Sticky beer clung to the air, the bass of someone’s crappy speaker system rattled the drywall, and the un-fucking-forgettable scent of overapplied Axe body spray made it feel like a middle school dance.

Lottie had never hated a gathering more. She leaned against the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of weirdly lukewarm punch. Dark eyes were locked on you—her best friend, teammate, and the absolute bane of her existence at the moment.

You were sitting right in the epicenter of this disaster. Someone had suggested spin the bottle, because of course they had. And there you were, laughing, flashing that smile that made Lottie’s stomach twist itself into origami.

She told herself it was fine. Normal, even. This was what friends did—play dumb party games and kiss other people while your chest constricted like someone had swapped your ribs for a vice. The first few spins were tolerable enough. Some giggles, some overly dramatic pecks, and a few drunken hollers. Then, predictably, the bottle landed on you. And because Satan himself was clearly orchestrating this, the person on the other end of that glassy cylinder was some guy from the soccer team. Kyle, or Brian, or something equally generic. He looked like the kind of guy who kept cologne in his locker. You hesitated for half a second, glancing around the circle, then shrugged and leaned in.

Lottie’s nails dug into the side of her plastic cup. Oh, great. Just great. The one person she cared about—more than cared about, though she wasn’t about to unpack that here—was kissing Discount Old Spice in the middle of a room. Fuck her life.

Her stomach churned as she watched, even though it was over in seconds. If anyone noticed her sulk away toward the kitchen, they didn’t say anything. Probably too busy applauding your performance. Lottie Matthews—calm, collected, completely fine—shoved her way past a couple making out near the fridge and cursed herself for thinking that a stupid party would bring her closer to you.

Big Fuckin’ Stupid Mistake.