ONCE AGAIN, MY  most heartfelt thanks goes to you, my readers, for taking the twisted journey to self-discovery with my poor, tormented characters. And to all the fabulous bloggers who have fallen in love with this series and helped spread the word, I am forever in your debt. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Thanks to my family, who has been an endless source of support and encouragement. My husband, Steven, is a rare gem. When we met in the basement of his fraternity house all those years ago, I knew he was hot, but I never imagined there was a heart of gold beating beneath that beautiful exterior. This isn’t the first book I’ve dedicated to him, and it won’t be the last. Love you.

I have been blessed with the most incredible group of publishing professionals in my corner. My omnipotent über-agent, Suzie Townsend, is a bona fide rock star. Amanda Bergeron is one of the kindest, most patient people I have ever met, and the fact that she’s my editor has made this process (even the hard parts) a joy. And everyone behind the scenes at New Leaf Literary and HarperCollins have made everything A Little Too easy for me, so that I can focus on my writing. I owe them all a bigger thanks than I can ever deliver.

To my amazing Harper NA sisters, Jay Crownover, Cora Carmack, and Jennifer L. Armentrout, thanks for paving the way, ladies, and for all your support!

And, once again, because my muse is a wannabe rock star, I need to send a shout-out to the musical inspiration for this book. My A Little Too heroes are all so different, and so is their musical embodiment. With his cowboy boots and warm-honey drawl, Harrison was primarily inspired by Brett Eldredge’s “Don’t Ya.” Sam grows a lot in this story, and that evolution is most embodied by Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger.” And all things Bruno Mars are the underlying theme of the entire book.

A COOL APRIL drizzle pricks my face as I stand in the poorly lit parking lot of the Fremont Pharmacy with my roll-away suitcase. I’m picking at my cuticle and trying to figure out how everything I touch lately seems to turn to shit, when Jonathan’s black van rolls up to the curb. He quirks a pierced eyebrow at me in the rearview mirror as I wrestle my suitcase into the back next to Kevin’s drums and slam the door. I climb into the passenger seat and yank my seat belt. It yanks back and I growl in frustration as I fling it at the window.

“I did not say ‘fuck you’ to that lady! I said thank you.” I toss my hands in the air. “She was there to buy hearing aid batteries and they’re taking her word over mine!”

Smoke curls up from the tip of the cigarette pinched between his thumb and finger as he takes a drag and drops the van into gear. “The customer’s always right.”

I pull the seat belt more slowly and click it, then thunk my head into the headrest a few times. “Just put a big red stamp on my forehead. ‘Samantha West: Failure at life.’ Washed up at twenty-one.”

His tongue pokes at the labret through the corner of his lower lip as he fights a smile. “You’re not really a failure at life. Just most aspects of it.”

I drop my head against the headrest as he pulls away from the curb. “Thank you very little, Jonathan. You sound like my mother.”

“So . . . you called, I came. What now?” he asks, flicking a glance my direction as he weaves through city traffic toward the highway.

From the way his tousled dark hair is flat on one side, I know I probably woke him up with that call. “I was hoping I could crash with you till I figure everything out?”

I don’t add that might take a while. Since my parents threw me out last month, I’ve had this sinking feeling that maybe they’re right. Maybe I am a total fuck-up who will never amount to anything. I just never thought, after a lifetime of Mom micromanaging my very existence, she’d give up on me so easy.

I’ve been staying at my best friend Katie’s since then. It was okay while she was home on break, but when she left to go back to school for spring quarter, it got weird. For the last few weeks her parents have been dropping less-than-subtle hints that it might be time to go, which all came to a head yesterday. I left a load of laundry in the dryer, and when I remembered to check it, it was gone. I found it folded neatly into my suitcase in the guest room with a note inviting me to leave.

Jonathan’s eyes scrunch. “Listen, Sam. You know if it was just up to me you’d be in, but Kevin has been kind of pissed that you’ve crashed there so much without paying rent.”

Jonathan is front man for a local indie band, Hell’s Gate, and I met him almost a year ago when Katie took me out to help me forget about my cheating boyfriend. It worked. Jonathan always brings a groupie home from his gigs, and the night we met, that groupie was me. But we have an understanding now.

It’s been a party pretty much every night since then, though, either after hours at whatever bar he’s playing or at his place in Oakland after a gig—which is really why I flunked out of school. It’s hard to haul your ass out of bed for eight o’clock class when you just fell into it at four. Especially when said bed is at Jonathan’s apartment in Oakland, which is over an hour from school.

Kevin is Jonathan’s drummer and apartment mate—and the one guy in the group who’s never liked me. Probably because he made a play and I shut him down.

“I sleep in your room. It’s not like I take up space or anything.”

He takes a drag off his cigarette and flicks the butt out the window as he exhales. “Yeah . . . about that. You remember Ginger?”

“Yeah . . . ?” She’s a groupie who started showing up at our after-hours’ parties about a month ago.

“We’re kind of together, so . . .”

“No way!” I crack a smile. “You are not becoming a one woman man!”

He shrugs as he takes the ramp onto the highway. “For now.”

I shove his shoulder. “Hearts are breaking all over northern California.”

When I first saw Jonathan onstage, I thought he was gay. I mean, it was San Francisco, and he was just so pretty. Not only does he have gauges in his ears and jewelry all over his face (and other places, I discovered), but incredible blue eyes and ink on almost every square inch of skin. I found out later that night that he was definitely not gay, but as far as I know, he’s never brought home the same girl twice.

“So, what’s your general plan?” he asks. “I mean beyond the crashing at my place phase?”

“I need a job,” I answer, banging my head against the headrest again.

He glances at me and pokes at his labret with his tongue. “If you’re serious, I know Ben is looking for someone.”

“Ben? At Benny’s?”

Benny’s is a club in San Francisco where Jonathan sometimes fills in for the DJ, Big Pete.

He nods and flicks a glance my way as he weaves through traffic. “One of his girls is knocked up. He’s looking for someone new. You’re definitely qualified,” he says, his gaze flickering over my body. “It’s good money.”

“Benny’s?” I think about that and a terrified little thrill moves through me. “I’ve never danced like that before. I wouldn’t even know what to do.”

“You have the moves. The guys can’t keep their eyes off you when you’re on the floor at my shows.”

“But it’s a strip club, right?” My stomach tightens at the thought of dancing in a g-string in front of a roomful of horny men. And if Mom ever found out, it would totally prove to her what a fuck-up I am. “I don’t think I could do it.”