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Lila.
I should have known the universe was up to something the second Mom told me to “make myself look presentable.” She never says that. Normally it’s, “Don’t wear ripped jeans to the dinner table,” or “Lila, your hair looks like a family of birds built a duplex in it.” But “presentable”? That was a loaded word.
It was the kind of word you use when you’re about to introduce someone important. Which, apparently, was exactly what she was planning.
I stepped into the house with my duffel bag slung over one shoulder, still smelling faintly of campus laundry detergent and the bus I’d taken from school. My finals week brain was fried, and I wanted nothing more than to throw on pajamas and binge-watch garbage reality TV. Instead, the first thing I saw was him.
Damien.
He was standing in
