I’d thrived. The structure, the complexity of the courses, all of it had given me such a rush I’d dived right into my classes headfirst and never looked back. No one cared how old I was here; none of my past mattered. I could blend in, become someone new, someone free.

But I’m not free. I’m still tied to the guilt of my mother and the anger with my father. Deep down inside, I’m still a scared, too-smart-for-her-own-good little girl who’s afraid to really live for fear she’ll get hurt.

Boys are trouble, my mom would say. Then they grow up to be men and become even more trouble. Stick with yourself, sweetie. Count on only you. Everyone else will just disappoint you.

Mom had whispered those words of so-called wisdom to me when I was fifteen. The year before I graduated high school. I’d known there was trouble in my parents’ marriage. From the time I was eleven, when I became privy to a secret phone call between my dad and one of his mistresses, I knew he was unfaithful to Mom.

He didn’t love her. And if he didn’t love her, he didn’t love me. That’s what I believed at fifteen. I would listen to Mom talk about how awful men were, how bad they treated women. She would talk that way when she was mad at him, when she knew he was cheating on her.

Then he’d sweet-talk her, convince her she was the only one for him, and she’d change her tune. Her reaction to him, the constant push and pull between them, left me a confused mess most of the time, especially over boys and relationships.

I don’t really talk to my dad. He’s tried. He’s called me a few times, but I always hang up when I hear the recorded message from the jail. He has to know I don’t want to have contact with him.

When Mom was in one of her moods, working me over, she told me I needed to do right by my father and stand by him. So right before he was convicted for his crime last year, I’d gone to visit him in jail. He’d promised me he would get out. He’d be acquitted. He’d been so sure, so convincing, I believed him.

I’d gone home and begged my mom to let me go to court. I wanted to watch. Wanted to be there when he was set free and we could celebrate together. She told me no. Her excuse? I was too young and might not be able to handle it.

I’d been so confused, so devastated, I hid away in my room, crying into my pillow, believing that my mom didn’t understand. Why would she ask me to stand by him and then tell me I couldn’t go to court? It made no sense.

Now I’m glad I wasn’t there. He’d been found guilty. I heard they carted him back to jail and he’d been in a state of utter shock, Mom wailing the entire time.

Men can’t be trusted, Mom said before I left for college this last summer. But you already know this. You’re doing such a good job, sweetheart. Keep focusing on your schoolwork. Get your degree, find a career that is fulfilling. Then you can worry about a husband and babies, if that’s what you really want.

She’d said the last bit with such resignation, I wondered if Mom would prefer I become a lesbian rather than find a good man to settle down with. That had been during her down-with-men stage. The one she still clung to. It’s sort of funny, considering she hadn’t believed me when I came to her with my lesbian declaration.

Sitting next to Owen, I wonder what Mom would think if I became involved with him. What would she say if I brought him home and introduced him as my boyfriend? She’d probably tell me to run. I would tell me to run. His home life sounds chaotic. He has drug issues. Drinking issues. School issues. All sorts of issues.

He is an issue … for me. I’m drawn to him despite all the arguments that war inside my too busy, overthinking brain. All the danger signs that I usually bow to, I’m ignoring. Instead I’m just blazing on, fascinated by every little thing he does and says. He’s sitting next to me at the table, concentrating on whatever assignment he’s completing while he stares at his laptop, and I’m preparing a lesson plan for one of the students I’ll meet with tomorrow.

We consumed the Chinese food as soon as it arrived, and I was inordinately pleased by how much he liked it. He raved on, eating enthusiastically while my appetite slowly vanished, replaced with a battlement of butterflies fluttering in my stomach. He makes me nervous in the most delicious, oh-my-God-I-want-him kind of way.

And I’ve never wanted any guy. Never felt that instant connection with one, either. I always figured I’d want someone like … me. Steady and patient and smart. Quiet and shy and kind of nerdy.

Owen is seemingly none of those things. He’s gorgeous and sexy and charismatic. Tall and broad and athletic. Says what he wants and does what he wants—goes after what he wants. He acts like he can do anything.

Is it wrong that I wish he wanted to do me? God, I can feel my cheeks heat just thinking it, let alone I could never say something like that out loud, especially to his face.

I’m a complete weenie. I’ve coasted my entire life in this sort of subexistence. Not really noticed for anything beyond my brain and even then, I hide behind it. My father becomes the biggest scandal in my hometown—heck, in all of California—and still I hide. No one knows Chelsea Simmons.

I never wanted anyone to know me … until Owen.

Mom would think I’d completely lost my mind for even thinking something like this.

“Are you okay?”

His deep voice washes over me and I lift my head to find him watching me, his brows furrowed in concern though his mouth is quirked up on one side. Almost like he’s … laughing at me.

Wariness settles over me like deflective armor and I flick my gaze away from his, focusing on the textbook open in front of me but not really seeing the words. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been staring off into space for, like, the last five minutes at least.” When I look back at him, shock and horror rushing through my veins, he shrugs those impossibly broad shoulders, a sheepish expression on his face. “I was watching you.”

Now I’m gaping at him. He watched me? And just admitted it? “I was …”

“Lost in thought? You looked worried.” He reaches out toward me and I go completely still, my breath lodged in my lungs as he brushes his finger across my lower lip. “I was afraid you’d chew a hole through your lip.”

I want to die. Both at him touching me and at the fact that he called me out on my bad habit.

“I used to chew it so bad I’d make it bleed.” Okay, why did I just go and admit that?

He frowns. “You have that much to worry about?”

I want to laugh. He has no idea. “Kind of.” I need to play this off. “I’ve never really … fit in.” Seriously? Now I’m pointing out my lack of social skills? What is wrong with me?

“I find that hard to believe.” He looks surprised as he leans back in his chair. His T-shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of flat stomach, and my gaze automatically drops to that spot. “Why?”

I’m completely transfixed. There’s a trail of dark hair that starts just below his navel and disappears beneath his jeans. My mouth goes dry and I’m filled with the urge to trace it with my finger. “I’ve always been kind of a nerd. I kept getting tested and the schools kept moving me up a bunch of grades. I graduated high school when I was barely sixteen.”

“Really? So you’re like a genius? How old are you?”

“Almost nineteen. I’m a junior,” I say, knowing that’s going to be his next question.

“Wow. No wonder you’re a tutor.” He laughs and shakes his head. “You make me feel like a complete dumbass.”

I should never have told him. I make everyone feel dumb when they realize what I’m capable of. And really? I’m not capable of much. I’m great at memorization. I have a photographic memory. I’m a fast reader. Big deal. “You’re not a dumbass,” I tell him, my voice gentle.