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...
"I promise to love your soul in all seasons. When it gets cold, I will be your warmth. When it gets warm, I will be your shadow. When it gets too loud, you can bury yourself in my silence. When it gets too dark, I will hold your hand and never let go. Oh, when I love you, I will love you with all my soul."
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If the universe ever decided to overdose on pink glitter and spring hormones, it would look exactly like this street. A windstorm of cherry blossoms gone rogue, petals whirling through the air like someone exploded a cotton-candy bomb.
And right in the middle of it, me—half-frozen, half-fuming, wearing my ballet leotard like I'd been kidnapped straight from rehearsal by a lunatic with nice hair.
Note to self—never, ever answer Aadam Alaric Callahan when he's in one of his manic, bored-out-of-his-brain moods.
Because this absolute moron had been assaulting my phone for three days straight—while I was neck deep in ballet rehearsals—sending voice notes like a sad, puppy-on-meth:
"Renna, you're killing me here. Come throw yourself at me, you daft cow." "I can't function, I need your face, your fucking lips, come rescue me from myself." "Are you seriously letting me rot while you spin with that fucker in tights? Heartless bitch." "Renna, you're cruel, I swear, you're a fucking demon in disguise."
So yeah, I caved. Because I missed him too, because I'm stupid, because apparently my willpower melts the moment he says my name in that gravel-soaked voice.
I thought when he said come over, it meant in the lovey-dovey coupley sense. You know, me draped over him on his bed, legs tangled like a mess of yarn, his hands roaming, lips claiming my neck, cheeky spanks to make me whine, dragging me right to the edge where I'd scream and beg and he'd just grin like a bastard who feeds on me losing control.
But nooooo. My "reward" was this lovely outdoor torture session: me freezing my arse off in my tutu, and him looking smug about it.
He eyed me sideways, one hand jammed in his jacket pocket, the other fidgeting with his hoodie string like a menace. "You realise," he said, "this looks like I kidnapped a runaway ballerina."
I didn't even glance at him. "You'd have to work out to kidnap me."
"That's rich coming from someone dressed like a wedding cupcake."
"Better a cupcake than a sneezy raccoon."
"Oi," he protested, rubbing his nose. "It's called seasonal allergies. Some of us have delicate sinuses."
