But she’s here. I can’t not look for her. Not when I know she could be within arm’s reach.
That’s too much to ask of anyone.
And we never promised we wouldn’t look each other up on Facebook. We simply said we wouldn’t communicate on social media. For all I know she’s searched for me. She could be looking for me right now, knowing what band I belong to and that this is our event. Maybe that’s why she’s here.
Fuck it. I tap her name and stand frozen as her profile comes up.
And then I see her.
Her picture appears, my stomach drops, and I stop breathing.
Christ.
Slender shoulders under long, light brown hair. Heart-shaped face with full pink lips and a daring look in her bright blue eyes. Glowing skin and a beautiful body.
From what I can see, anyway.
I let my head fall back and draw in a breath. Fuck you, Ryen Trevarrow.
She lied to me.
Well, she didn’t lie exactly, but I damn well got the impression from her letters she didn’t look like that.
I’d pictured a geek in glasses with purple streaks in her hair dressed in a Star Wars T-shirt.
I look back down at her picture, my eyes falling down her back where parts of her skin peeks through the design of her sexy shirt as she looks over her shoulder at the camera. My body warms, and I quickly scan her profile, looking for some clue—any clue—that it’s not her.
Please don’t let it be. Please just be sweet, socially awkward, shy, and everything I’ve loved for seven years. Don’t complicate it by being hot.
But it’s all there. Every clue confirming that it’s Ryen. My Ryen.
The check-in at Gallo’s, her favorite pizza place, the songs she’s listening to, the movies she’s watching, and everything posted from her latest version iPhone. Her most favorite possession in the world.
Shit.
I turn off Dane’s iPad and start weaving around people as I slip through the crowd. The heaters warm the frigid air, and I pass more fire pits, smelling the roasted marshmallows. Music blares from the speakers all around, and I flex my jaw, trying to calm my heart.
I walk up to the bar and set the iPad down, turning and crossing my arms over my chest. Just stay put. If she’s here to see me, she’ll find me. If not, then… What? I’ll just let it go?
“Hi.”
I dart my eyes up, my heart plummeting into my stomach. The fountain girl from the video stands in front of me, a few feet away.
And next to her…
My eyes lock on Ryen, and I know her friend just spoke, but I don’t care. Ryen stands quietly at her side, eyes slightly thinned, looking at me hesitantly.
Her hair is long and straight—not curled like the Facebook photo—and she’s wearing a black, off-the-shoulder sweater and skinny jeans that are torn to near shreds. I can see bits of her thighs.
Ryen. My Ryen. I tighten my fists under my arms, my muscles tensing.
She isn’t saying anything. Does she know who I am?
I hear her friend clear her throat, and I blink, dragging my eyes over to her and finally answering. “Hi.”
Fountain girl cocks her head at me. “So, I need a kiss,” she says matter-of-factly.
I breathe shallow, so aware of Ryen it hurts.