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so slyly that I find myself doubting what had passed between us. He couldn’t have meant it in a positive way. I’d looked like hell, and he was doing some sneering, judgmental thing with his expression. He’s smiling now, but nothing he’s said feels like a true compliment.
    If I were as talented with people as I am with the piano, I’d have come up with the perfect comeback, hitting that sweet spot between flirty and biting.
    Instead I keep it simple.
    “You’re an asshole.”
    “Keep your opinion,” he says. “A word of advice? Next time, turn left out of the rehearsal rooms. Setting off emergency alarms can get a little girl in trouble, especially if someone tattles. We wouldn’t want that.”
    Oh, shit. Shit.
    “ Little girl? I’m twenty-one.”
    He looks me up and down again with an expression akin to pain or longing, as if he’s lost huge chunks of his childhood too. But the shift is brief. He clamps it down. His smug, don’t give a damn expression takes over. “Time doesn’t make a person. Experience does.”
    “Then consider me about eighty years old, and don’t ever call me ‘little’again.”
    “How about ‘sugar’? You’ve had a few hours to let that one sink in. Have you decided if it’s off limits?” He hesitates with a new, unnerving curiosity in his gaze. Then he shrugs, back to acting as if I’m the least important creature on the planet. “Forget it.”
    He turns his back to me.
    Just like that, he yanks his attention away—the attention I’d found so unnerving but now find myself craving.
    That’s when Mr. Stranger reaches back and takes my hand. In my fantasy, that would’ve been what I spent the whole evening working up to. Just touching him. Instead he makes the moves and I’m running to keep up. I can only hope my stamina holds out.
    His hand is cool and smooth and makes the disorientation totally worthwhile. His fingers are even longer than mine. My hand in his makes me feel feminine and small, as if my troubles aren’t all mine anymore. How can anyone do that?
    The unbelievably hot, chocolate haired god of a man pulls me through the throngs and into the club . . . then lets go. He casually returns his hands to his pockets. “All right, I got you in. Now stop following me. If I want you, sugar, I’ll come find you.”
    “You’re an arrogant asshole.”
    “Yeah.” His eyes are so very blue. They reflect the club’s disorienting flash and dance of lights, gleaming, like I’m watching a kaleidoscope. “As for me coming to find you . . . you can’t wait to see if I do.”
    “You think so?”
    “Because now I’ve put the idea out there. You’ll be looking for me all night.”
    I swallow. He could have any girl in this club, but he’s zeroing in on me. “Why me?”
    Did I say that out loud?
    “You’re dressed to blend in, not stand out. But at a nightclub, natural stands out. Does that make you plain or . . . intriguing? I’m hoping for mystery, Miss Fire Drill.” He grins, and I want to claw his beautiful eyes out. “Or maybe to see how your lips look when you’re not pissed off.”
    “Then don’t piss me off.”
    His grin widens, revealing perfect teeth. A lot about him warrants the word “perfect,” including a perfect movie star exit. He slides into a crowd large enough to field two opposing football teams and a marching band. I’m speechless. No one could expect otherwise. I become a tree or a part of the wall or a complete idiot, because I can’t move. I watch his bright white shirt until I can’t see him anymore.
    His words are still ringing in my head.
    You’ll be looking for me all night.
    My pulse is through the roof. My stomach is fluttery and won’t settle. I’m curious, angry, and mortified . . . because I know he’s right.

 Four 
    D uring my trip to Never-Never Land, where a handsome stranger alternately bickers and flirts with me, the jazz band finishes its set. The loud, dissonant whir of the crowd is