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I know that voice.

No.

No, no, no.

I turn to run, but a hand closes around my wrist.

“Blair Collins.”

I scream—

I bolt upright, my scream trapped somewhere between my chest and my throat.

For a few seconds, I don’t know where I am.

Dark room. Closed door. Window.

My heart slams against my ribs.

Hartwell.

I’m in Hartwell.

He isn’t here.

My phone is sitting on the nightstand.

Before I can stop myself, I pick it up.

YOUR FAVORITE MECHANIC

My thumb hovers over his name. I don’t even know what I would say.

Hey, sorry to wake you. I had a nightmare, and apparently you’re the first person I thought of.

Absolutely fucking not.

Instead, I get out of bed and splash cold water over my face until my heart stops trying to punch its way out of my chest.

Then I make some tea.

* * *

By Saturday, I’ve managed to shove Sunday night back into the box in my head where it belongs. I’ve also spent the entire week convincing myself this isn’t a date.

G has been no help. She’s sent me daily texts insisting it absolutely is, and now she’s sitting on my bed flipping through an old issue of Vogue while I stare hopelessly into my closet.

“You’re being incredibly helpful,” I tell her through the mirror.

G turns another page. “I told you to wear the skirt.”

“You’ve told me to wear every skirt I own.”

She lowers the magazine. “Because Dean has eyes.”

I roll mine, still no closer to deciding what to wear.

“Shit, hold up. I forgot something.” G tosses the magazine aside and jumps off the bed. “Wait there.”