I’d had the pleasure of growing up next to two men, two strong men who taught me everything there is to know about the gender: they were wild, violent, and real time-suckers. I had no place for them.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, Junsu.” I blew out air as we waltzed through the narrow hallway of the archery club. It was filled with pictures of past and current archers who’d brought pride and medals to this club. I inhaled the addictive scent of sweat, leather equipment, and faint powder. “But whoever it is, he is no one to me.” I stopped, scratching above my eyebrow as I tried to make sense of this. “Maybe it’s Dorian Sanchez. He went to school with me and has been begging me to talk to my mom about giving him a job.”

Dorian was blond and tall-ish, the only person in my class other than me not to secure entrance to a good college. He’d bought a food truck senior year and sold it before graduation, so I knew he needed money.

Yup. It had to be Dorian.

“Well…” Junsu gestured with his open palm toward the front door. “The boy is loitering outside. I shall be most appreciative if he does not do that again. This is not a Tinder.” He spat out the word.

Stifling a chuckle by biting my lower lip, I nodded seriously. “I’ll try to invite all my hookups straight home in the future.”

“Not funny,” he said sternly, his eyes widening.

“Yes, it is.” I breezed toward the entrance, a spring in my step as I twisted my head to wink at my Olympic trainer. “Because we both know it’s bull—”

“No cussing!” He waved his index at me. “Is right shoulder still bothersome?”

“Yes.” I shrugged. “It’s kind of killing me, actually.”

My right shoulder had been bothering me for weeks, but every time I visited my physical therapist, I pretended it was okay so he’d let me train. Junsu was very strict about missing practice time, and whenever I complained, he gave me a soldier-through-it look.

My trainer nodded. “It is natural. Tomorrow, Sailor.”

“Tomorrow.”

I poured myself toward the parking lot, making my way to my sensible white Golf GTI. Boston was insufferably hot in the summer, the dark colonial and federalist buildings always a few degrees away from melting into a puddle on the concrete. The archery club was located on a quiet side street by the West End, far enough from my parents’ apartment downtown that the congested daily commute cost me fifty minutes to and from.

I discarded my equipment in the trunk and pushed my AirPods into my ears. I was humming “Kill and Run” by Sia when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I turned around, surprised, even though Junsu had given me a heads-up. An unfamiliar face looked back at mine.

A stunning, miss-a-beat-or-five face, to be exact.

Definitely not Dorian Sanchez.

“Sailor Brennan?” the man—not boy—asked flatly, his eyes raking me head to toe like I was a call girl he’d just opened his door for and discovered was not up to his standards.

I felt my body stiffening in defense and shook my head, ridding myself of the weird hold his looks had on me.

“Yeah.” I reared my head back so I could take more of him in, and also because I couldn’t tell if the need to head-butt him would arise. This guy was a complete stranger, after all. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Hunter Fitzpatrick.” He pointed at himself, his smirk a perfect, well-practiced half-moon with the right amount of teeth-to-dimple ratio.

I blinked at him, waiting for further explanation. “And…?” I frowned when it became obvious his statement was also meant to serve as some sort of clarification.

His eyes inched wider in surprise, but he soon arranged his features back into a flaccid expression and cleared his throat.

“Can we talk somewhere?”

“We are talking somewhere.” I took my AirPods out, dropping them into my front pocket. “Right here. And if you don’t tell me what it’s about, I’m afraid I’ll have to turn around, get into my car, and drive away.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to block your way out of here, if you do that.” He dragged his fingers through his tresses, each golden hair submitting to the movement, like a gust of wind swiping a wheat field.

Spoiled brat. I stared at him with a mixture of irritation and confusion.

“Then,” I said carefully, “I’m afraid I’ll have to run you over. So let’s spare you the hospital visit and me the inconvenience. Can you tell me why you’re here? You’re getting me in trouble.”

“What the fuck?”

“My trainer thought you were a hookup or something.”

“JFC, back it up all the way.” He snorted a lewd laugh, actually abbreviating Jesus effing Christ. He shot another glance at my nonexistent breasts.

I wore a snug, long-sleeved shirt and yoga pants, paired with an old pair of sneakers I probably should have replaced three years ago. Despite my best efforts, I felt myself blushing at his dismissal. I knew what I looked like, and I wasn’t a perfect ten. I was scrawny, with red, tangled hair cascading all the way down to my butt, and a dusting of freckles everywhere the sun touched. On a scale of one to ten, I was a six on a generous day. Hunter was a perfect million.

“I wanted to run an idea by you.” He leaned a hip over the open trunk of my car.

Everything about him was lazy and indulgent. He was the opposite of my brother and dad. He loved himself and was hyperaware of his good looks. It turned me off.

Not that I was turned on in the first place.

“About?” I shifted from foot to foot. My nerves were tattered, frayed at the seams. Boys never spoke to me, and when they did, they didn’t look like him.

“Us.”

“You just said there is no us. And I’d like to reinforce that statement.” I yanked my car keys from my duffel bag, slammed the trunk shut, and rounded my car. He tailed me, his movements tiger-smooth, especially for a guy his size. He was very tall and very lean, and—most annoying of all—smelled very, very nice. A mixture of clean laundry, cinnamon, and corrupted male.

“Whoa, hold the phone. You really don’t have any idea who I am?” He touched my shoulder to stop me from entering the car as I opened the driver’s door.

I looked at his hand with an arched brow. He withdrew it immediately.

“No touching,” I said.

“’Kay. So? You don’t?” He searched my face, his brows leveling with his hairline.

I shook my head. “Not even the faintest clue. My condolences to your ego.”

“H-u-n-t-e-r F-i-t-z-p-a-t-r-i-c-k,” he drawled slowly, treating me no different than a first grader practicing her letters. “You know, of Royal Pipelines.”

“If this is a sexual innuendo, I am going to have to knee you in the balls,” I said matter-of-factly. I did not, however, feel half as calm as I pretended to be. His mere presence rattled something deep in my stomach, and I felt nauseous with excitement.

“Don’t objectify me, lady.” He ripped a VLTN beanie from the back pocket of his designer jeans, slapping it on his head and covering his eyes with a sulk.

That thing cost four hundred bucks. I knew because I’d gotten something similar for Belle’s birthday. But that was a joint gift where her sister, parents, and cousin had also chipped in. Who on Earth was this guy?

“I come from the fourth richest family in the country.” He pouted, peeking through the edge of the beanie now, looking ridiculously yet adorably infantile.

“Good for you. Are there any more meaningless details about your life you’d like to share before I depart? Favorite color? Maybe the age when you lost your first baby tooth?” I hmm-ed.

But now that he’d said his name again, the penny dropped, and I understood why he was surprised I didn’t recognize him—mainly because everybody else in this city did.

Hunter Fitzpatrick was unfairly, undeniably, irrefutably stunning. Shockingly so. In a way that made me resent him simply because men that handsome aren’t trustworthy.

Let me amend—men in general aren’t trustworthy. The pretty ones were extra mean, though. That was a lesson I’d learned in high school that wasn’t in the syllabus.

Rumor around Boston was, Hunter’s parents had sent him to Todos Santos, California, four years ago after he got kicked out of a British school, hoping to clean up his act by settling him with his Bible-studying uncle and aunt, or at the very least keep him away from the East Coast press. The latter hounded the Fitzpatrick family, and Hunter specifically, seeing as he had the notable ability to act like an idiot. In fact, I remembered one particular headline referring to him as “The Great Ghastly,” after one of his pool parties back west ended up with two people breaking their limbs trying to jump from the roof into his pool.