CHAPTER ONE — The Boy Who Left, The Man Who Returned

I wasn’t supposed to be home this summer.

College had been my escape—my excuse to avoid the suffocating expectations of being Aria Hale, perfect daughter of perfect businessman Victor Hale. But when Dad insisted I come home for his “important dinner,” I didn’t expect him to walk through the door.

Jace Carter.

My dad’s friend’s son.

The boy who used to steal cookies off our counter and dare me to jump from the treehouse roof.

The boy who moved away at seventeen and left behind a trail of rumors—fights, girls, a motorcycle accident that nearly killed him.

And now, the man who walked into our living room like he owned the air I breathed.

He was taller. Broader. The tattoos weren’t there when he left; now they curled around his forearms, disappearing beneath the rolled sleeves of his black shirt. His hair was messy in that deliberate, careless way. But it was his eyes—dark, sharp, a little dangerous—that punched the breath out of me.

“Aria?” he said, like he wasn’t sure I was real.

I forced myself to smile. “Hey, Jace. Long time.”

His gaze dipped once—to my mouth, then back to my eyes. It lasted a second, maybe two, but the heat of it curled low in my stomach.

Dad clapped Jace on the back, oblivious. “My daughter’s all grown up, isn’t she?”

Jace’s jaw flexed. “Yeah,” he muttered. “She is.”

Dinner was a blur of business talk—contracts, partnerships, expansion plans. The Carters were merging something with my father’s company. I didn’t care. I was too busy pretending I didn’t feel Jace’s gaze burning holes through me from across the table.

When I reached for the water pitcher, he reached at the same moment. Our fingers brushed—warm skin against warm skin—and he snatched his hand back like I had burned him.

So that’s how this was going to be.

After dinner, Dad insisted on showing Mr. Carter his new office. I slipped outside for air, leaning against the porch rail as the evening breeze whispered through my hair.

I didn’t hear Jace follow me.

I only felt him—his presence, his heat—standing just a little too close beside me.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he said quietly.

“Like what?” I played innocent. It wasn’t a lie; I wanted to hear him say it.

“Like you want trouble.”

I turned to face him. The porch light caught the faint scar on his cheek, one I didn’t remember. His eyes weren’t dangerous now—they were conflicted, frustrated, hungry.

“I think you’re imagining things,” I said softly.

He laughed under his breath, low and disbelieving. “Aria… you have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Then explain it to me,” I whispered.

He stared at me for a long moment. Too long. His hand twitched like he wanted to reach for me—touch my jaw, pull me closer, do something we both knew he shouldn’t.

But footsteps sounded inside, and he stepped back so fast it almost hurt.

“Stay away from me,” he said.

The problem was… he didn’t sound like he meant it.