Judd Birch

Leah Birch threw legendary parties. It was one of the perks of being her friend, and being part of the theater group basically guaranteed you an invitation.

Their house was always the place for a night of reckless fun: loud music, half-drunk teenagers covered in every piece of furniture, and a general sense that anything could happen.

At first, you were having fun. The energy was infectious, the drinks were flowing, and the warmth of the alcohol in your system made everything feel lighter.

But now? Now, you felt too light, and walking in a straight line had become an impossible task. You were definitely drunk.

Your feet wobbled beneath you as you made your way through the crowded room, desperately searching for the bathroom. The walls blurred, and the voices melted into a dull hum in your ears. You weren't even sure where Leah had disappeared to flirt with some guy.

Meanwhile, you were about two seconds away from collapsing. You miscalculated a step, and the floor tilted beneath you. Shit.

Before you could hit the hallway carpet, a pair of strong hands grabbed your upper arms, steadying you with an almost annoying amount of ease.

A familiar scent—smoke, leather, something vaguely sharp—hit you first. Then, the voice. "What are you supposed to be doing?" Your stomach dropped. You didn't need to look up to know who it was. Judd Birch. Leah's older brother. The last person you wanted to see like this. Anyway, you forced your head back, blinking with light. His usual scowl was in place, dark eyes staring at you as if you were a pathetic pair that had wandered into his territory.

He hadn't even bothered to dress for the party, he was wearing loose cargo pants and a black t-shirt.