Chapter 2

2

The owner laughed awkwardly. "Well, you better find someone soon, Ethan. Your parents are worried."

"Don't worry, I have a girlfriend," Ethan said slowly. "Just haven't decided which one to bring home yet."

The owner just stared. Such a ridiculous statement, but coming from Ethan, it almost sounded plausible.

The store fell quiet. I figured he'd left, so I reached for the last honeydew melon. A hand, long-fingered and familiar, snatched it first.

"Sorry, I got it first," a lazy voice said above me. He said sorry, but didn't sound sorry at all. "But I might consider letting you have it. If you turn around."

My history with Ethan went back twelve years. My dad and I moved from our small town to the city. He and Ethan's dad were army buddies. My dad, however, wasn't as successful after leaving the service. Driving a bus barely covered our expenses. He insisted on the move for my education, so I could have a shot at college. City rent was brutal, and we only managed thanks to the Evans, who let us rent the small house next door.

Mr. and Mrs. Evans were angels. With my dad always on the road, I practically lived at their place, eating dinner with them and walking to school with Ethan. He hated it. His friends were all either rich or popular, and I was the awkward, chubby girl from the sticks. My constant tagging along embarrassed him. He once ditched me at an amusement park, leaving me terrified and nearly lost. He got a serious whooping for that one, and to this day he still has a scar on his butt from it. It only made him resent me more, fueling his pranks.

But I was clueless. I thought Ethan was different from the boys back home. He was so good-looking, with that perfect, sun-kissed skin. He glowed when he smiled. No matter how he treated me, I trailed after him like a lost puppy. That blind adoration morphed into a full-blown crush by the time high school rolled around. Looking back, Ethan made his dislike for me crystal clear. One spring, when the school grounds were in bloom, his friends asked what his favorite flower was. He smirked and said, "Don't have a favorite, just a least favorite. Gardenias. Way too sweet and cloying." Then he'd glanced at me. My name is Olivia, but everyone calls me Liv. Short for Gardenia. He said it to hurt me.