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Sawyer’s age stumbled inside in a bubble of hysterical laughter. The blonde looked up and scowled at Sawyer. She recognized her from Studio Art: Emory Daughton. The girl eyed Andrew the same way Sawyer did, the same way any straight female with a pulse did. Who could blame them? That didn’t explain why Emory’s eyes turned into weapons each time she spotted Sawyer.
    The other girl dragged Emory into a stall and slammed the door, cutting off Emory’s laser-beams. Sawyer rolled her eyes. Probably doing drugs.
    Free from any further obligations for the night, Sawyer pulled her little jacket back on, covering some of her chest, and headed out to her car. On the short trip home, she thought about Courtney, and the last time she’d seen her three-year-old niece. Strawberry-blonde curls spread over her pillow, her bright green eyes staring up, pleading. Just one more story , she’d said. Begged. No child in the world loved stories more than Courtney. She had to be the only kid who asked for books as gifts, when her family had enough money to buy her anything she wanted.
    Sawyer had almost missed her bus out of New York, just to spend five more minutes with her niece. Courtney was like one of those rare flowers that sprouted up in a harsh, unforgiving climate. If only she could be there all the time to protect Courtney from the poisonous atmosphere around her. But that wasn’t Sawyer’s job. Not her place.
    As she parked, Sawyer changed mental gears, thinking instead about the art project she and Andrew spoke about earlier. She wanted to do something special, something she hadn’t done before. She lied when she told him she wasn’t good with pencils on paper. Once, another lifetime ago, art was her life, her reason for breathing. Taking the class now was her way of dipping her toes back into the pool.
    She would stick to math as her major—numbers could be controlled. Art was messy and too emotional. When she compartmentalized the horrors of her past, releasing the hold on her emotional tap wasn’t the brightest idea. She wanted to do something different. Something no one else in the class would do. Not paint or sculpture, and definitely no acid. She had enough scars.
    Sawyer reached her floor and wondered if she should head into town and find an internet café to do some searching and get ahead on some of her schoolwork. Her gaze went to Andrew’s door. Stupid. She shouldn’t get involved. Everything Sawyer touched turned to shit—her entire life served as proof.
    She had just put her key in the lock when his door opened, and Rosie bounded into the hall, followed by Andrew. He filled the doorway, his face half-hidden in shadows. His eyes shone, two impossibly blue beacons in the night.
    While Rosie licked Sawyer’s fingers, Andrew sucked in a breath and she felt his gaze moving down her body. He never lingered too long, but everywhere he looked, her skin tingled. He looked up at her and she heard him swallow.
    “Rosie,” he said, his voice rough and deep. It vibrated through her. The dog gave Sawyer’s hand one last lick and bounded back across the hall, her tail whacking the wall. “Sorry about that.”
    “It’s fine.” Sawyer wished he hadn’t seen her in this. “Um, sorry about skipping out like I did. Rachel needed my help.”
    Her mouth went dry as Andrew stepped out into the hall, wearing a pair of track pants and nothing else. The man was magnificent. The kind of model sculptors dreamed of carving into marble. Perfectly imperfect with all his scars, tattoos, and muscle. Powerful, but beautiful, too. Oh boy, those abs. If she could move at all, Sawyer would fan herself. Yep, Global Warming was all his fault.
    “No worries.” Andrew’s fingers idly moved behind Rosie’s ear. “You left your pizza here, though.”
    Sawyer shook her head. “No, it’s yours.”
    She thought he’d press the issue, but Andrew only shrugged. “Big night?” He nodded at her outfit.
    Sawyer laughed. “Like I said,