Shuffling across the grass and into the courtyard teeming with students back from summer break, I squint down at the campus map. I’d picked it up this morning during the mandatory student orientation I attended, along with the rest of the residents of Campbell dorm’s seventh floor. Once I attempt to commit the shortcut to the music department to my memory for the third time since leaving my room, I fold the map into an uneven square and shove it into the side pocket of my crossbody purse.

This campus is at least four times bigger than the one I attended last year and, to be honest, this morning was the first time I ever laid eyes on the place. It was also the first time I’ve ever stepped foot into Richmond. I’ll never tell anyone here that.

Especially not my new roommate Corinne, who spent most of the afternoon drilling me with question after question.

I’d applied to the school last minute without visiting, letting the photos on the website and my aunt’s enthusiastic claim that this was the best college in the history of all colleges act as my guide. The fact that I was accepted despite my awful grades from last year—well, that was a definite plus.

The biggest draw, however, is being four hours away from my former college, and nearly five hours away from Bristol, where most everyone I know lives.

Because nobody here knows me.

Smiling to myself and fussing with my hat and hair, I jog up the back steps to cut across the dining hall; only to jerk to a stop a moment later when I ricochet off a tall, incredibly toned, masculine body attempting to leave the building.

I know the collision is my fault. My thoughts and actions have been all over the place since last night, but that doesn’t stop me from hurling out the first thing that comes to mind as I try to regain my footing. “Holy shit, watch where the—”

The Body’s quick apology, murmured in a slight Southern accent, brings my angry words to a jolting halt. “You all right? Sorry ‘bout that.”

Oh.

Oh.

Holy shit is right.

I haven’t seen his face, but there’s one thing for certain about this person who nearly knocked me on my ass: his voice is drop dead sexy—baritone and more than a little intoxicating.

A few years ago, I picked up my mom’s copy of A Literate Passion, her book club’s flavor of the month. I’d flipped through it, pausing briefly on the line about voices reverberating against bodies like a caress. I knew what it meant, but hearing that voice speaking to me now, asking me once again if I’m all right—I understand Anaïs Nin’s words so much more.

That voice is just enough to make me want more of him.

When I whip around to face him, his mouth is the first part of his body my gaze settles on—full lips framed by the faintest shadow of dark stubble along a strong, square jawline—followed by a straight nose, high cheekbones, and the faded remains of a rounded scar right beneath his right eye. The scar automatically yanks my attention to his eyes.

Set in a face that’s still a little tan from summer, those eyes are haunted, beautiful. They’re not quite green or blue but an unsettling place in between the two.

Come to think of it, everything about this boy, this man, is just a touch unsettling and without a doubt beautiful.

And also, oddly familiar.

His eyebrows, the same off-black as his messy, medium-length hair, arching together in genuine concern. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, I’m fine, I swear.” But I take a few steps back until my shoulder blades bump a wall covered in flyers and brochures. A few drift to the floor, but I don’t break eye contact with the man standing right in front of me. I know I’ve seen this guy before. The question is ... where?

When?

Oh, great. He’s not from Bristol, is he?

“You dropped your hat when you tripped over your own feet.” He gestures down on the floor between us but doesn’t budge move to pick it up.

I belatedly realize my wavy brown hair is everywhere, a frizzy mess obscuring parts of my face, and my hands fly up to smooth down the untamed locks. He’s watching me carefully, smiling like he knows a secret, which means I probably look like a certified dumbass.

“I’m pretty sure your feet tripped me,” I argue, but he moves his head from side to side.

“Right. It’s not like you were staring down at the floor—” He cocks his head to the side, squinting at my student ID dangling from an orange and blue lanyard I’m wearing around my neck. “—Evelyn.” Very few people other than my dad and a few of my former teachers have ever called me that, but hearing him do so sends a shiver coursing through me, despite the stifling late summer heat inside the dining hall.

Before I can move, he kneels, keeping his eyes fastened on mine. I should look away, at anything and everything else besides him, but I can’t. Why should I when he won’t stop staring?

“So I guess I just won the graceful freshman award, huh?” I question nervously.

“I’d blame it on your shoes, but it looks like they’re innocent.” His words cause my toes to curl in my flat sandals. Standing, he places my floppy fedora in my outstretched fingers, his thumbs skimming along my palms as he pulls away. When I dust the brown felt material off, my hands are trembling.

“I like you better without it,” he admits the moment I start to pull the fedora over my hair. “Like seeing your eyes.”

For a moment, I freeze.

I’ve always been pretty happy with my features—I’m tall with long legs, a small C-cup that I’m incredibly proud of, and clear olive skin—but my eyes have always been my favorite thing about myself. They were the only similarity I shared with my sister. My mom always claimed that it was like Lily and I were from completely different families because we were so different, but when she looked into our eyes, it was impossible to deny we were blood.

I tremble slightly because I can’t think of a moment since Lily’s death that my mother has looked at me, really looked into my eyes, for longer than a few seconds.

“And I like to hide my shitty hair days,” I finally tell him, dragging the hat over my head, and lowering my gaze so I won’t have to directly face his penetrating stare any longer. “And, you know, my clumsy shame face.”

He steps away from me, drawing his bottom lip between his straight white teeth like he’s fighting the urge to smile. Or laugh in my face. “If it makes you feel any better, I can name about ten people right off the top of my head that I’ve seen here over the last few years who’ve got you beat.”

The last few years. So what does that make him? A junior? Senior? Better yet, why do I care and where the hell have we met before? I cross my arms over my chest, and tilt my head to the side, sizing him up.

“It doesn’t help,” I let him know. “Not even a little.”

At last, he smiles—a crooked, sexy turn of his lips that probably draws this campus’ female population to him in droves—before taking another step away from me. “Try not to attack anyone else, Evelyn.”

“I’ll do my best.” I only make it a few feet before I turn back around, determined to ask him where we’ve met before. If I don’t, it’ll drive me up the wall trying to figure it out. “Hey, do you—.”

But I’m too late. He’s already ducking through the double doors and heading outside. All I see is the back of the plain gray t-shirt expertly hugging his ripped shoulders and biceps.

“Who are you?” I murmur.

At the bottom of the brick steps, a beautiful brunette girl flags him down, and he stops to talk to her in the courtyard. They go back and forth a few times before she says something to make him laugh and shake his head. He does that thing with his mouth—that smile that’s bound to screw with her breathing—and then he looks down at his watch. I watch as he sprints across the courtyard. Like me, the other girl doesn’t move until he’s out of sight.