Chapter 2

Viola

The shower was so loud, and it should have drowned out my heartbeat. Instead, it just made the beat sound louder.

Through the frosted shower glass which I could still see, steam rolled out into the room like fog. And in the middle of that steam, his silhouette moved.

Don't think about his body, I told myself. Think about what a jerk he used to be. Think about how he humiliated you and crushed your heart. Think about how much you hated him.

And I did hate him. At least, I'd been trying to for ten years.

My brain dragged me back to a time I'd spent years trying to bury.

Before he was the untouchable king of racing, before he was a billionaire playboy dating supermodels, he was just Bryce. The boy next door. My older brother's best friend. And my total dream guy as well as my nightmare.

As for me, I was Viola. Plain Viola. If there was a prize for being aggressively average, I'd have won it without any doubt. I was the wallflower, not the movie kind with a secret genius hidden underneath. Just plain. Very chunky, always hiding myself in oversized outfits and thick glasses with defident manners. I believed so well that half my graduating class probably thought I transferred in senior year.

Bryce was the sun, and I was a sad little rock stuck in his orbit.

He was born to be the brightest star, and I was just someone sitting in the back row.

He'd always been meticulous about everything: his karting gear, his clothes, all of those. And he had this natural arrogance. He knew he was better than everyone, and he made sure nobody forgot it.

He teased me constantly and called me "Cream Puff", because I was soft and round and turned bright pink every time he looked at me.

Yet, no matter how arrogant he was, I I was captivated by his charm and beauty, falling in love with him witout any way out.

So, I confessed my love to him at the end of senior year.

I, wearing a puffy pink dress that looked like a cheap cupcake, snuck into the bar he liked to visit just to find him.

"Bryce," I stammered. My voice was trembling so hard but I tried to sound cold and confident, which I was not very good at.

"I... I really like you. Actually, I love you. Shall I ask you to dance?"

He stared at me for a long and awful moment. Those piercing blue eyes swept over me. My frizzy hair. My red face. My childish dress.

Then he laughed at me.

I couldn't forget his amused and pitiful expression. It seemed like what I just said had wounded his pride.

"Dance with you, Cream Puff?" he said, smirking. "I think I'll pass. You're a little uncoordinated. I'd rather not have my feet crushed tonight. I need them for racing."

It struck me like a bomb, totally shattering my pride, even though I was certain he wouldn't even notice I had any pride at all.

Tears stung my eyes instantly, but the tiny scrap of pride I had left kicked in.

"You're a rude, arrogant jerk." I choked out.

Then, running on pure mortification, I lifted my sensible block heel and stomped down on his foot as hard as I could.

He yelled and stumbled back, and I ran. I ran out of that shithole and left the pieces of my stupid teenage heart all over the floor.

He could have rejected me in a more gentle and polite way. I mean, even if you don't like someone, you shouldn't hurt their heart and their dignity.

That night changed everything. The humiliation burned the Cream Puff right out of me. I stopped hiding. I started working out. I buried myself at university, joined the debate team, forced people to see me. I turned the pain he gave me into fuel.

I'd imagined our reunion a hundred times over. We encountered each other at work. He'd see how much I'd changed, and I'd brush him off without a second glance.

Yet here I was, still in a mess.

The shower shut off, dragging me back to the nightmare of right now.

What was worse was that someone knocked on the door.

Oh, it must be Anne, his supermodel partner.

I heard his feet pad across the carpet. The door swung open.

"What the hell?" Bryce said. He sounded genuinely shocked. "What are you doing here?"

"Why not me?" a woman purred. "When I slipped that little present into your pocket tonight, you should have known exactly what I wanted, darling."

My whole body went stiff.

I knew that voice. Everybody knew that voice. Smoky, lazy, wrapped in that famous Italian accent that showed up in every perfume commercial on the planet.

Vivian Luise.

The Victoria's Secret Angel. The face on half the billboards in Times Square.

My eyes slid back to the condom lying on the carpet, right in front of my nose.

So that's where it came from. She gave it to him.

Something sour twisted in my chest. I didn't even know why. It wasn't like I cared. It wasn't like it was any of my business who handed Bryce Mulholland a condom at a party.

But still. It stung.

And wait a second. First Anne, and now Vivian? How many women was this guy planning to see in one night? Did he have a schedule? A waiting list?

What a total playboy.

"I'm not interested, Vivian," Bryce said flatly. "Go back to your room. Or I'm calling security. Hell, I'll call the police."

I almost choked on the carpet.

Not interested? In Vivian Luise?

Was he out of his mind? Men lined up for that woman. If you put all the guys chasing her in one line, they could probably circle the Pacific Ocean three times.

Vivian laughed, low and amused. "Oh, please. Everyone knows you only date supermodels, Bryce. Don't play hard to get with me. It doesn't suit you."

Bryce let out a long, tired sigh.

"Listen," he said. "Anne is coming up any minute to go over some business with me. If she walks in and sees you here, she'll kill me first and then she'll kill you. And you know she's not joking. You've heard the stories."

There was a long pause.

"Fine," Vivian said, sounding annoyed. "I'll come back after she leaves."

"Goodnight. Farewell." Bryce said.

The door shut.

Then I heard him let out a huge breath, like he'd just made it across the finish line on his last drop of fuel.

I lay there under the bed, my mind spinning.

So that was why he didn't let her in. Not because he didn't want her. Because Anne was coming.

Anne must be the real girlfriend. The official one. The one who could actually make him nervous.

And Vivian? Vivian was the side piece. The secret. The girl who gets told to come back later.

Oh my God.

I always knew Bryce was arrogant. I always knew he was cocky and full of himself. But I never thought he was this kind of guy. The kind who has a girlfriend coming over in five minutes and a supermodel waiting in the hallway for her turn.

Ten years ago, he broke my heart. And apparently, he'd spent the last ten years practicing on other people's.

His footsteps got closer. He was coming back into the bedroom.

I couldn't help it. My eyes drifted open.

He stopped right in front of the bed.

Nothing but a white towel slung low on his hips. Water dripping down his legs, running over his ankles and feet, disappearing in the carpet.

He tossed another towel onto a chair, and I guessed he just used it to rub his hair. Then he went completely still.

The silence stretched on and on.

I stayed frozen, wishing hard for invisibility.

Then, slowly, his voice cut through the quiet.

"You know," he said with his casual tone, with a dangerous little amusement under it. "If you wanted to admire the game, Cream Puff, you could've just asked me for a front row seat."