Page 1 of The Romance Rivalry

Prologue

virgin romance

As a perpetual people pleaser, having a pair of very annoyed, possibly angry, definitely humiliated eyes glaring at me is my worst nightmare.

It’s my senior prom. And honestly, the last place I thought I’d end up is in a limo with a group of mostly strangers. To my left is my cousin Jamie, technically the reason I’m in this mess, who is currently straddling a guy I’m not sure I’ve ever even seen around campus (though, granted, it’s a very large school), with her tongue down his throat. Next to them, the class president has his hand up the dress of the shoo-in for valedictorian as she moans andoh my gods... honestly a little too loudly for such a small, occupied area if you ask me. There’s another couple to my right, but after catching a glimpse of an indecent amount of bare skin in my peripheralvision, I’m actively trying very hard to avoid looking in that direction.

And then, sitting directly across from me, in a space so narrow our knees are almost touching and where I’m certain I can feel the heated fumes of his angry breathing, is Liam Davis.

Liam and I were freshman lab partners and, in the years since then, he’s had just enough of a glow-up to be in the group of popular guys at our school, but never the main character. He’s the classic second lead—or in the case of our prom night, the fourth lead, I guess—charming and lovable enough, but never gets the girl.

Especially if the only girl left in this scenario is me.

Jamie and I aren’t even that close. She barely acknowledges me at school. So when she asked me into her group for prom, I was not only shocked, but pretty certain it was a pity invite.

“We’ll be each other’s dates,” she said.

“Girls’ night, just the single ladies,” she promised.

That didn’t sound too awful.

“Plus,everyone else will be there...” she pointed out, letting me come to my own conclusion as to what it would mean if I didn’t agree to come along. “And who knows, maybe you’ll finally hook up with someone.”

So much for just the girls. But I appreciated her concern for my social and romantic statuses, I guess.

And maybe I should have expected it. That the moment we got to the prom, my group of single girlfriends immediately found a group of single guy friends. People started pairing up within minutes of arriving. And there I was, stuck with the one remaining unclaimed guy.

Liam Davis.

There’s nothing wrong with Liam—there’s just plenty wrong with me. I’m bad with social cues, I don’t like anyone crowding my personal space, and I’m tortured by making decisions without ample thought and a solid plan.

So when Liam waggled his eyebrows at me, then started following me around the dance, getting handsier as his contraband flask of tequila got emptier, I didn’t have time to think of what the best approach might be with someone I had to spend the next few hours with. I just politely told him I wasn’t interested.

Okay, so the words might have more accurately been “Absofuckinglutely not.”

That didn’t go over well with his fragile ego, and he’s been pouting ever since.

Across from me, he releases a deep, frustrated sigh, followed by “What a prude. She’s not even that pretty,” mumbled under his alcohol-laden breath loudly enough for me to hear. He lifts his flask to his mouth, trying to capture the last drops within to drown out his bad fortune.

The word “sorry” sits at the tip of my tongue. I say it all the time. It’s my go-to when I think there’s going to be some kind of confrontation. But I force it back, not wanting to bring any more attention to myself.

Good times.

I should be loving all of this, right? Dancing. Drinking. Hookups. The freedom of one last high school hurrah?

I don’t think I even had a first high school hurrah, or any in between. I’m not a “hurrah” type of person, I’m finding.

Instead, I’m trapped in this limo, twenty years past its prime, trying hard not to succumb to my curiosity of what happened in here to have certain parts of the leatherette patched together with duct tape that looks like it’s holding on for dear life. I do not want to know the details. The smell of Axe body wash mixed with the slight sourness of stale breath and bodies forces me to breathe through my nose. Crooked bow ties. Flakes of dried mascara on cheeks.

I feel like I’m trying to cram my life into a shoe a half size too small.

It doesn’t fit.

I don’t fit.

I knew I should have stayed home. I’d be in my comfiest pair of sweats right now, reading the newest alien romance book I have on my e-reader.

In fact...

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