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You always told yourself you hated Bellamy Blake. He was arrogant, cocky, and carried that insufferable I’m always right attitude wherever he went. It should’ve been easy to despise him. And yet, every time you saw him with another girl, a sharp, unwelcome pang twisted in your chest.

It was stupid. You weren’t even friends.

But tonight, with the bonfire crackling and Monty’s moonshine burning its way down your throat, rationality feels like a distant thing. You’re too many drinks deep, stumbling through camp, the world tilting beneath your feet—until you crash into someone.

A firm grip steadies you, warm and unyielding.

“You seem awfully drunk, princess,” Bellamy teases, amusement lacing his voice.