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or whatever else. If you cheat, you’re trash. Period.”
    The anger in his voice surprises me. His blue eyes have darkened, and he turns away from me and breaks more of the splintered wood off of the window.
    “So you’re not taking any responsibility for this yourself?” I say.
    He glances over at me. “How is this my fault?”
    “Uh, last time I checked, it takes two people to cheat.”
    “As I said before, she didn’t tell me about Luke until afterward. And as soon as I found out, I did the right thing.” He turns back to the window. “I’m not going to feel bad for her. Gracie’s a big girl. She can make her own decisions. But that doesn’t mean she won’t have to face any consequences for the bad ones.”
    Oh, how easily he wipes his hands of any responsibility. I grab another stack of books and drop it on the shelf.
    “I don’t see how beating up Luke is the ‘right thing’.”
    “That,” he replies, “is his own fault. I told him to let it go. He was the one who started throwing punches. I was just defending myself.”
    You were enjoying it , I want to say. It was all a game to you. Geez, he was a lot more attractive before he opened his mouth. I want to go back to that place where he was just that sexy, nameless handyman I threw myself at.
    Somehow, miraculously, I’ve finished with the books. I climb to my feet and turn toward the overturned table of T-shirts. My stomach instantly sinks. One thing I’ll say about arguing with cocky, auburn-haired jerks: it keeps your mind off of the things that are really bothering you.
    I’ve managed to turn the table upright before he speaks again.
    “Look, I’m not claiming to be a saint,” he says. “But I have no patience for cheaters. I don’t care what people say—cheating never ‘just happens.’ If your eye’s wandering, then there’s something wrong with your relationship. Either work things out with your partner or have the balls to break things off before jumping into bed with someone else. It’s pretty simple.”
    “So you’ve never cheated on anyone?”
    “No.” He pauses. “Not even when attractive women throw themselves at me.”
    My cheeks go hot. I thought we were past that. But I can’t stop my tongue. “So if Gracie hadn’t been in the picture, you would’ve gone through with it?”
    He’s looking at me again, but I can’t read his expression. “Gone through with what, exactl y? How far would you have gone if I hadn’t stopped you?”
    I don’t even want to know. A blow job? Full-out sex? I was in a bad place. Desperate for a distraction. For something, anything, to make me feel human again.
    When I glance up, I realize he’s no longer at the window. Instead, he’s moving slowly toward me. It takes me a moment to read the intention in his eyes, and by the time I do, it’s too late. He’s standing in front of me, and the table’s at my back. I’m trapped.
    He leans toward me, dropping his hands to the table on either side of my hips. I have to lean back if I don’t want his face to collide with mine.
    Which I don’t , I tell myself. I definitely don’t.
    His eyes are gleaming. With humor, but with something else, too—something devilish. Something wicked. He’s so close that can smell that hint of sweat I noticed on him the other day. I could probably count the loose threads along the collar of his T-shirt. There are dozens of tiny cuts on his neck, marks from the broken glass. How many more lacerations does he have beneath his shirt? On the parts of his body I can’t see?
    I tear my eyes away from his neck, trying to fight back any images of his naked chest. But when I meet his eyes again, the expression I find there is much more dangerous.
    “How far would you have taken things?” he asks, his voice low. “How far were you willing to go with a stranger?”
    One of his hands lifts off the table, and his fingers brush against my arm just above the wrist. I suppress a shiver.
    “You were willing to kiss