“Had it in my pocket last year. Have it in my pocket now. I can’t afford a diamond just yet, so it has a…”

“Orange sea glass instead,” I finish for him, my heart rioting in my chest. He grins.

“Please, for the love of G…Marx, put me out of my fucking misery and tell me you’ll be my wife. I’m not asking you to make the commitment this year. Or next year. Or maybe not even the next one. I’m asking you to make the commitment to make the commitment, and yes, I know how Dr. Phil that sounds.”

I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him so hard I think our lips might fall off. He lifts me off the ground and into the air, kissing my cheeks, my nose, my forehead, then finally, my chin.

“Shiiiiit,” he hisses. “You’re still not giving me words, Skull Eyes.”

His shirts are so perfectly whole these days. Mine, too.

“Yes, Penn Scully. It would be an honor to be your wife.”

“Thank fuck, I thought I was going to grow old and die behind this thing,” I hear from the corner of the arch and cock my head. It’s our entire football team, cheer team, Mom, Dad, Bailey, Via, Knight, Luna, Vaughn, and a girl I don’t know but have heard all about. Adriana is there, too, with Harper on her hip. Camilo has his arm wrapped around her shoulder, and they’re smiling. Not just at us, but also at each other.

Mom and Dad clap. Bailey jumps up and down. Knight gives us a thumbs-up, and Vaughn rolls his eyes but smiles. Luna, Addy, Harper, and Camilo look at us like they’ve won something. Happy in our happiness.

And that’s what good friends and families do.

They pick you up and pull you out of the mud of your own mistakes.

And when you’re not the best version of yourself? Well, they’re still there, waiting, because we’re all fucking human.

THE END

I always rewrite my books, but this one took three drafts to get right. No. Wait…four. Yes. Four, completely different versions of Daria’s story. And all of them were read by Charleigh Rose and Tijuana Turner, so suffice to say, they should be the first to get acknowledged for this book.

Also, to Lana Kart, Melissa Panio-Petersen, Sarah Grim Sentz, Amy Halter and Ava Harrison. Thanks for not hating me. I appreciate it.

To Angela Marshall Smith, Paige Smith, and Jenny Sims, my wonderful editors—I cannot thank you for not hating me, for I do not know it to be true, but thank you for always being patient with me. I appreciate it, too.

To Letitia Hasser and Stacey Blake, who always make my books pretty. Thank you for being so incredibly talented. And to Lin Tahel Cohen, my PA, for doing everything short of breathing for me. I am so awfully dependent on you.

To Helena Hunting—thanks for holding my hand. Jenn Watson—thanks for existing. And my agent, Kimberly Brower, who made this series happen even before I started writing it. You’re wow. All of you.

Special thanks to the Sassy Sparrows group, my favorite group in the universe, and to my wonderful street team, that is continuously growing, so I simply decided to start dedicating my books to them to show my appreciation, two people at a time.

Huge thanks to Social Butterfly for the wonderful PR services. Jenn, you are truly a rock and one of my favorite people in the industry. Brooke, Sarah, Nina—you ladies rock!

I would also like to thank the bloggers who took the time to read this book for no other reason than their love for the written word, and to you, the reader, for allowing me to do what I love. Please consider leaving a brief, honest review if you have time.

Always grateful,

L.J. Shen

Tyed

Sparrow

Blood to Dust

Vicious

Defy

Ruckus

Scandalous

Bane

The End Zone

Midnight Blue

Dirty Headlines

Coming Soon:

Broken Knight

Angry God

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Want to know how Jaime and Melody have met? You can read their story in Defy. Here is the first chapter of the novella, for your enjoyment.

I snailed my way out of the principal’s office toward the blistering heat of SoCal. Anger, humiliation and self-loathing coated every inch of my soul, creating a clay of desperation I was desperate to itch away.

Rock. Meet. Bottom.

I’d just found out All Saints High was not going to renew my contract as a teacher next year, unless I pulled my shit together and performed some magic that’d transform my students into attentive human beings. Principal Followhill said that I showed zero authority and that the literature classes I was teaching were falling behind. To add fuel to the fire, I found out that day that I was getting kicked out of my apartment at the end of the month. The owner had decided to remodel and move back in.

Also, the blind date I bagged through a questionable dating site just fired me a message saying he wouldn’t be able to make it because his mom wouldn’t give him her car tonight.

He was 26.

So was I.

But being picky was a luxury a woman who hadn’t seen a real-life cock in four years didn’t really have.

When did it all go wrong?

I’ll tell you when—the summer of 2009. I got accepted to Juilliard and was about to fulfill my dream and become a professional ballerina. See, this is what I worked for my whole life. My parents had to take out a loan to pay my way through dancing competitions. Boyfriends were deemed an unwelcome distraction, and my only focus was on becoming a prima ballerina, to join the Bolshoi.

Dancing was my oxygen.

When I said my goodbyes to my family and waved at them from the security point at the airport, they told me to break a leg. Three weeks into my first semester at Julliard, I literally did. Broke it in a freakish escalator accident on the subway.

It not only killed my career, dreams, and lifelong plan, but also sent me packing and back to SoCal. After a year of sulking, feeling sorry for myself and developing a steady relationship with my first (and last) boyfriend—a dude named Jack Daniels—my parents convinced me to pursue a career in teaching. My mom was a teacher. My dad was a teacher. My older brother was a teacher. They loved teaching.

I hated teaching.

This was my first—and judging by my performance, only—year at All Saints High in Todos Santos, California. Principal Followhill was one of the most influential women in town. Her polished bitchery was formidable. And she absolutely despised me from the get-go. My days under her rein were numbered.

As I approached my twelve-year-old Ford Focus, tucked between Principal Followhill’s Lexus and her son’s monstrous Range Rover (Yeah. She bought her son, a senior, a fucking luxury SUV. Why would an 18-year-old need a car so big? Maybe so it can accommodate his giant-ass ego.), I realized my situation couldn’t possibly get any worse.