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I shake myself, realizing my brother’s still waiting for an answer.

“A lot of girls are hot. That doesn’t make them worth your attention.”

“She definitely deserves my attention.” The humor in his voice irritates me. “What you mean is she doesn’t deserve yours.”

The hairs on my neck lift again.

I punch the accelerator, a move that’s couched in years of practice. The car barely picks up.

No.

I try again, certain it was a glitch. Same response.

“What the fuck happened?” Theo looks over at me.

I ease the car into the parking lot at ARI headquarters. My hands are shaking on the wheel as I kill the engine.

“You coming?” Theo asks. “You’re the one who wanted to be on time.”

“In a minute,” I snap.

Theo shrugs and steps out of the car, heading for the suit-clad PR person designated to meet us by the front doors.

My head falls back against the headrest. In the midst of the most important week of my life, someone’s been inside my car. Under the hood. Touching things they shouldn’t.

My teeth grind like bad gears.

This isn’t a setback.

This is war.

7

Shay

“Shay?” Dad calls out the door. “Where are you going?”

The biggest problem with lying isn’t the risk of getting caught. It’s that lying gets easier the more you do it.

“The Junction,” I toss. I’m stopping by the diner on my way to school, so it’s not an outright lie.

“I made breakfast.” His voice and the sound of his shoes scuffing the doormat have me looking back. He’s leaning awkwardly to the left as if trying to distance himself from the slow, painful healing around his new artificial knee.

Oof. Dad guilt, next level.

I shoulder my backpack—heavy thanks to the second Ashford bag inside it along with my laptop and books—then check my phone. I have time, but barely.

Ducking back into the house, I grab two plates and drop into a seat at our small kitchen table. Eggs and bacon are already laid out. My pancakes are cut into stars, like he’s done since I was a kid and never stopped.

Dad’s always been sturdy, and it never occurred to me that at fifty-five he was less than superhuman until his doctor showed us a scan of exactly how wrecked Dad’s knee was from decades working in the garage.

Now, I can see more of his graying hair than usual.

Dad’s gaze falls to my scraped palm, regret flickering across his face. “A smart girl like you should be in college, not burning your hands on coffeepots.”

“I’m exactly where I should be.”

By the second week of the semester, I’m starting to get into a rhythm. Popping antacids, lying to my father. It’s easy to forget that each moment could be the one I slip up.