Oh, You’re So Cold (Bad Boys of Bardstown #2)

Chapter 1

One Year Ago

I’m a slut.

Or so my mom calls me.

She also says that one day it’ll get me in trouble. The kind I won’t be able to get myself out of. I don’t think that’s true, though. In fact, I think being a slut is what usually gets me out of trouble.

It at least gets me out of locked rooms.

Like it did tonight.

As always, I made my mother angry. I chose to wear a dress I liked instead of the one she’d picked out for me. In my defense, it’s my birthday—my eighteenth birthday—and I wanted to wear something of my own choosing for a change.

Yes, it’s short and yes, it shows off my cleavage.

So what?

I like it and it’s my birthday tonight.

Don’t I deserve some leeway?

Apparently not.

Because as soon as I came down the stairs in my pretty white dress, my mom lost it. She dragged me upstairs, locked me in my room, and told me I wouldn’t be coming out until I put some decent clothes on. My dad—who loves my mother to death and will do anything for her—posted a bodyguard at my door for good measure too.

Well, they always have bodyguards posted around me.

Because apparently, I’m too out of control and need to be kept an eye on.

Anyway.

My parents thought he was tough, the bodyguard, but he folded and let me go the second I screamed out for fake help and batted my dark curled eyelashes.

And look, here I am.

Sneaking out of the back garden exactly like I’d planned.

I knew this area would be empty and therefore a safe passage for me because people would be busy with the party around the pool. And with any luck, I’ll be back before my parents figure out I’m not where I’m supposed to be.

Although I will say that I’m late.

But it’s okay.

The moon is bright. The early winter air is crisp and fresh. Not to mention, I’m finally seizing my destiny or rather making an attempt to seize it.

So I’m not going to despair.

But the moment I decide that, I stop mid-run.

I have to.

Because suddenly, the blissfully empty back garden is not empty anymore.

There’s someone here.

Someone I can’t see because even though the moon is shining at its brightest, whoever it is, is standing under the pink magnolia tree, shadowed by the branches and the flowers.

All I can tell is that it’s a he.

It’s a darkly dressed he.

With dark pants and a dark shirt.

It’s also a tall he.

In fact, he’s such a tall he that he won’t have to stand on his tiptoes to pluck the flowers from the branches. Actually, he won’t even have to raise his arm fully to get to them. Both of which I have to do and even then, it’s a hardship.

Who is he?

And what is he doing with my flowers?

“Who are you?” My loud voice cracks through the silence.

If he’s another one of my new bodyguards, I’m going to be very pissed. And he could be because my dad did say he’d hired a bunch of new ones from a very famous Bardstown-based security company, The Fortress, after he caught me almost making out with the last one. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t really going to make out with him. That was also a ploy to get myself out of another tricky situation.

Again, anyway.

I simply do not have the time to flirt with another clown.

He doesn’t get my urgency, though.

Because he doesn’t reply. It’s like I never even spoke.

Which pisses me off even more.

Putting a hand on my hip, I ask, “Are you another one of my bodyguards? Because if you are, then I’m going to be very angry. And trust me when I say you do not want that.”

That gets me an answer.

Not right away, though. First, it gets me a movement.

His arm.

Lifting in the darkness, reaching up.

Going up to his face.

Actually, going up to his lips.

A cigarette is pinched between his fingers, bright and glow-y, and he puts it in his mouth, sucks in a breath—I squint my eyes and notice his chest moving that I have to say seems really broad—and then, a whorl of smoke is being released into the air.

Then, “Why not?”

I get momentarily distracted by not only his smoking—all casual and careless—but also his voice.

Which is deep.

Deeper than any other voices I’ve ever heard.

Like he’s got a bottomless well inside of him.

And that bottomless well is filled with gravel. Because his voice has that quality too.

Gravelly and deep.

Keeping my hand on my hip, I declare, “Because I’m dangerous when I’m angry.”

“Define dangerous.”

“I bite.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I also scratch.”

“That does sound dangerous.”

“It is.” I nod. “The last man I bit had to go to the hospital.”

It’s not all a lie.

I did bite one of my bodyguards last year.

Because he took my flirting a little too seriously. He actually thought that if he let me go to the party my parents didn’t want me to, I’d really show him my breasts. I wasn’t going to and I told him that. So when he started to get mad and a little handsy, I bit him.

Plus scratched his face.

He bled a little, but other than that, he was fine. No hospitalizations.

I, on the other hand, was grounded.

For a whole month for injuring a member of the staff. Who tried to force himself on me, hello? But my mom said it was me who’d provoked him, so I was the one who needed punishment.

“So?” I prompt him. “Are you? One of my bodyguards.”

“Sounds like the world needs protection from you,” he says in that deep voice of his. “Not the other way around.”

“So what, is that a no?”

“Although I will say you probably shouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

I detect another movement.

This time he uses the hand, the one with the cigarette, to first point at me before taking in another drag and releasing a puffy cloud of smoke. “Take that off.”

“Take what off?”

“In front of me.”

“I don’t…”

Oh.

Oh!

Okay.

I get it now.

He’s talking about my bra. Which I was in the process of taking off as I ran through the garden. Mostly because I hate wearing bras. To be fair, what girl doesn’t? In any case, I believe in being free and unencumbered. That’s why instead of wearing winter boots, I only have slippers on—the kind you wear on a beach—and I left my sweater behind in my room.

What can I say, I also love the cold.

But anyway, one strap dangling down my arm, I ask, “Why not?”

“Because I don’t think it’s very safe to take off an article of clothing in front of a strange man.”

“Why, are you a perv?” I ask instead.

“I could be,” he replies.

I tilt my head to the side, thinking about him.

Of course he could be a perv.

He could be anyone.

But for some reason, as annoying as the interruption is, I don’t think so.

“Nah, you’re not a perv,” I tell him.

“Why is that?”

“First, because you gave me that advice and I’m assuming it’s well intentioned and you don’t even know me,” I inform him. “And second, I don’t think a perv would admit they’re one.”

He studies me for a beat.

I don’t know how I know that because as I said, it’s dark and I can’t see anything at all. But I do feel like he’s running his eyes over me. Which I have to say, I like very much.

And that’s intriguing.

Because even though I flirt and use my charms as much as I can to get what I want, I don’t enjoy it. I don’t enjoy men’s eyes on me. I don’t enjoy the thoughts running through their heads when they look at me.

I don’t enjoy being a slut.

But back to him.

The mysterious man takes another drag of his cigarette as he replies, “Well, then allow me to tell you all about the white van I drive with a big mattress in the back. And how I use candy to lure unsuspecting girls in so I can take them away.”

Nah, definitely not a perv.

After dealing with them most of my life, I don’t get that feeling from him.

“I don’t think girls like candies anymore,” I share, chuckling.

“No?”

“No.”

“So what do girls like these days?”

I shrug. “Tequila maybe.” I tip my chin at him. “Definitely a smoke.”

Again, he studies me for a beat and I get the feeling that he’s trying to figure me out. Then, holding the cigarette up, “First, I never share my cigarettes. And second, I don’t think you’re old enough to drink.”

“Why don’t you share your cigarettes?”

“Because I only smoke one cigarette a day. They’re a precious commodity.”

“You only smoke one cigarette a day?”

In response, he takes in a long drag.

“Why?”

“It’s a rule.”

“Whose rule?”

“Mine.”

“Do you have a lot of rules?”

“Some.”

“Wow,” I go because who the hell is he? “I can barely remember the rules, much less follow them.”

“I had a feeling.”

“How old are you?” I ask next.

“Older than you.”

“When was the first time you tried alcohol?” I fire off.

“When I was old enough to.”

Even though I suspected such an answer, my eyes still pop wide. “Shut up.”

In response, he takes a drag of his cigarette.

“You’re kidding! You actually waited until twenty-one to try alcohol? That’s crazy. I had my first drink when I was eleven. I got my period and it hurt like a fucking bitch, so I tried my mom’s wine to dull the pain.”

A puff of smoke before he says, “That’s more information than I needed to know, but good for you.”

“What, periods make you uncomfortable?”

“Seeing that I’ve got a sister your age, I would say no, but I’m okay if you think that.”

“You have a sister my age?” I ask excitedly. “What’s her name?”

His response is to let out another string of smoke.

“What’s your name?”

No response.

Well, except for more smoking.

And the more he does that, the more he doesn’t answer me, the more I want to know. And I know that I have to be somewhere, but damn it, I’m intrigued now.

I sigh dramatically. “Well, if you don’t tell me, I have no choice but to call you Mr. Adorbs.”

He hums. “That’s a new one.”

“So why don’t just share what people call you?”

“Cold,” he replies. “People call me cold.”

“Cold, huh.” Tilting my head to the side even though I know there’s no way I’m going to catch even a little bit of what he looks like, I reply, “Then we’re perfect for each other.”

“How’s that?”

“Because I love winter.”

“I’m colder than winter.”

“And because my middle name is Agni.”

“What’s Agni?”

“Fire,” I inform him. “In Sanskrit.”

He releases another puff of smoke as if to emphasize my name. “Fire.”

“Yup. My mom’s from India, born and brought up, and when I was young, they said I was unpredictable. I’d cry one second and laugh the next. I’d throw tantrums in the middle of the laughter. So she named me Agni, unpredictable like the fire. I’m Isadora Agni Holmes and even if you’re colder than winter, I can melt you”—I snap my fingers—“just like that.”

“Isadora Agni Holmes,” he repeats as if he wants to get a taste of my name.

Of me.

Or maybe I want him to want that.

Because apart from finding him more and more intriguing as the seconds pass, I realize with a certain level of shock that I want that too. I want to get a taste of him.

And that’s definitely never happened to me before.

Definitely.

Who is this guy?

“That’s me,” I murmur, still taken aback by my realization.

“A mouthful,” he murmurs back.

“So?” I prod. “What’s your name?”

“Nowhere near of a mouthful as yours.”

I study him then. Or rather his silhouette.

All shrouded in mystery and intrigue.

“So is that how we’re playing it?” I shift on my feet.

“Games are for children”—he shifts on his feet too and I notice him lean against the trunk as if settling himself in for the long haul—“but why not.”

“Okay then.” I nod, accepting the challenge. “We already know you’re not my bodyguard. Which means you must be a guest. And since I just told you my name, you probably also know that this is my party and?—”

He jerks his chin at me. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

I lift my chin at him in response. “So how about you tell me your name as a birthday gift?”

“Can’t.”

“But—”

“I already bought you gifts.”

Forgetting my disappointment for a second, I ask excitedly, “Yeah? What’d you bring me?”

I detect a shrug.

“A gift basket from one of those spa places. My sister assures me girls like that.”

I don’t know why, but I find that really adorable.

Him going to his sister to ask about what girls like.

“But now I’m rethinking it,” he finishes.

“What, why?”

“Because from what I hear, girls like tequila and cigarettes these days,” he drawls.

“But then again, you don’t share your cigarettes and I’m not old enough to drink. So a gift basket works. Thanks.” I chuckle, deciding here and now that as soon as I get a chance, I’m going to hunt down his gift first.

“You’re welcome.”

Then it occurs to me what he said. “But wait, you said gifts. Giftsss. You brought me more than one? What’s my other gift?”

“Keeping your secret.”

“What secret?”

Releasing a puff of smoke, he goes, “That you’re sneaking out of your own party.”

“I’m not?—”

“Because that’s what you’re doing, aren’t you?” he cuts me off. “Sneaking out.”

Normally, I’d debate how much to tell him. Because if he’s a guest, then that means he’s a friend of my parents. And who knows how trustworthy he is.

But this is not normal.

What’s happening right now, what I’m feeling right now, is not normal.

“Maybe,” I say.

He straightens up from the tree and nods. “Well then, don’t let me keep you from whatever it is you’re sneaking off to do.”

“What do you think I’m sneaking off to do?”

He pushes a hand down his pocket and with the other puts the cigarette back in his mouth. “Meet a boy.”

“A boy?”

In the wake of smoke from his lips, he replies, “And just a little piece of advice: Keep your bra on.”

I smile. “Yeah, why?”

“Because boys can be assholes.”

“And you know that because you’ve got a sister my age?”

“She’s a little older than you but yeah.”

Actually, forget being intrigued.

I’m totally and completely obsessed.

“I’m going for an audition,” I tell him truthfully.

That gives him pause. “An audition.”

“Yeah, for a play.” And then to test it out, I add, “I’m an actress.”

“An actress,” he murmurs.

“Yes. Or at least I wanna be, and if I get the role, I could be.”

“What’s the role?”

And my heart blooms.

There’s no other way to put it.

It blooms that he’s asking me about the play. That he’s taking an interest.

No one in my life has ever done that before.

Not one person.

Well, except my biji.

Except my grandmother, they all think it’s a frivolous hobby of a spoiled little rich girl rather than a passionate dream since childhood. A passionate dream I’ve always been persecuted for because it’s not conventional or something my mother—and therefore my father as well—approve of.

It’s not something good girls do.

Good girls go to school, get good grades, and follow all the rules. Good girls wear modest clothes, don’t go to parties, only date boys their parents approve of. Good girls grow up to become high society wives who don’t make waves, look pretty on their husbands’ arms, and don’t generate negative attention from the media.

Good girls aren’t like me.

“It’s, uh, from a book called Lolita,” I tell him, my breaths all fast and hazy. “I’m auditioning for the lead role.”

For which, I’ve prepared for weeks in secret.

In my defense, I wasn’t going to.

I wasn’t going to disobey my parents. For all my rebellious ways, I don’t enjoy pissing them off. I don’t enjoy being punished or grounded or made to feel like an outsider in my own family. I don’t think any kid likes that, the very people who’re supposed to love and support you making you feel like an alien. So I was going to let this role go like I’ve let all the others go before.

So far, all I’ve done is perform in front of my bedroom mirror. Or in empty classrooms or auditoriums. I have never, not ever, performed in front of people or taken part in any stage performances. Every time I even broach the subject with my mother, she loses it and grounds me, and my dad lets my mom do whatever she wants and disappears into his study.

But then my biji told me I needed to stop being a chicken and do it. If I want to prove people wrong and show them I’m serious about acting, then I have to take a chance. I have to put myself out there despite the fear, despite all obstacles.

So I flirted with one of the men on the casting team and they’re letting me audition this late into the night. Because I told him my parents don’t approve. He’s also the one who’s picking me up tonight, a couple of blocks away from my house, and giving me a ride to Bardstown—which is where the play is and not in New York where I live with my parents. It’s being put on by Bardstown community center and if I get the role, I’m sure he can be my ride to and from Bardstown. And I’m also sure he’ll expect some favors in return, but I know how to both dodge the attention and keep it on me at the same time.

In any case, I’m doing this.

I’m seizing my destiny tonight.

On my eighteenth birthday.

And no one can stop me.

“A teenage girl who ruins an old man’s life and drives him to break all rules of morality,” he says, breaking into my thoughts.

“You’ve read the book?” I ask in excitement.

“I was right,” he declares. “The world needs protection from you rather than the other way around.”

“You—”

“So if you’re Lolita, what are those for?”

He points toward what he’s talking about and suddenly a chilly breeze flits through, making them flutter and graze the backs of my bare thighs and my arms.

My wings.

That I’m wearing.

Along with the white slip dress I have on, I’m also wearing a pair of gossamer wings. Another thing my mother found objectionable but I love to pieces.

“They’re my good luck wings,” I reply.

“Good luck wings.”

“Yeah. They belonged to my biji.” I smile and explain, “My grandmother. She wanted to be an actress too.”

“So what happened?”

“Life,” I reply. “From what she tells me, Indian society back in the fifties wasn’t very conducive to women working, let alone women working in the film industry. So her dreams never became a reality. She’s the one who gave me the acting bug, much to my parents’ dismay.”

“Is that why you’re sneaking out,” he asks, “because your parents are dismayed?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

My heart blooms harder. “No advice against sneaking out then?”

“Just, as they say in theater,” he murmurs, “break a leg.”

“Why do they say that?” I wrinkle my nose. “That can’t be good.”

I think his lips twitch, but I can’t be sure.

“Back in the olden days, if you didn’t get to perform, you stayed behind the ‘leg line’ and wouldn’t get paid. So it grew as a term to say, hope you get an opportunity to perform and get paid. In modern times, however, it simply means good luck.”

I study his shadowed form for a few seconds, completely flabbergasted.

Awed.

“You’re a scholar, aren’t you?” I breathe out, impressed.

“Absolutely fucking not.”

“I bet no one here knows that. Not one single person at this party knows where ‘break a leg’ comes from.” I shake my head. “Except you.”

“It’s a simple Google search. And people here have more of a reason to know what a penalty means than anything else.”

“Ah, soccer,” I conclude.

My dad owns one of the pro-soccer teams, New York City FC, more or less as a status symbol than anything else. His actual business is a group of hotel resorts all over the country. So everyone here is a soccer enthusiast.

“Soccer,” he confirms.

I wrinkle my nose again. “I don’t think I like soccer very much.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“You don’t like it either?”

“I like it enough.”

“But—”

“In any case, don’t let me keep you,” he says, cutting me off.

And it feels like a hint.

A hint that he wants me to leave.

“Fine,” I tell him. “I’ll go. But I have a condition.”

I think he shakes his head a little. “I think you should give up.”

I know he assumes that I’m still playing the game. That I still want to know his name, and I do.

But I want something else more.

So standing there, watching his smoking silhouette, I finish what I’d started to do before I ran into him. I take my bra off, despite his advice. I slide the other strap down my arm, then reach back and under my dress to unhook it. When I’m done sliding the thing off my body and the garment is hanging off my index finger, I drop it on the ground. And then sidestepping it, I take off.

On a run.

My fake wings flap behind me; the hem of my dress flutters against my bare thighs.

And my long, wavy hair whips back in the chilly breeze.

It’s like I’m flying and I love it.

But at this speed, I’m going to crash.

Against a mountain.

Or a body that grows bigger and bigger the closer I get to it.

It’s okay, though.

That’s my intention.

Crashing against him.

Because when I do, he’ll catch me.

I get that feeling from him. The feeling of safety.

And I’m right.

Because he does.

The moment I make impact, my front colliding against his, his arms go around my waist. His feet shift and he widens his stance to absorb the force with which I tackle him.

And I’m saved.

In fact, I’m more than saved.

I’m all warm and cozy.

And the first thing I say is, “Whoever calls you cold is crazy.”

“What the?—”

“Because I think you’re as hot as a wildfire.”

“Are you fucking insane?” he grumbles, his arm tightening around my frame.

My arms tighten around him as well. “A little.”

He stares down at me for a few beats, a frown between his brows, and I’m happy—I’m super fucking thrilled, actually—that I can see it.

That I can see him.

Finally.

And immediately, I realize his face isn’t meant to be looked at in one go. You can’t just look at him and move on, no. You have to take your time. You have to study every angle because like his voice, his features have a depth to them.

His features have nuances.

They’re meant to be taken apart and analyzed and mooned over.

That arch of his dark brows; the crest of his cheekbones; the deep wells beneath them. The slanting angle of his jaw; the bridge of his nose and those lips.

God, those lips.

They’re luscious.

They’re curved at the ends, bowed in the middle, so very soft and plush-looking. Like petals of a dusky rose maybe. And when I imagine his mouth with a cigarette in it, it makes me tingle. When I imagine the orange embers making that mouth glow, it makes me feel heated.

It makes me picture a rose set on fire.

The petals of which I want to lick and eat.

And swallow and burn with.

“Dora.”

My eyes snap up at his voice. “No one calls me Dora.”

His jaw clenches. “Let go of me.”

“I like it.”

“Let me go.”

“You’re very handsome.”

“Let. Me,” he growls. “Go.”

“Kiss me.”

He stiffens. “What?”

I glance down at his lips. “That’s my condition. For you to kiss me.” Looking up, I add, “You do that and I’ll let you go. I’ll leave.”

The frown in his brows thickens. “Do you always throw yourself at men like this?”

I fist the collar of his jacket. “I do throw myself at men but not like this.”

His eyes—that I’m very pleased to announce are dark—flare. “You?—”

“Usually, I throw myself at them when I want something. I tempt them. I make them false promises. I dangle myself as a prize.” I fist his collar tighter. “But that’s not what I’m doing here.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m seizing my destiny.”

“What?” he snaps.

“Yeah.” I nod, looking into his eyes, thrilled beyond belief. “I wasn’t going to do it, the audition. I didn’t want to make my parents mad. But then my biji convinced me. She told me to seize my destiny and so that’s what I was doing tonight, on my eighteenth birthday. But then I run into you.”

His body’s still and rigid, his eyes narrowed.

I don’t think he’s liking my explanation all that much.

But it’s okay.

I’ll still keep going, despite my fear.

Despite all obstacles.

“And you’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met,” I continue. “Someone else, a different man, would’ve tried something with me by now. There’s a man waiting for me, two blocks away. He’s here to take me to Bardstown for my audition and I bet he’s thinking what he can get in return. I bet he has all kinds of bad intentions toward me. Because men always do. Sometimes I encourage it, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I use it to get myself something, like a ride to a different town. But they always, always want to try something with me in return. Not you, though. You haven’t tried one thing. You’ve tried to give me advice and protect me. So?—”

“First,” he growls, his body so tight that it’s like I’m plastered against a rock, “you’re not getting into a car with a strange man.”

“I won’t,” I agree readily.

“You—”

“If you kiss me.”

His jaw clenches. “This is not a fucking game, do you understand? You could seriously get hurt. You could?—”

“Kissing you is not a game for me.”

His chest expands on a breath. His nostrils flare.

Then, with his arms that are still keeping me safe, flexing around my waist, he growls, “I’m not fucking kissing you.”

“Why not?” I ask, exasperated.

“Just let go of me.”

“I’ve never been kissed before. You could be my first kiss.”

“Fuck no.”

He looks so horrified that I’m compelled to add, “How about I sweeten the pot?”

“No.”

“How about I let you go further?”

“What?”

My arms are still hooked around his neck and so I almost dangle against him now, my feet leaving the ground, my back arching, my neck craning up. And yet again, he saves me. His arms around my waist tighten to the point where I feel the shift of his muscles through layers and layers of our clothes.

And an involuntary shiver runs down my spine at his strength.

Making me even bolder and shameless and determined.

Looking into his dark eyes, I ask, “How about I let you touch my tits?”

“What?”

“Yes, no one has ever touched them before. I’m a total virgin. I promise.”

“That’s—”

“Plus I have nice tits.” I rub myself against him. “See? They’re all soft and perky.”

He moves his arms and grips my hips, stopping me.

But other than that, he doesn’t say anything else.

“I also have cherry-colored nipples.”

His jaw clenches in response.

“You could suck on them.”

His jaw clenches harder.

“You could even bite me, leave your mark on me.”

His jaw clenches even harder than before.

As if he’s testing the sharpness, the strength of his teeth.

“Men like that, don’t they? They like to leave their marks on girls. You could leave yours,” I offer, “on me.”

He mashes his teeth.

“And I also know men like to be all dominating and rough. Like a daddy. You could be that. You could be my daddy tonight and I won’t tell anyone. Ever. Not my dad or my mom. Or anyone, really. I?—”

“No.” His fingers dig into my flesh harshly, painfully before pushing me away from his body.

Forcefully thrust away from him, winter attacks me.

Sharp claws of chill dig into my skin.

And rubbing my hands over my bare arms, I say as a last-ditch effort, “If I figure out who you are, will you kiss me then?”

He watches me rub warmth back into my arms and his chest moves again. “You should go back. Get inside. Get away from the cold. Get away from that fucking man.”

See? He’s still trying to protect me.

“You’re new,” I say instead. “You have to be. Because I’ve never seen you before. I would’ve remembered if I had. And since this party is full of soccer people, you have something to do with…”

It finally occurs to me then.

I know who he is.

The man I’ve become obsessed with in such a short amount of time is someone everyone’s talking about.

“You’re Wrecking Thorn,” I say, awe clear in my voice. “You’re the legendary Wrecking Thorn. Shepard Thorne. Aren’t you? Why didn’t you tell me? You’re a god or something. People can’t stop talking about you. My dad, my mom, everyone. They all think you’re going to change the fate of the team. You’re going to bring back the glory days. You’re the hottest soccer player of the season.” I shake my head, chuckling. “You have to kiss me now so I can brag about it to all my friends.”

When all he does is stare at me, I clarify, “That was a joke, by the way. I don’t have very many friends.” When he still doesn’t laugh, I go, “You can laugh now.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m not him.”

I frown. “You?—”

“So unfortunately, kissing me won’t give you bragging rights.”

Something in his voice alerts me to take stock of his stance.

To study his face, his demeanor.

And I realize that it’s all tight. His voice, the muscles in his body.

Rigid and aloof.

Somehow, I’ve offended him, I think, made him angry.

“I’m sorry,” I say, taking a step toward him. “I was just?—”

“I’m the lesser-known version of him.”

This time before saying something, I think. I weigh his words.

Try to put them together.

And then it hits me.

Who he is.

Shepard isn’t the only man my parents talk about. They also talk about someone else. Someone who’s just as new as Shepard. Someone people call cold.

Oh my God, it was so obvious.

He did tell me who he was, didn’t he?

Earlier.

He’s not a player, though.

He’s the new assistant coach.

“You’re the Cold Thorn. You’re his twin.”

“I am.”

“I didn’t know. I?—”

“Well, now you do,” he says, his voice low. “And let me also tell you that if you want to be kissed, then you picked the wrong twin. I don’t go around kissing spoiled little rich girls who can’t take no for an answer. Him, though, he’ll indulge you. He doesn’t have a lot of standards and from what I hear, desperation turns him on. Not me, though. I find desperation annoying. I find little girls like you even more annoying. So you should run along and find him. Maybe he’s your destiny, because I’m absolutely fucking not.”

I do as he says then.

I run along.

And I find him.

His twin brother.

Not because he’s my destiny but because I’m Isadora Agni Holmes and I’m going to melt Stellan ‘The Cold’ Thorne and make him eat his words.