“Irish!” My head snaps up at the sound of Ashton’s voice. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s crouching in front of me, holding a textbook, a curious look on his face. His hand cups my elbow and he pulls me to my feet. “You’re in your head a lot, aren’t you?” he muses, holding my textbook out.

I’m not sure how to answer that, so I don’t. I simply purse my lips for a moment, accept my book, and say quietly, “Consider Saturday night forgotten.”

“Thanks, Irish.” He rubs his forehead with his fingertips. “I didn’t want that getting out. I regret it. I mean . . .” He cringes as he looks at me, as if he bumped into me and is checking to see if I’m hurt. I hear the slightest exhale, and then he takes a few steps backward. “See you around.”

I offer him a tiny nod and a tight-lipped smile. Inside, I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, “Not a chance in hell!”

“Dammit,” I mutter, arriving at the rendezvous location for the tour ten minutes late. I glance around but see nothing that resembles a tour group. They’re gone, off to learn about the historical significance of this foremost college, and I am stuck here, replaying the entire conversation with Ashton over and over again. Each time, those words—his words—suspend in my thoughts.

I regret it.

He regrets me. The man whore regrets messing around with me. Enough to track me down and ask that I not tell anyone. He even felt bad when he let that fact slip. That’s what that cringe was.

It was one thing when I was regretting him. I mean, I did something stupid and completely out of character. I gave away a whole pile of firsts to a guy I don’t even know. Who’s probably had a hundred drunken one-night flings that went farther than the one the other night did with me.

Who regrets me.

I take a seat on the steps and stare vacantly down at my hands. Every rational bone in my body is telling me to stop thinking about it, but I can’t. I swallow several times, but the dryness in my throat won’t abate as I run through all the reasons why Ashton might regret me. Does he find me that unattractive? Was waking up on Sunday one of those “coyote ugly” mornings Kacey always talks about? I know I must have looked terrible, with my hair a wild rat’s nest and my eyes bloodshot and my breath harsh enough to wilt daisies.

Maybe it was my “skill level”? I sure as hell know I’m not experienced, but . . . was I that bad?

I’m so wrapped up in trying to comfort my ego that when I hear a guy say “excuse me” nearby, I keep my focus on the ground, dismissing him entirely, hoping he’s talking to someone else. His next words, though—not so much the words but how he says them—make my head snap up, searching for the owner.

“Are you okay?”

I know my mouth is hanging open as I watch him take a seat next to me on the step, but I don’t care. I just nod in awe as I stare at the deep green eyes and pleasant smile.

“Are you sure?” he asks with a soft chuckle. His chuckle is just as pleasant as his smile.

“Are you from Ireland?” I blurt out before I’m able to control it. Closing my eyes, I try to explain myself by stumbling over my words. “I mean . . . I thought . . . you have an accent . . . you sound Irish.” And you sound like a moron, Livie.

“I’m Connor,” he says. “And I am. I’m originally from—”

“Dublin,” I interrupt as a bubble of excitement grows inside me.

He nods once, beaming as if pleased. “I moved to America when I was twelve.”

My grin widens. I can’t stop. I must look like an idiot.

“And do you have a name, miss? Or should I just call you Smiley?”

“Oh, yes, right.” I purse my lips to get my face under control and I thrust out my hand. “Livie Cleary.”

His eyebrow shoots up as he accepts my hand. His is warm and strong and . . .comfortable.

“My dad grew up in Dublin. Your accent . . . you sound like him.” My dad had moved to America when he was thirteen, so he’d lost the thickness of the brogue, but it was still there, slipping in and out of his words gracefully. Just like Connor’s.

“You mean your dad is charming and smart as well?”

I giggle as I drop my gaze momentarily, biting my tongue before I accidentally correct him with the past tense. Was charming and smart. Two minutes into a conversation isn’t exactly the time to be bringing up my dead parents.

There’s an easy silence between us and then Connor asks, “And why are you sitting here, all by yourself, Miss Cleary?”

I wave a dismissive hand in the air. “Oh, I was supposed to take the historical tour but I missed it. I got delayed with . . .” My thoughts drift back to my previous conversation, taking a part of my comfort with it. “An asshole,” I mutter absently.

Connor does a quick scan around us and asks with a smile. “Is the asshole still around?”

I feel my face turning red. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.” Ever since that week when Stayner made me inject a variety of swear words—of my sister’s choosing—in every sentence that came out of my mouth, I’ve found my vocabulary unintentionally more colorful. Especially when I’m upset or nervous, though I find that I’m suddenly neither, right now. “And, no. I hope he’s far away.” Deep in a well, with a slew of girls he doesn’t regret to keep him occupied.

“Well”—Connor stands and holds out a hand—“I doubt my tour will be nearly as educational but I’ve been here for three years, if you’re interested.” I don’t even hesitate, accepting his hand. Right now, there isn’t a thing I’d rather do than walk around the Princeton campus with Connor from Dublin.

It turns out that Connor from Dublin knows surprisingly little about Princeton history. He does, however make up for it with enough embarrassing personal stories. My sides hurt from laughter by the time we reach a secluded, medieval-looking courtyard outside my residence hall, one I didn’t know existed and am glad that I’ve discovered because it looks like a perfect place to study. “ . . . and they found my roommate in nothing but black socks right here the next morning,” Connor says, pointing to a wooden bench, an easy smile on his face.

Somewhere between our meeting spot and now, I started to appreciate just how attractive Connor is. I hadn’t really noticed it immediately, but it was probably because I was still so ruffled after seeing Ashton. Connor is tall with sandy blond hair—tidy but stylish—and smooth, tanned skin. His body is lean, but I can tell by the way his pressed khaki pants fit him as he walks and how his button-down checked shirt stretches across broad shoulders that he’s fit. Basically, he’s the guy I’ve always pictured myself walking around this campus with someday.

But I think it’s Connor’s smile that makes me gravitate toward him. It’s wide and genuine. There’s nothing hidden behind it, no deception.

“How do you pass your classes? It sounds like all you do is party,” I ask as I lean against the bench, pulling one knee up on the seat.

“Not as much as my roommates would like me to.” Just hearing his easy chuckle makes me sigh. “The parties are over once classes start. Until after midterms, anyway. To each their own, but I want to go home with an excellent education, not a failed liver and an STD.”

My eyes flash toward him in surprise.

“Sorry.” His cheeks flush slightly, but he quickly recovers with a grin. “I’m still a bit annoyed with them. They threw a bloody toga party on Saturday. We’re still cleaning up the house.”

My body instantly tenses. Toga party? The same toga party where I was wasted and making out with Ashton? I swallow before I manage to ask in strained whisper, “Where did you say you lived?” I have no clue where that party was, so knowing the address makes no difference. What does make a difference is whether Connor was there to witness my spectacle.