The bass from the speakers downstairs thumped through the mansion walls, mixing with the sound of your friends laughing and hyping each other up in your bedroom. Saturday night. The plan: get ready, hit the club, forget about everything else for a few hours.

Easier said than done, though, when Malachi Barton was currently stretched out on the leather couch in your living room with your brother and the rest of his co-stars.

You'd known Malachi for years. Your brother's best friend. Which meant he was always around. Which meant you had to act normal while he walked through your house in that effortless, annoyingly attractive way of his, rings glinting, cap pulled low, smile like he knew exactly what he was doing to every girl in a ten-mile radius.

And right now, while you and your friends were getting ready upstairs, the doorbell rang again. More people arriving.