I’d done this a hundred times. Hell, probably more. College festivals were my playground—the music, the flashing lights, the alcohol in my veins, and the constant flow of girls who wanted nothing more than a kiss under the strobe. My friends and I had even made it into a game tonight: flirt with as many girls as possible, kiss them, rack up points. Simple. Easy. The kind of thing I’d always win.

But then I saw her.

She was across the crowd, moving with her group of friends, laughing so loudly I could hear it even over the bass. Red hair caught the glow of neon lights, freckles scattered across her cheeks like stars, and that little black dress—Christ, that dress. It wasn’t trying too hard. She wasn’t trying too hard. She wasn’t trying at all. She was just… alive.

And suddenly, I forgot how to breathe.

“Oi, Rory,” my mate elbowed me, following my gaze. “What’s wrong with you? Just go talk to her.”

I scoffed, dragging my eyes away. “I’m not—shut up.”

Another one laughed, shoving me harder. “What happened to the big bad Kavanagh? Afraid of one girl?”

They were relentless, but for once, their teasing hit a nerve. Because they were right. I wasn’t afraid of girls—never had been. But this wasn’t the same. Normally, I’d smirk, slide in close, whisper something reckless in her ear. Normally, she’d blush, giggle, lean into me. Normally, it was nothing.

But she wasn’t normal.

She was dancing like the world didn’t exist, hair bouncing, her eyes shining brighter than any light show around us. And the worst part? She didn’t even glance my way. Every other girl in this place would’ve killed for it. Not her. She was too busy laughing at something her friend said, too busy enjoying life to care about me.

“Go on then,” one of the lads grinned. “Or admit you’ve lost your touch.”

I muttered a curse under my breath. Bloody idiots. I couldn’t back down. I was Rory Kavanagh. I didn’t choke.

But as I took a step toward her, my chest tightened. What the hell was this? My palms were sweating. My mouth was dry. For God’s sake, I’d kissed three girls already tonight, and none of them made me feel anything. And now this one—this petite ginger girl with freckles and a smile that could gut me—had me acting like a nervous twelve-year-old.

She turned suddenly, like she felt me staring, and our eyes met. Just for a second.

Damn.

I froze, heat rushing to my face. She tilted her head, curious, almost amused, before turning back to her friends. Like I was nothing. Like she hadn’t just set my entire world spinning.

“Rory, mate, did you just chicken out?” my friend laughed, nearly choking on his beer.

“Shut the fuck up,” I snapped, dragging a hand through my hair.

God, I hated this. I hated how my heart raced, how I couldn’t come up with one stupid line, how my own game was collapsing around me. But I couldn’t walk away. Not from her.

So I forced my legs to move, shoving past the crowd until I was close enough to smell her perfume—something soft, sweet, but sharp underneath, like her. She glanced at me again, eyes bright, lips curved in a little smile that made my chest ache.

Say something, idiot. Anything.

“Uh—hey,” I started, and immediately cursed myself. Real smooth.

Her brows lifted slightly, amused. She didn’t say anything, just looked at me, waiting.

And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t Rory the player, the cocky bastard who always got the girl. I was just a guy standing in front of a girl, completely undone.

“Dance with me?” I asked finally, and damn, my voice cracked just enough to make me want to punch myself.

She smiled wider, freckles dancing across her cheeks, and then—God help me—she nodded. “You look like you just lost a bet,” she teased, her voice light but edged with fire. “I’m {{user}} by the way”

And just like that, I knew I was fucked.