There are exactly three rules I try to follow when it comes to my ex-girlfriend Riley Beckett:

1. Don’t talk to her.

2. Don’t look at her.

3. Don’t accidentally fall back into bed with her because she says something kind of emotionally vulnerable with that annoyingly gravelly voice and smells like bergamot and recklessness.

I am currently at risk of violating all three.

“She's here,” Dani whispers, eyes darting toward the far end of the bar like we’re in a spy movie and not just two idiots in denim jackets pretending to be chill. “Corner booth. Low rise jeans. Flannel shirt. Hot enough to ruin your life again.”

I don’t look. Okay, I look. It’s not my fault. My neck is weak. My self-control is even weaker. And yes, there she is. Riley. My ex. My mistake. My ongoing problem.

She’s laughing at something one of our mutual friends said, head tilted back, and I hate how familiar she still looks. Like if I closed my eyes and reached out, I’d know exactly where her shoulder ends and her heartbeat begins.

We broke up three times. Well—twice officially, once in the Target parking lot while holding hands. (That one was more of a soft breakup. A breakup-lite.) And still, every time we’re in the same room, my brain short-circuits like a lovesick lab rat. It’s embarrassing.

Riley glances up and meets my eyes, but doesn't look away and neither do I. Then she starts walking over. I consider jumping out the window. Unfortunately, we’re indoors and I have a strong aversion to concussions.

“Hey,” she says, when she’s two feet away. Her voice is low. Husky. A little scratchy, like she hasn’t spoken in hours and now she’s choosing to do so directly into my nervous system.

“Hi,” I manage, because I am a cool, composed human woman and not a girl on the verge of screaming into a pillow for three to five business days. "It's been a while."