Chapter 1

My nemesis and I had just finished screaming at each other when a hanging sign came down and knocked me out.

When I woke up, I decided to fake amnesia and shake him down for a payout.

"Who are you?"

His eyes went red. He didn't even blink. "Your fiancé. We've been engaged three years. The wedding's booked."

Me: ???

Him: "Don't believe me? Then... bite my mouth. See if you recognize the taste."

Men. Absolute dogs.

I wanted his work. He wanted my mouth.

· · ·

Asher Quinn and I grew up across the hall from each other.

The year we turned eighteen, we made it official: nemeses.

On paper, we were a fairy tale. Family friends. Childhood sweethearts. He looked like that. I looked like this. Everyone said we were supposed to fit.

We just couldn't stand each other.

Meetings, we sniped across the table. Hallways, we stepped half a body apart on purpose. The names we saved for each other on our phones were so ugly that if a parent ever saw them, someone would call the cops.

Mine for him: The Mule.

His for me, I didn't know. Knowing this mule, it wasn't a compliment.

This morning's fuse was brutally practical.

Design Week. The lead designer gig. One spot left.

I had been watching that project for half a year. Budget. Press. Finish it, and Lang Exhibits walked into the first tier overnight.

I filed last night. I opened the system this morning — status: claimed by Quinn Design.

He beat me to it.

I didn't even get my coat on straight. I went straight up to his top-floor studio.

Outside, the sky was that sick green before a blizzard. Alerts stacked on my phone. Inside, it was too warm. Paper, samples, coffee, all in one breath.

He sat behind the drafting table, long legs crossed, a pencil spinning in his fingers. The door banged. He didn't look up.

"Asher." I slapped the screenshot onto his desk. "Feels good, stealing food out of my bowl?"

The pencil stopped.

He finally lifted his eyes. Pale. Like he was looking at a bad render. "Eve. That spot isn't yours."

"I watched it for six months."

"So did I." Unhurried. "Whoever hits confirm first gets the gig. That's the rule."

My temple ticked. "I can't stand you."

He muttered something. Low. The AC ate it. I didn't catch it, and I didn't ask. If I had, it would have been another dig.

My phone rang.

My assistant's voice was tight. "Evie. Hayes just called. Gareth's flight landed. We can meet tonight. If we lock partnering on the Hayes show, the lead designer gig... we might still have a shot."

I left it on speaker. I let my eyes scrape across Asher on purpose.

Gareth Hayes had been in my class in high school. An old classmate. Easier to reason with than a nemesis.

Asher heard the name Gareth and came out of the chair like it had burned him.

The pencil hit the table. Crack. It rolled to my foot.

"Eve. You're not going to see him." His throat was tight. "I need to talk to you."

"About what?" I picked up the pencil and threw it back. "How righteous you are for taking my project?"

"That's not—"

"I'm going." I cut him off and turned. "Who do you think you are? You don't get a vote."

Chair legs screamed on the floor behind me. He took maybe two steps and stopped. I didn't look back.

I shoved out of Quinn Design into wind that already had ice in it. Across the street, a city billboard was rocking. On the second floor, the hanging sign they'd put up for Design Week — the clips were ringing.

I looked up. Just in time to see a metal clip blow.

Something heavy hit the back of my skull. The world went white.

The last thing in my eyes, before I went under, was Asher coming at me on his hands and knees. Coat flying. Face furious and scared at once. His mouth moving like he was shouting my name.

He wouldn't be checking if I was dead so he could keep the gig to himself, right?

Cold.

· · ·

When the lights came back, it smelled like antiseptic.

The tube overhead was too white. Someone was talking with his voice pressed down, the words leaking into my ear in pieces.

"Miss Lang is fine. Mild concussion. She may be dizzy and nauseous for a bit. Rest at home."

"Then why isn't she awake? Could there be lingering damage?"

I knew that voice. Asher. Tight. The end of it floating.

The doctor paused, awkward. "Ah. Miss Lang is... asleep."

Me, faking unconscious: ...

I blacked out for one second and then took a nap?

My brain started running.

Mom and Dad were at a snow-season hot spring with his parents. Nobody home. I was sick of the office cafeteria, and Aunt June's scallion noodles at the Quinn house could kill a person. More important: he took my job. I needed to get even.

So. Use the concussion. Shake Asher down.

Fake amnesia. Park myself at his place. Eat his food. Drink his coffee. Talk a payout out of him. Perfect.

I was still doing the math when my eyelid betrayed me and fluttered.

A nurse yelped. "Mr. Quinn — Miss Lang is awake!"

Shit. I wasn't ready.

Act. Best Actress, possess me.

I opened my eyes slow and set the focus to blank, like the world was new.

Asher almost launched to the bed. Shadows under his eyes. Collar wrecked. Like he'd been squatting in the hallway for hours. He waved a hand in front of my face. "Eve Lang. How many?"

The hand was a blur. I couldn't see a damn thing.

So I put my fingers to my temple, made the voice soft, the confusion priced just right:

"I don't know... but — who are you?"

The air stopped for a second.

Asher froze. He whipped around and pinned the doctor. "You said she was fine. Why does she have amnesia?"

The doctor visibly panicked. The pen spun in his fingers. "That shouldn't — that shouldn't—" It took him a while to find the professional voice. "The patient may have a short-term memory disturbance. No need to worry too much. Most people come back quickly."

I smiled at the doctor, then looked at Asher. To lock it in, I asked it again, lost:

"Who are you?"

That performance could have taken half the industry out at the knees.

Asher looked at me for a long time. Complicated. Like he was checking, and like he was grabbing a chance he was not supposed to have. He hesitated. His throat moved.

"I'm your fiancé. We've been engaged three years. We get married next spring. The hotel's already booked."

Me: ???

This dog. Did he see through me and decide to play me back?

Then his hand landed on the top of my head. Palm warm. Careful, like I might break. "Evie. It's okay. I'll take you home."

I—

Either I had lost my mind, or he had.

I stared at him, stunned, and that was when I saw it. His eyes were red. The corners were still wet. Like he'd been crying.

Damn. The storm outside was that bad.

Asher Quinn, tearing up in the wind.

Maybe my face was too shocked. He cleared his throat. The tips of his ears went pink. "What. Still don't believe me? Then... bite my mouth. See if you recognize the taste."

I hadn't even caught up when he turned his face away, ears on fire, and walked it back himself. "Kidding. Kidding. There are people here."

I blinked. I did not see a joke.

His eyes had been stuck to my mouth. That look. He really wanted to bite.

No.

I just wanted his work and a payout—

Why did it feel like he wanted my mouth?