“Suze.” Paul had taken his hand down from his face, so that I could see that his eye was not, as I had hoped, dangling out of its socket. It just looked red. “At least let me drive you home.”

“No, thank you,” I called to him, pausing to slip on my Jimmy Choos. “I prefer to walk.”

“Suze,” Paul said. “It’s like five miles from here to your house.”

“Never speak to me again, please,” I said, and started walking, hoping he wouldn’t try to follow me. Because of course if he did, and attempted to kiss me again, there was a very good chance I would kiss him back. I knew that now. Knew it only too well.

He didn’t follow me. I made it down his driveway and out onto the oceanfront road—imaginatively named Scenic Drive—with what was left of my self-esteem still more or less intact. It wasn’t until I was out of sight of Paul’s house that I yanked off my shoes and said what I’d wanted to say the whole time I’d been striding, with as much hauteur as I could, away from him. Which was, “Ouch, ouch, ouch!”

Stupid shoes. My toes were in shreds. No way could I walk in the torturous mules. I thought about flinging them into the ocean, which would have been easy considering it was below me.

On the other hand, the shoes were six hundred bucks, retail. Granted I had gotten them for a fraction of that, but still. The shopaholic in me would not allow so rash a move.

So, holding my shoes in my hand, I began to mince my way down the road barefoot, keeping a sharp eye out for bits of glass and any poison oak that might be growing alongside the street.

Paul had been right about one thing: it was a five-mile walk from his house to mine. Worse, it was about a mile walk from his house to the first commercial structure at which I might reasonably expect to find a pay phone where I could start calling around to see if I could get someone to pick me up. I could, I supposed, have gone up to one of the huge houses belonging to Paul’s neighbors, rung the bell, and asked if I could use their phone. But how embarrassing would that be? No, a pay phone. That was all I needed. And I’d find one, soon enough.

There was only one real flaw in my plan, and that was the weather. Oh, don’t get me wrong. It was a beautiful September day. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

That was the problem. The sun was beating down mercilessly upon Scenic Drive. It had to have been ninety degrees at least—even though the cool breeze from the sea didn’t make it seem uncomfortable. But the pavement beneath my bare feet wasn’t affected by the breeze. The road, which had seemed comfortably warm beneath the soles of my feet when I’d first come barreling out of Paul’s cold, cold house, was actually extremely hot. Burning hot. Like fry-an-egg-on-it hot.

There wasn’t anything I could do about it, of course. I couldn’t put my shoes back on. My blisters hurt more than the soles of my feet. Maybe if a car had gone by, I’d have tried to flag it down—but probably not. I was too embarrassed by my predicament, really, to have to explain it to a total stranger. Besides, given my luck, I’d probably manage to flag down a serial killer and find myself out of the frying pan—literally—and smack in the middle of the fire.

No. I kept walking, cursing myself and my stupidity. How could I have been so dumb as to have agreed to go to Paul Slater’s house? True, the stuff he’d showed me about the shifters had been interesting. And that thing about soul transference…if there really was such a thing. I didn’t even want to let myself think about what that might mean. To put a soul in someone else’s body.

Shifting, I said to myself. Concentrate on the whole shifting thing. Better that, of course, than on the soul transference thing…or worse, the even more unpleasant topic of how I could be so carried away by the kisses of someone other than the guy I happened to be in love with.

Or was it just that, after Jesse’s seeming rejection, I was simply relieved to find that I was attractive to somebody…even somebody whom I did not particularly like? Because I did not like Paul Slater. I did not. I think the fact that I had been having bad dreams about him for the past few weeks was proof enough of that…no matter how fast my traitorous heart might beat when his lips were pressed against mine.

It felt good, as I walked, to concentrate on this instead of my extremely sore feet. It was slow going, walking down Scenic Drive without any protection from the shards of gravel and, of course, the hot pavement beneath my soles. Of course, in a way I felt that the pain was punishment for my very bad behavior. True, Paul had lured me to his house with promises that he would reveal some information I had very badly wanted. But I ought to have resisted just the same, knowing that someone like Paul would have to have a hidden agenda.

And that that agenda would most likely involve my mouth.

What galled me was that for a minute or so back there, I hadn’t cared. Really. I’d liked it, even. Bad Suze. Very bad Suze.

Oh, God. I was in trouble.

Then, finally, after about half an hour of painful mincing, I saw the most beautiful sight in the world: a seaside café. I hurried toward it—well, as fast as I could on feet that felt as if they had been hacked off at the ankle—mentally ticking off who I could safely call when I got there. My mom? Never. She’d ask too many questions and probably kill me besides for agreeing to go to the house of a boy she’d never met. Jake? No. Again, he’d ask too many questions. Brad? No, he would just as soon leave me stranded, as he happened to hate my guts. Adam?

It was going to have to be Adam. He was the only person I knew who would not only happily drive out to get me but who would relish his role as rescuer…not to mention also greatly enjoy hearing about how Paul had sexually harassed me without afterward desiring to beat Paul into a bloody pulp. Adam would have the sense to know that Paul Slater could kick his ass any day of the week. I would not mention to Adam, of course, the part where I’d sexually harassed Paul right back.

The Sea Mist Café—that was the restaurant I was limping toward—was an upscale restaurant with outdoor seating and valet parking. It was too late for lunch and too early for it to be serving dinner, so there were no diners there, just the wait staff, setting up for the supper rush. As I came hobbling up, a waiter was just writing the specials on the chalkboard by the door.

“Hey,” I said to him in my brightest, least look-at-me-I-am-a-victim voice.

The waiter glanced at me. If he noticed my disheveled, shoeless appearance, he did not comment upon it. He turned back to his chalkboard.