“There’s absolutely nothing here to make me think I was having an affair.”

She grabs my phone from my hand and does her own scroll-through. “Maybe the guy’s just some nut job,” she says, shuddering. “God. I hope he doesn’t come back.”

“Me too.” But even if he is a nut job, that doesn’t explain what he knew about me…or the way my chest ached when I watched him leave.

September—Eleven Months Before Accident

The minute I walk into Max Hallowell’s health club, I feel like I’m wearing a giant neon sign that says I don’t belong here. It’s not that I don’t work out. Hell, I work out more than most of the skinny girls I know. But I do it in private. At home or in my mom’s basement. Never in a downtown health club where everyone can stare at me and wonder how soon I’ll give it up and go on a Hostess run. Because that’s what people think about fat chicks. They assume we’re lazy and don’t work out. They assume we eat Little Debbie Cakes three times a day and don’t touch fruits or vegetables.

“Hanna!” Max calls from the back. He’s squatting as he stacks weights by the chest press. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Returning his smile, I look around but don’t see anyone I know. The club is slow right now, only a couple of senior citizens occupying the treadmills on the far side of the room. “I wanted to, um, maybe sign up for personal training.”

He pushes off the ground and wipes his hands on his shorts as he crosses to me. His smile is wide and white and so damn sincere I want to melt under it. “Tell me what you have in mind. I’ll see who I can hook you up with. I have a couple of female trainers but their specialties are different, so it just depends on what your goals are.”

My heart stumbles in my chest from being this close to Max. I have to tilt my chin up just to see his face. “I was hoping you could do it?” It comes out as a question, a far cry from the flirty, suggestive tone Lizzy used when we planned this.

Surprise flashes over his face. “Me? Really?”

“If you can fit me in, that would be my preference.” I can’t believe this comes as a surprise to him. Women all over town pay to train with Max just so they can admire his body while he puts them through suicide drills. An hour of watching his muscles flex under his T-shirt is enough motivation to do most anything.

“I’d love to train with you. Let’s sit down and talk about what you want to accomplish.”

He pulls out a stool by the bar, and I climb onto it and cross my legs nervously. He takes the spot next to me.

“Okay.” He grabs a notebook and pen from the other side of the bar. “Let’s start with long-term goals and break them down to short-term. Where do you see yourself in twelve months?”

Sexy, skinny, and na**d in your bed.

“Fitness-wise,” he clarifies with a wink.

My cheeks burn as if he can read my thoughts. I tuck my hair behind my ear. I came ready to work out. Kind of. I’d normally wear my hair up to work out, but Lizzy insisted it was sexier to wear it down.

“I’d like to run a half marathon next summer.”

Truth is, I have no desire to run a marathon—half or otherwise. I just want to lose weight and get Max to notice me. I exercise regularly, but I hate running with the fiery intensity of a thousand suns. But Max is a runner. He runs all the time, and since this is all about spending time with him, I’ve decided I’m going to be a runner too.

“That’s totally doable.” Max writes Run half marathon on his notepad. “Are you a runner now or are we starting from scratch?”

“Do I look like a runner?” I regret the question as soon as it’s out of my mouth. Lizzy gave me strict instructions to leave my self-deprecating humor at home. She doesn’t get that it’s a Fat Girl Coping Mechanism. She wouldn’t get that. How could she? “Sorry. I mean, I haven’t done much running. My mom made me when I was in junior high—a mile every night after school. I hated it. I want to learn to love it—on my terms—but I haven’t done much since I started college.”

“A year is plenty of time,” Max assures me. “I mean, you’re obviously fit, so I bet we’re still working with a pretty impressive baseline.”

Obviously fit? No one has ever said that to me before.

He grins. “Why are you blushing?”

Because you’re looking at me. “I guess this is all a little embarrassing.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he says. “You know what you want, and I’ll make sure you get it.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

Present Day

“I can’t wait to get drunk,” Lizzy calls from my bathroom, where she’s putting on her makeup. “Are you going to get drunk with me or are you still obsessing about calories?”

“I might drink some.” I force a smile.

I guess if I’m going to keep the body I spent the last year finding, I’ll need to keep some of the new habits Lizzy finds so annoying. But right now I’m too worried about potentially being a cheating bitch to give my habits—new or old—much thought. Anyway, Dr. Perkins seemed to think I shouldn’t be counting calories. Though I’m not sure a pitcher of daiquiris is what she had in mind either.

Truth be told, I’m terrified to go to this party. What if I run into Mr. Hulk Tattoo? What if he outs our relationship—or whatever it was—to everyone? But I can’t spend the rest of my life hiding in my apartment, so I’m going.

“Is Max coming?”

I shake my head. “He has a late client and can’t make it.”

Lizzy flips her head upside down and adds some sort of magic curling goo to it. “You know what I’d like?” she asks as she scrunches handfuls of hair.

I plug in my flat iron and lean against the doorframe while I wait for it to warm. “What would you like?”

“One hot f**king night with Nate Crane.”

I nearly choke on my tongue laughing. “Asher’s rocker friend?”

“What? Maggie has Asher. Why can’t I have Nate?” She flips her head back up and wriggles her eyebrows at me. “Tell me you wouldn’t sacrifice everything to have a night of dirty, no-holds-barred sex with Mr. Rock God.”

I just shrug. “I have Max.”

She rolls her eyes. “Right. Max and Mr. Hulk Tattoo, meaning you got more sexy male ass last night than I’ve had in the last six months. Yet another reason I deserve a night with Crane. I’m the only one around here who isn’t getting any.”

“Poor thing.”

“You have no idea. Max can’t keep his hands off you.”

I frown at my reflection and run my finger along my newly defined jawline. Max can’t keep his hands off me. I wonder if that started before or after I lost the weight.

She digs through my makeup bag. “So any revelations about last night’s mystery visitor?”

“None.” Stupid amnesia.

“Well, I vote that he was some nut job. You should really call the cops. The guy’s probably stalking you or something.”

“I don’t think I want to do that. Not yet.”

“But you’re going to tell Max, aren’t you?”

Anxiety lodges like a wet ball in my throat. “I just want to have more information before I tell him anything.”

“Hanna, this is serious. I saw a 60 Minutes episode once about a guy who imagined he had this whole relationship with the woman he was stalking. He watched her all the time, so in his mind they were together. Then she started dating someone and the dude flipped out and pulled a gun on him.”

I turn and she’s staring at me, worry in her bright blue eyes. I don’t know how to explain to her that my heart told me I could trust this guy. “There’s too much we don’t know. I don’t want to screw things up with Max for nothing. I need to get some facts straight. That’s all.”

“Okay.” Her eyes brim with tears. She lunges forward and wraps her arms around me. “I’ve missed this.”

“What?”

“My sister. I’ve missed talking about things. Confiding in each other. You have no idea how lonely it’s been for me these last few months.”

“I hope I never have to find out,” I whisper, and she squeezes me even harder.

By the time the party rolls around, I’m already anxious for an excuse to leave. I just want to go home and make out with Max until I’m confident I haven’t screwed up a good thing.

It’s a hot night, and Lizzy vetoed my jeans and T-shirt for a short denim skirt and halter that look surprisingly impressive on my new body. The halter shows off my sculpted shoulders—apparently I’ve been lifting weights with Max—and the skirt shows my toned runner’s legs. I top the outfit off with strappy black heels and throw my hair in a twist. Despite the bruise on my right arm and the side of my face, I feel so sexy I snap a picture of myself in the mirror and send it to Max with the caption, Wish you were coming tonight.

Two minutes later, I’m treated to his reply.

Max: I don’t want to wait any longer than I have to. The club closes at nine. Meet me here.

His words send hot tingles of nerves and arousal rushing to my center.

Hanna: It’s a date.

I’m still grinning at my phone when I hear Lizzy whistle. “Damn, girl.”

“I know, right? Who knew I could look like this?”

She frowns. “You were sexy before you lost the weight. I was referring to the way you’re glowing.”

“Oh.” I press my phone to my chest. “I hope I didn’t screw things up. Max is… He’s amazing.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for all of this. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

When we walk into Asher’s, Maggie greets us at the door in a white sundress and bare feet. “You made it! I’m so glad!”

“We’re on a mission.” I grin and nod toward Lizzy. “My twin would like to seduce your musician friend.”

“You’re going to seduce Nate?” Maggie asks, skepticism all over her face.

“Unless you’re planning on sharing Asher.”

Maggie snorts. “As if. But Nate? Really? The guy sitting in my basement in a Spider-Man shirt?”

Lizzy scoffs. “Have you heard that voice? God concentrated sexiness and gave it to the world through Nate Crane’s voice. The boy could melt the panties off a nun.”

Maggie rolls her eyes. “I think we all know you’re no nun. Come on. Everyone’s in the basement.”

She leads the way into the house and to the stairs, where she stops and points at a small table. “House rules, no phones or other distracting electronics with the music.” She digs her own out of her pocket and tosses it in the basket with the others. Lizzy and I follow suit then head down the stairs to where everyone is milling in the music room. Asher doesn’t have big parties. In fact, his parties might better be described as “get-togethers” with most of the attendees being members of my immediate family. Tonight, there are more guests than normal—maybe a dozen total—probably due to his musician friend who’s in town.

I look to the stage, where Asher is playing acoustic guitar and singing into a mic connected to a small amp. My gaze shifts to the man sitting next to him and I stop breathing.

“Asher’s hot too,” Lizzy’s assuring Maggie, “but Nate could do whatever he wanted to me and I’d thank him in the morning.”

Nate Crane. Dark, shaggy hair, deep voice, intense gaze. And no doubt a Hulk tattoo hidden beneath his right sleeve of his Spider-Man T-shirt. “Holy shit.”

“He’s got a nice voice, doesn’t he?” Maggie says.

I nod dumbly. A nice voice that whispered sweet nothings in my ear last night. Hot and dirty sweet nothings.

“You can’t go being all star-struck when you’re used to Asher hanging around.” Maggie nudges me with her elbow. “You’ve met Nate. You two really hit it off.”

“We hit it off? Why would you say that?” It comes out way too defensive, and I have to take a breath and force my shoulders away from my ears.

“He’s a friend of Asher’s. You kept me company when I went to see Asher and Nate perform in St. Louis a few months ago. God, that must be so weird, not remembering anything.”

The guys transition into “Unbreak Me,” a song Asher wrote for Maggie.

She bites her lip.

“Go on up there,” Liz says. “You don’t need to babysit us.”

“Thanks.” Maggie walks to the front of their makeshift stage and sinks to her haunches.

“Want something to drink?” Liz asks. “Because I’m at least three drinks short of the courage I need to approach that beautiful man up there.”

“I’m okay for now.”

“If you say so.” She points toward the bar. “I’ll be over there if you need me.”

I nod but I can’t take my eyes off the stage—off Nate. They finish the final chords of “Unbreak Me,” and everyone applauds as Asher stands and kisses Maggie soundly.

When Asher leaves the stage, Nate stays behind, strumming chords to a song I don’t recognize. He lifts his gaze. For five painful beats of my heart, our eyes lock. There’s so much in his eyes. Pain, anger, frustration. I see it all there before he refocuses on his fingers and starts to croon the lonely lyrics of his song.

I’m nobody’s hero, baby. Try not to fall too deep.