It started with a kiss. Admittedly, it was a moment of weakness on my part. But even the strong-willed have been known to fall for a hard body underneath a tailored suit and a five o’clock shadow coating a sharp jawline. It didn’t matter that Jackson St. James was nothing but trouble. Trouble was just my type. Been there. Done him. Not making that mistake again. We were friends, a low-key affair we designed ourselves—over before we began. After all, together we made no sense. Jackson is into sports. I prefer the arts. He gulps beer. I sip champagne. While I might not be described as humble, his arrogance is through the roof. But when he asks if we can talk, my traitorous Louboutins come to a full stop. Although I’ve seen enough movies to know how these conversations go, maybe, just maybe, he’ll surprise me. He has before . . . We may have started with a kiss, but how will we end?