I move so fast that I have to catch my breath before I answer the door and forget to mentally prepare myself. When I catch sight of him, my heart slams so hard in my chest it actually hurts, and I almost fall to the floor, my knees shaking. I’m pretty sure he notices my reaction, but if he does, he doesn’t say anything.

“Hey,” he says, crossing his arms and leaning against the railing, looking all relaxed and sexy in his jeans and pinstriped shirt, the sleeves pushed up so I can see his tattoos and lean arms. “What are you doing?”

“Watching TV and folding laundry,” I say, not realizing how lame it sounds until it actually leaves my mouth.

His lips quirk. “Sounds like a night full of possibilities.”

I try to make a joke and salvage the start of a conversation. “If by possibilities you mean staying up and watching Jay Leno crack jokes while I binge on popcorn, then yeah, the possibilities are endless.” I try to mimic the smile my mom makes every time she’s trying to be cute. “In fact, I might even get really daring and stay up past midnight.”

“Wow, staying up past midnight,” he says, pressing his hand against his chest. “How very adventurous of you.”

“What can I say. I like to live life on the wild side.”

“I bet you do.” His gaze flickers up and down my body and I feel something inside me lift. Then he glances over my shoulder and asks, “Is your mom home?”

My expression falters, and whatever was inside me that was lifting crashes. But as if he senses my disappointment, he adds, “I was just wondering if you were good to come over to the party, or if the parental was going to get in the way.”

I love that he calls her “the parental,” not “my hot sexy sister” or the many other things she’s been called that in no way imply that she’s a mother.

“Actually, she’s at work until three,” I tell him, the lifting sensation rising again, and I feel like I’m about to float away into the sunset.

He glances at the watch. “So you’re good to hang for at least a few hours, right?”

I nod, telling myself to settle down and not be a dork by getting overly excited. “Yep, I’m cool.” It’s so not cool to say you’re cool, but thankfully Dylan seems to find my dorkiness mildly adorable.

He grins at me and then motions me to follow him as he steps down the stairway. I shut the door behind me and follow him down the sidewalk, staying just behind him until we reach the fence. There he jumps over, and then gives me his hand to help me over. I hesitate, staring at his hand, offered to me. Me.

Finally, I take his hand, slipping my fingers through his. The contact of his skin is amazing, creates heat that’s more powerful than the hot summer air flowing around us. His touch is what authors write about. What women dream about. What singers sing about.

And even though I didn’t know it at the time, the moment he took my hand, he owned me, which would seem amazing, except for owning someone and loving someone aren’t the same thing.

He doesn’t let go of my hand after he helps me over the fence. I think he must like holding it. Either that, or he’s forgotten that he has it. I don’t say anything as I follow him across the small strip of lawn on the other side of the fence until we reach the side of the car where the girl is dancing. I realize I know her. Nikki, a girl I go to school with. The way she moves is enthralling, and everyone is watching her. It’s not like she’s the greatest dancer. In fact, I’m sure I’m better. But she’s like my mother, drawing in attention as if she were casting a magic spell over everyone.

I only look away from her when Dylan takes the joint from the lanky guy’s hand and takes a hit as he introduces me. “Landon, this is Delilah.”

Up close and in the light from the porch, I can see his face, and I realize that I know him.

I say, “Yeah, I know. We go to school together.”

He’s stoned, eyes bloodshot and ringed with red, so it takes him a moment to place me. But eventually recognition clicks. “Oh yeah, you had Mr. Melson for fourth, right?”

“And you always sat at the back and got lectured for drawing and not taking notes,” I say, feeling my pulse pound as Dylan grazes his finger along the inside of my wrist.

“And you always got in trouble for being late,” Landon says with a small smile.

I try not to shudder as Dylan’s finger makes his way up my forearm. I want to look at him, see what’s in his eyes, but I’m almost afraid to look. “What can I say,” I tell Landon, tensing when Dylan hands me the joint. “I like to make an entrance.” I stare down at the joint in my hand. What the hell am I supposed to do with this?

I’ve never smoked pot before and I think about just handing it back, but everyone’s looking at me, waiting for me to take a hit—Dylan is waiting for me to take a hit. I don’t want to disappoint him, so I put it up to my lips and inhale just like I saw him do earlier.

But the smoke stings and unable to hold it in, I let out a sharp choking cough that makes me feel ridiculous, especially when a few people laugh at me. Dylan doesn’t, though. As I’m hacking my lungs out, Dylan takes the joint from my hand and gives it back to Landon. Then he swings his arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer to him, kissing the side of my head.

I no longer feel ridiculous.

In fact, I feel like the exact opposite.

I feel like Odette.

And he is Prince Siegfried.

I look up at him and he smiles down at me, moving me with him as he steps forward. “Come on, gorgeous, let’s go get you a drink.”

A smile spreads across my face as I walk with him, squeezing past two cars in the driveway and onto the front yard. He takes me inside his house that’s full of people dancing and drinking.

“It’s my birthday,” he shouts over the music.

“Well, happy birthday then,” I shout back, and he smiles again at me.

As we make our way through his house, I find myself noticing how much his eyes light up when he talks and how much they darken when he looks at me, not in a bad way, but in an I-notice-you way. It makes me happy and nervous at the same time, because no one has ever looked at me like that. By the time we reach the kitchen, I’m sweating and jittery inside, so when he hands me the drink, I devour it, hoping to calm my nerves. But it’s vodka, and I choke on the fiery burn of it.

“Shit.” I cough, throwing the plastic cup like it’s made of poison.

He kicks the cup out of the way and steps closer to me, restraining a grin as he pats me on the back. “Are you okay?”

I nod, biting back a gag. “Super.” I cough, pressing my hand to my chest as I stand back up. “I’m sorry. I thought it was water.”

“Do you want me to get you a water so you can wash it down?” he asks, watching me, his eyes always locked on me, unlike a lot of people who usually look through me when they talk to me, like I barely exist. At least that’s what it feels like.

I shake my head. “No, I’m good now. I promise.”

He nods and then scoots a few liquor bottles out of the way so he can hop on the counter, where he sits and lets his legs dangle over the edge. “So, other than dancing down the driveway and staying up all night and getting freaky with your laundry, what else do you like to do?” He flashes me a grin, and I nearly melt into a puddle right there on the kitchen floor for the crowd to tramp through.

“That’s about it, really,” I admit, scooting closer to him as people pack their way into the already crowded kitchen. “I’m actually pretty boring.”

“I doubt that.” His eyes fill with want. “In fact, aren’t redheads supposed to be wild and fun?”

I self-consciously touch my hair, wishing that were true, wishing I could say yes, wishing I could be that for him. “I think that’s blondes.”

He shakes his hand, his gaze devouring me. “No way. It’s definitely redheads.” He considers something. “Blondes are known for being airheads.”