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staring. What the hell am I doing? I can’t kiss him! He’s passed out. How desperate am I?
    I’m chastising myself, hovering over him when his lids flicker open. All of a sudden I’m staring at the blue-gray irises that mesmerized me earlier, only this time I’m so close I could be lying on top of him.
    The corner of his eyes narrow, and he exhales a ragged breath. Everything in my body tightens. His gaze holds mine, and I feel what I felt in the hallway—magnetic energy pulling the loop that runs between my heart and head toward him. His expression softens, and I see recognition. “Peep.” His voice is gravelly, but he sounds relieved. It’s the second syllable he’s said to me—barely audible, at that—but giddiness fills my stomach, ballooning into my heart.
    “Thank you,” he says, his voice fading from the effort. Lids close and everything disappears. His chest sinks, and the slow, even sounds of restful breathing resume. I lean back. Phew. He’s going to pass out again. For a minute there I thought I was totally busted.
    I gasp loudly, sucking air. His big hand has locked around my wrist, and I’m stumbling, trying to pull back as he sits up. I’m busted.

Chapter Two
    Preston
    I’m having the best dream—Little Bo Peep from the Rathskeller bar, complete with round green eyes, long flaxen hair, tight corset and white stockings, is about to kiss me. Fantasizing about Mother Goose characters isn’t usually my thing, but this one is seriously working for me.
    An image strikes my mind like lightning, illuminating the vision of my dream girl twirling a bo staff. That can’t be right. I shake my head. Twice. The imprint of a fist burns my jaw. Shit. Little Bo Peep jumped into the bar fight, and I’m in jail with her.
    I grab her wrist and pull her gently toward me. I blink as I sit up, trying to blow the dust out of my brain. I’ve been knocked half unconscious on the football field plenty of times. I’m usually pretty good at putting the pieces back together, but this makes no sense. “Are you all right?”
    Her mouth hangs in a perfect O as she stammers. “I’m sorry—I didn’t think you’d mind…”
    “Jesus, why would you do that?” I ask, frustration and confusion spilling out in my harsh tone.
    “I just wanted to wake you up…”
    “Wake me up? In a bar fight?” Her fingers curl around mine, and she lets out a soft squeak. My grip is too firm, and I release immediately, taking a breath. Uncertainty clouds her expression as I stand. My head starts to pound, and I feel the burn in my ribs.
    “Jumping in like that was a dumb ass thing to do…” I growl, closing my eyes and pressing my thumb against my temple. I feel her step close to my body, and when I open my eyes, she’s inches from my face.
    “Did you just call me a dumb ass? Seriously? For jumping in and helping you?” I could almost laugh. Little Bo Peep looks like a rag doll that’s been left out in a wind storm, and from the fierce expression on her face, I think she’s about to chew me up and spit me out. Brave girl.
    “I didn’t call you a dumb ass. I said it was a dumb ass thing to do.” Her pale green eyes are lit with amber sparks, and a charcoal-like smudge makes a half moon on the flawless skin of one cheek, ending at her bottom lip.
    I’m about to apologize, but the tip of her finger rises.
    “ You were getting your drunken ass kicked, and I saved you,” she says, jabbing it to within an inch of my nose. “If it hadn’t been for me, you’d still be lying in that parking lot bruised and bloody—or worse.”
    She’s probably right about that. I owe her more than a jackass response. I raise my hands in concession, but before I can get them into her sightline, she slaps my chest and starts to shove. I trap her hands under mine.
    “Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry.” I hold her hands to my chest and let out a breath. “I feel like shit, and this is a nightmare for me. I’m an athlete and