“No worries,” he replied with a lift of his shoulder.

“‘No worries’?” I rolled my eyes. “Really?”

“Really. Because whether supposed to be flies out the window tonight, or tomorrow, or fifty years from now, I’m not going anywhere because I’ll always want to be with you.”

I rested my head against his chest as a smile formed. “I feel like I should keep arguing because it’s too soon to forfeit, but I think no matter what I argue back with, you’ve kind of got me on this.”

“Yeah. You’re right. I’ve really got you.” One of Jesse’s arms circled my waist as the other reached for my hand. “Dance with me.” It wasn’t a question. He was already moving to an imaginary beat.

“What? There’s no dance floor. There’s barely any music. There’re bored millionaires wandering around just looking for something to lift their noses at.” I liked dancing with Jesse. I might not readily admit it, but dancing with Jesse was one of the few things that gave me hope that the world wasn’t eminently doomed.

“Come on. Dance with me.” When he used that tone, the just-above-a-plea one, I’d learned months ago it was useless to put up a fight. I lost every time.

“Fine,” I grumbled half-heartedly.

Staying right where we were, in front of the painting that made me as transparent as one person could be, he led me in a dance I knew I’d never forget. That was one of those moments that would be tattooed into my memory forever. I’d been living more and more of those since meeting Jesse Walker.

“You know I love to dance with you,” he whispered, rubbing his thumb over the beading at my lower back.

“Remember our first dance?”

I felt his smile against my forehead. “How could I forget?”

SOMETIMES JESSE FELT very near, like last night when he curled around me in bed and held me until I fell asleep. And sometimes Jesse felt very far, like that morning when I woke up to an empty bed and cold sheets.

I didn’t like him starting mile one of a five hundred mile trip at ten o’clock at night, but arguing with him was useless. Honestly, my heart was only half in the argument because extra time with Jesse was hard to argue with. Jesse had to be back on the ranch first thing Monday morning. When he didn’t leave until Sunday night, he arrived back at Willow Springs barely in time for breakfast. That meant he went from driving for eight hours to working for twelve on no sleep. Not that I needed the confirmation, but Jesse Walker was some kind of superhuman.

Prying myself out of bed on those Monday mornings was always extra hard. I woke up knowing it could be upwards of a solid month before we saw each other again. I tried to make it to the ranch every month, but a couple of times work, school, or a combination of both had made those trips impossible. That Monday, however, was somewhat easier since spring break was less than two weeks away, and I’d get to spend a whole week at Willow Springs. Just thinking about Willow Springs made me homesick. That might be silly given I’d only spent three months of my nineteen years there, but it was . . . home. At least by every definition of the word save for duration.

I wanted to give myself another minute to pout, but I forced my butt out of bed. The sooner I went to class, work, and my routine, the sooner spring break would get there. Hopefully. After getting showered and dressed, I sent Jesse a quick Don’t fall asleep in the cow pies. Miss you. Love you more. text, I banged on Alex’s bedroom door—I doubled as my roommate’s alarm clock—before I unlocked my bike from the handrail just outside, and I was on my way. Jesse had worked his monthly magic on my bike. He must have replaced the brakes, too, because the lightest tap practically stopped me.

The ride to school only took about ten minutes, but on mornings like that, when the sky seemed to release a month’s worth of rain in an hour, the ride felt a lot longer. Most days I was able to ignore the constant drizzle. No one complained about all the lush greenery, so I’d never understood why they threw such a fit about the rain that made it so green. Nothing beautiful had gotten that way without a little ugliness taking place behind the scenes.

When I pulled up to the art building, I don’t think a single part of me was dry—my underwear included—but that didn’t stop me from racing inside once I’d locked up my bike. I was so drenched, I sloshed—I actually sloshed—toward my first class. I don’t think a single head didn’t turn when I sloshed by. Most days, I didn’t envy the kids who drove to school. That wasn’t one of those days.

Art History of the Renaissance was my first class on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Most history classes in high school had put me to sleep, but art history was totally different. It was a good-sized class, but the professor knew every one of our first names. As the T.A., Jax was available for regular study groups and test cram sessions.

I knew I was a few minutes late and prayed Professor Murray wouldn’t issue his standard quip of Nice of you to join us, Mr. or Mrs. such-and-such before I scurried into a seat. When I eased the door open and took a tentative step inside, it looked like I was off the hook. No Professor Murray in one of his crazy bow-ties. Not one of the hundred students hunched into their seats. No one except for me . . . and someone who was neither a student nor a professor.

After Saturday night, he was someone I was not looking forward to seeing quite yet.

“Didn’t you get the email?” Jax called to me from his desk. It looked like he was grading papers.

“What email? The one about you being an asshole?” Yeah, I was definitely not over it yet. “Because I definitely got that one.”

He gave me that smug grin of his. “Haven’t you heard? Everyone’s gotten that email. But I was referring to the one about Professor Murray canceling class due to having a bad case of the flu.”

“Well, I hadn’t experienced your asshole ways up until Saturday night. I gave you the benefit of the doubt, and I now see the error of my ways.” Those probably weren’t wise words to aim at the man responsible for grading plenty of my papers, but I didn’t care. If my G.P.A. took a dip, so be it. Telling him off was worth it.

“I am who I am. I make no excuses. I make no apologies.” Jax dropped his pen and rose from his seat. An expression I wasn’t used to seeing on his face settled into place before he sighed. “I don’t make apologies save for one exception.”

I waited a minute for him to expound on that “one exception” thing, but my patience ran out. “I’m on pins and needles, Jax.”

His eyes lifted to mine. A classroom separated us, but the look in them made me squirm. Too much intensity. “You. You’re the one exception.”

Those words did little to reassure me I was just misinterpreting his expression. “Do I want to know why?” I didn’t really think so.

He shrugged. “Because you gave me the benefit of the doubt. You’re the one exception because no one before you gave me that privilege.” That was a bit too . . . deep for a Monday morning. “I’m sorry, Rowen. I was an asshole the other night, and even though some would argue that’s my steady state, I try not to direct my asshole-ery your way.”

As apologies go, it was a pretty good one, but I was having a tough time not laughing. “‘Asshole-ery’?” I repeated, walking toward the front of the classroom. Well, sloshing toward the front of the classroom. “Where the hell did you pick up that gem?”

“The powers that be deemed asshole unfitting of someone of my level, so they created a whole new word just for me. Pretty special, right?”

He’d apologized, that heavy look in his eyes was gone, and he was back to exchanging witty banter with me. We were good.