Page 8 of Twisted Control

And I need to get home before my father wakes up and sees exactly what kind of daughter he raised.

Twenty minutes later I’m back in last night’s dress, but I’ve convinced Drew to let me steal one of his sweaters. I roll the sleeves three times and knot the hem at my waist. The oversized burgundy knit over the short black dress shouldn’t work, but it does. It looks expensive, casual and just rumpled enough to look intentional. The heels are ridiculous with it, but it’s the best I can do. I twist my damp hair into a loose bun.

Drew is stripping the bed, wearing low-slung navy sweatpants and a fitted white T-shirt that clings to every hard line of his chest. The sight does dangerous things to my pulse.

“You’ll have to come back to return it,” he says, not quite asking.

“No,” I reply. “It’s mine now.”

He grins—a disarming smile that feels a little too dangerous. Then I watch him efficiently yank the sheets off the mattress, quick and practiced, like he’s done it a hundred times before. Reality crashes back in.

I was the one who approached him, but I’m not special. He probably does this every weekend—makes some woman feel electric for a night, then strips the bed and moves on.

“Goodbye,” I say, grabbing my bag.

He moves faster than I expect, stepping in front of me and blocking the door with his broad frame.

“You didn’t give me your number.”

“I didn’t offer it.”

He frowns, genuinely confused. “Take mine. Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“Surprise pregnancy.”

I let out a startled laugh. “I’m on birth control and we used condoms. There’s zero chance.”

He doesn’t move. “Come on. You almost killed me last night. The least you can do is take my number.”

I really need to get home before my father wakes up. Playing along is probably the fastest way out.

I unlock my phone—noting the thirty-six missed calls from my father—and hand it over. Drew types quickly, then gives it back.

“Perfect,” he says. “I’ve got work this morning, but I’ll call you this afternoon.”

He still doesn’t realize I never gave him my number. I’m not about to correct him. He won’t call anyway.

And even if he did, the second he learns my name and what I did on television, he’d quickly disappear.

I give him the same polite smile I’ve used at a thousand charity events.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll be waiting by the phone.”

3

GRACE

The cab turns onto our street and my stomach drops the second I spot Max’s mother’s estate, sitting there all smug and perfect right next door to ours.

That was supposed to be the cute part of our fake love story—the whole “childhood neighbors” thing the producers loved so much. Max and I grew up next door to each other, isn’t that just adorable?

The truth is, I barely had anything to do with the Carters when we were kids. Sure, we were neighbors, but we might as well have lived on different planets.

The cab stops at our gate. I pay the driver, punch in the code, and start the long, steep walk up the driveway.

I live here with Dad and Finn. Mom did too, until about a year ago. She hasn’t spoken to me since the day she packed her bags and walked out.