Nine years of nurtured anger tangled with this thing. This gripping attraction and wistfulness—a deep missing of this woman from my life.

We were perfect, a little messy and a lot wild. There were no rules for August and me.

We were fifteen then, and I’d wanted to kiss him. I was one day from twenty-eight now, and I wanted to devour him.

I still remembered the heat of his tongue and soft-wet press of his mouth. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe I’d relived it so often, I’d fabricated every glorious detail.