .

“Can I get you something to drink?” I say, eyes focused on a burnished gold medallion pendant that hangs from an oxidized chain. I want to examine it more closely but don’t want to get caught staring at his chest.

“Who are you?” He scans the kitchen.“The hostess?”

As if his looks weren’t enough, he has an accent as pretty as he is. Irish, I think.

“Yes… Sort of.” It’s an accurate enough description for my job tonight, and I prefer hostess to minion. Shrugging off my coat, I set it on the back of a tall chair along the raised granite counter.

His eyes drop to my dark gray, v-neck sweater, lingering on my breasts. After a beat, he drags his gaze up to my face. “Are you playing cards?”

The brazen way he checks me out would be irritating if he were less attractive. Instead, my insides feel like marshmallows over an open flame. “No, not playing cards.”

“Who do you belong to?”

My brows rise slowly. “Belong to?” The skepticism in my voice causes his damaged lip to curl into a small smile.

He leans back against the counter, seemingly settling in. “Someone put you on driveway duty. Who might that have been?”

Driveway duty. As though he plucked the words from my head.

Pressing my lips together in distaste but managing not to frown, I say, “That would be Clare.”

“Ah.” He scrutinizes my wrists, and I know immediately he’s checking for the Briar Club bracelet I don’t have yet. “A new recruit, is it?”

Licking my lips, I nod.

He runs a hand through his hair and leans toward me. How the hell do his eyes sparkle like aquamarines? Is he a member of the fucking fae?

“What’s your name?”

“Why?” I say slowly.

“The usual reasons. Plus some others.” He winks at me.

When I fail to answer, one end of his busted lip twitches. I really want to lean in too… to taste his bloody mouth. Which just goes to show the Allendales are probably right about me. Deep down, I’m not one of them. I’m a girl who’s drawn to actual bad boys. The beautiful ones who were born cool enough to make girls want to drop their panties from a sexy look.

God, I’m spiraling. Since getting to college, I’ve been envious of girls who are free to hook up with the handsome guys we meet at parties. That would be too risky for me, since I’m not the only Allendale on campus. If I did anything that would reflect poorly, it might get back to our family.

“I’ll go first.” He presses a hand against his bare chest. “Jamie O’ Rourke.” He blinks slowly, anything but innocent.

“Sawyer.” My name’s out before I can rethink letting myself engage.

“First name Tom?” He drops his hands, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “As a lad, I enjoyed your book.”

Giving in to his charm, a small smile emerges. “Sawyer is my first name.”

“Tell me, Sawyer, last name first, why do you smell like chlorine?”

“Do I?” After a beat, my surprise gives way to understanding. “It’s hair dye. I was trying to even out my color.” I tug on the ends of my processed hair, embarrassed at being called out on my moment of box-dye rebellion.

“Hmm.” Reaching out, his fingertip touches a dark magenta strand that hangs over my ear. “You look like a cranberry.”

I roll my eyes, embarrassment giving way to amusement. “Yes, I know.”

“You thought the death of Delores left an opening for you?”

“The death of who?” I swallow hard and wonder how I failed to notice this guy on campus.

“Ah. Too American to know.” His hand drops, and he takes a step back.

The distance allows me to breathe easier, but his dismissive tone hits one of my worst triggers.

“ You look like you’re auditioning for a Fight Club reboot. Bloody. No shirt.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Too bad you’re not pretty enough to play the Brad Pitt character.”

A smirk emerges and warms me to my toes. “I’m not, no. Curse of my life being born so unattractive.”

I love that he’s so easygoing about being teased. My family is so stuffy. Sarcasm is completely wasted on them.

“Have any more constructive criticism you’d like to share?” The challenge in his eyes makes me want to slam my palms against his chest to shove him away, or grab his lapels to pull him closer.

I purse my lips into a fish pout. “How long have you got?”

His laughter raises gooseflesh on my arms. I love the sound of it so much.

“Look at you trying to rub the shine off me.” He rests a palm over his heart, feigning that I’ve wounded him. “You sure you’re not Irish? That’s our way with each other, you know.”

I smile but don’t have a chance to respond because Clare Duffy enters the kitchen with a sharp green-eyed gaze. Her red hair is thin and stick-straight. I bet it dries in five minutes, which is something mine could never do.

“Jamie, you finally made it.”

“I did, yeah.” He turns in her direction, causing the gold pendant to thump against his chest. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to wear jewelry, but the dark chain does have a “fuck off” vibe that suits his overall lawlessness. “How are you, Clare?”

Clare’s got the body of a coffee stir and a personality to match, complete with traces of bitterness. She’s not afraid to spar over politics, history, or religion, no matter who’s around. The Allendales would be appalled. But Clare has her acceptance to the country’s top law schools. She can afford to be smug. I admire her accomplishments and the flashes of her “zero fucks given” attitude. She’s not a blue-blooded GU legacy girl. Instead, she’s proving what can be achieved by someone who’s smart, driven and fearlessly assertive.

Turning her attention to me, Clare says, “Allendale, you’re dismissed for the night.”

“Hold on,” Jamie says, accepting the way Clare leans in to give him a kiss on the cheek. “She’s serving drinks, and I need one.”

The fact that he’s making excuses for me to stay causes my skin to tingle with anticipation.

“Jesus, James, you’re freezing,” Clare says, ignoring what he said. Instead, her hand slides down his side, touching his bare skin until he shifts out of reach. Her hand drops, but her expression is unchanged. She’s not one to buckle under an awkward moment. “If you already lost your shirt tonight, it doesn’t bode well for your getting into the game.” She arches a brow. “You know the buy-in is ten grand, right?”

I nearly choke. Ten thousand dollars isn’t a lot of money for most Granthorpe families, but as someone who only gets 250 dollars per month for incidentals, it feels like an insane amount to use to play a game.

“I’ll manage,” he says in a low voice. His eyes return to me. “I’ll have a whiskey. Bushmills, if you’ve got it.”

I start to turn. “I’ll check.”

“No Bushmills,” Clare interjects, her voice growing haughty. “Only Jameson’s. But the Jameson’s is top shelf, so I suppose you’ll manage there, too.” Her smirk is plenty sly as she links an arm around his to guide him toward the poker table.

A spark of jealousy burns through my chest, but I tamp it down. It’s actually a good thing Clare came out and made her interest in Jamie O’Rourke evident. He’s clearly wild and a world-class flirt… which is dangerous. Because, though I would never go out with a bad boy, nothing turns me on more. It’s some kind of genetic flaw in my low-rent DNA.

Exhaling when they disappear into the sitting room, I try to regroup. The best thing I can do is leave as soon as I drop off the last round of drinks.

I won’t interrupt the game for last call. I know what all five—now six—of the players are drinking. I mix the cocktails and carry a tray into the room. Switching out empty glasses, I make my way around the table.

The game’s banker counts the one-hundred-dollar bills Jamie’s given him and then sets stacks of chips on my tray for me to deliver. When I set the chips in front of Jamie, he lifts one and lets it ride over the backs of his scuffed knuckles as he plays with it. After I set his whiskey down, he passes me the chip.

“No tips,” Clare says, reaching over with the intent of snagging the plastic disc.

Before her hand reaches mine, though, Jamie’s fist closes around it, trapping the chip inside. And trapping my hand in his. The tightness of his grip conjures an irresistible ache inside me. This is the kind of guy who pins a woman down and makes her like it.

“No tips?” Jamie scoffs. “It’s America. Your lot tips for someone saying good morning.” He turns toward me, holding me prisoner with his attention as though he’s some kind of hypnotist. “Keep it, Cranberry Sauce. For waiting in the cold for me.”

His calling me by a nickname feels intimate. The way he’s looking at me is, too. My lips part, and for a moment, I’m transfixed, my mind as much his captive as my hand. I should try to jerk free. But I don’t want to.

What is happening? Between my legs I’m burning as though someone’s lit a torch in my groin. Heat creeps upward, and I’m afraid his effect on me will show on my face.

“Jesus, James. What the hell?” Clare’s voice snaps like a whip. “Let go of my terrified intern.”

Jamie’s eyes never shift from my face to Clare’s. “Terrified, is it? Really?”

“No,” I say, feigning casualness.

Yet, Clare’s rebuke reminds me I should object to his grabbing my hand and keeping it imprisoned without permission. Even when I do pull my arm back, it doesn’t free me because Jamie’s grip tightens. Which sends a stab of lust through me the likes of which I’ve never felt before. I want more of this. Of him .

When Jamie finally releases my fingers, I force myself to set the hundred-dollar chip carefully onto one of his stacks.

“No tips,” I say firmly, my heart jack-hammering against my ribs like I’ve run a marathon. “Have a good night.”

“You as well.” Undaunted by my refusal to keep his tip, he smiles at me before I hustle toward the door.

When I look back, it’s not to get one last look at James O’Rourke’s stunning face. The person whose expression I want to see is Clare Duffy’s. And I do.

If looks could kill, I’d be pulseless on the floor.

Fuck.

I don’t think she’d try to sink my application on the basis of the last few minutes. Not after I’ve spent five weeks as her personal assistant, hanging on her every word and running all her errands. The past few days, she even started to open up and offer advice. I was sure she planned to recommend me.

The memory of Jamie’s strong fingers imprisoning mine raises all sorts of intriguing feelings. They’re almost enough to make me not care whether Clare’s angry.

Then, as I reach the front door, the reality of my situation comes roaring back. Despite the appeal of his “I’ll fuck you senseless” vibe, gorgeous rebel Jamie O’Rourke is completely wrong for me.

There is no way I’ll let him, or any guy, get in the way of my entry into the Briar Club. No doubt he’d be an awesome one night stand. But a one night stand isn’t worth sabotaging the rest of my life over.