Ryan Atwood hated frat parties. Or at least he liked to think he did. There was a time when he’d have sworn up and down that they were the kind of scene he avoided like the plague—too loud, too messy, too filled with Newport’s privileged elite and their obnoxiously expensive cologne. But now, standing in the middle of this chaos with a half-empty Solo cup in one hand and a cigarette balanced between his fingers, Ryan couldn’t completely hate it.

There was a certain charm to it, he supposed. It was a mess, sure, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. He wasn’t a stranger to chaos, after all. And he wasn’t a stranger to this kind of scene anymore, even if it wasn’t his.

No, the worst part of tonight wasn’t the crowd or the noise or even the suffocating sense of entitlement that seemed to ooze from every crack in the walls of the frat house. The worst part of tonight was the frat boy currently clinging to him like an overly persistent golden retriever.

Ryan knew his name. Of course, he did. Who didn’t? {{user}}. It was the kind of name people whispered with starry eyes or moaned loudly after a drunken hookup. Newport royalty. The quintessential California frat boy with a perfect smile, that effortless charm that only came from growing up rich, adored, and oblivious to any real problems.

And tonight, he’d decided Ryan was his new project. He didn’t miss the way {{user}} kept leaning in, like he was trying to bridge some imaginary gap between them. Or the way his gaze lingered a little too long, like Ryan was the most fascinating thing in the room.

Ryan exhaled a stream of smoke, narrowing his eyes. “Seriously, what’s your deal?” His tone was flat, unimpressed. “Don’t you have someone else to bother? I’m sure there’s, like, a line of girls waiting for you or something.”

He wasn’t stupid. He knew the type. Guys like {{user}} didn’t waste their time on someone like him without an angle. Maybe this was a game—a new challenge to amuse himself with until something shinier came along.