Renna Rose Lancaster is the girl people stare at like she belongs in a glass case, a life airbrushed into unattainable perfection.
But Renna knows her life is nothing but a golden prison coated in pretty lies that keep her muted and small.
Her day...
"He wasn't mine and I wasn't his. But he was so good at making me feel like we belonged to each other."
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There were exactly nine butterflies in my stomach right now. No, wait... ten. And one of them had abs. I swear it just flexed.
Aadam's fingers were pulling at the sleeves of his dark windbreaker, unzipping it one-handed while muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a threat to the entire male species. Or maybe the universe. Either way, he looked irritated, which should've worried me, but all I could do was stare at him.
Because he was kneeling. In front of me. Looping the sleeves of his jacket around my waist with a scowl so sharp, I swear the air had cut tension marks through it.
"You've gone absolutely mad wearing this," he grumbled, cinching the knot with a frustrated tug, "You think this is weather appropriate? One gust on the drop tower and every bloke within five miles is gonna get a front-row view of your knickers."
Oh god. He's mad. Why does him being mad make me feel like I've swallowed a whole field of sunflowers?
"It's just a skirt," I mumbled, the top of my ears heating up.
Aadam tilted his head up, still crouched, the golden sunlight catching the mess of curls that fell into his lashes. And then his eyes dragged slowly down the length of my bare legs, up to where the ruffled hem of the floral mini skirt had dared to flutter in the morning breeze.
"It's not a skirt," he said. "It's fabric on a suicide mission. It's trying to be scandalous, and I'm not letting it."
Okay. First of all? Rude. Second of all? I've never felt more alive in my entire existence.
I bit down on my lip to stop the grin from forming, but it was no use. I liked it. I liked that he was all flustered. All panicky and territorial like I was some endangered species he had to supervise personally.
"Mama said it was cute..." I mumbled, tugging the sweetheart neckline down a millimetre—not a lot. Just a smidge to make him twitch.
He rubbed the side of his thumb across his bottom lip and muttered, "Of course she did. Ava's been trying to kill me since you were born."
"She said I looked..." I twirled a loose curl of mine around my finger, voice syrupy, "deliciously flirty."
His nostrils flared.
I casually fingered the tiny ruffle at my waistline. "You agree?"
Aadam stood up straighter, brushed his palms down his jeans like he was trying not to throw me over his shoulder and throw me in a bin.
"You look like an overpriced dessert in a French window." His voice dropped unimpressed. "And I hate dessert."
