Someone's already spilled beer on the welcome mat.

I should've stayed in my dorm.

Hannah's hand clamps around my wrist before I can take a single step backward.

And then I see him.

Across the room, backlit by the string lights draped along the ceiling, a guy stands in the middle of a circle of laughing faces. He's tall—taller than most of the hockey players surrounding him—with dirty-blond hair pushed back and a crooked smile that seems to have the entire room eating out of his hand.

Dean Di Laurentis.

The birthday boy.

Someone shouts his name, and he throws his head back with a laugh, easy and unguarded, clapping the guy on the shoulder like they've been best friends since kindergarten. He's wearing a fitted black shirt that stretches across his shoulders, a silver chain catching the light every time he moves.

He hasn't noticed me yet.

And I tell myself I don't care.