Page 1 of Make Me Dream of You

CHAPTER 1

LIVVY

Thirteen-year-old me would be screaming, crying, throwing up.

I’ve only been at the bar a few minutes, waiting for my sister and her roommate. Just enough time to get a drink from the bartender, Riley. He’s wearing a crop top and as soon as I tell him I’m Bex’s sister he gives me a discount and starts calling me “hunny.”

The bar is dim. Toward the back people dance in the anonymity of the dark to the barely recognizable techno-remix version of a pop song.

A figure emerges from the shadows to my left and joins me at the bar. Something about it—big, male, all in black, the faint musky scent, the body heat—makes my heart rate increase.

I see his hand first.

Long fingers wrapped around an empty glass. A stag is tattooed on the back of his hand, only partially visible as it disappears into his long black shirt sleeve. The sharp tips of the antlers follow the sinewy lines of his hand, pointing to his fingers clad in silver rings and knuckles tattooed with roman numerals.

And then, his deep, velvety voice. “Gin and tonic.”

A chill trickles down my spine, goosebumps rising along my neck.

Daring to glance up, I’m met with more black tattoos that spill out of his shirt collar. A skull on his throat. Black roses up the side of his neck, cutting along and highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw.

His face is all hard lines, cheekbones, a sloped nose with the tiniest bump on the end. Thick brows with dark, sunken eye sockets that make his eyes look black. Lifeless. And yet, his lips are full. Soft.

It’s the most hauntingly beautiful face I’ve ever seen. But I’ve seen it before. Fitting, really. Since it’s haunted my dreams for the last eight years.

Noah Dixon.

He’s older, obviously. Still tall. But before he was long and lanky, and now he’s filled out a bit. Muscular. His neck is thicker. Jaw squarer. He didn’t have tattoos when he was a senior in high school, but he was still the kid from the school across town. Mysterious.

But even though he looks different, older, and is now covered in tattoos, I’d still recognize him in a second.

My heart pounds wildly, loud in my ears. The same reaction I’d have had as that thirteen-year-old girl with the biggest, dumbest crush. Dumb, not only because he was hot and mysterious and eighteen, and I was—well—a little girl he never even noticed, but also because he was Bex’s boyfriend.

They dated her junior year, his senior, and every time he would come around our house, I would spy on them. Make up imaginary scenarios where he was secretly in love with me and just dating her to get close. Go write in my diary about our future and all the times I thought he looked my direction and that one time he said “hey, Little Livvy” to me. I’d practice signing my name in cursive, Mrs. Olivia Dixon, and make lists of our children’s names. All the stupid things you do when you’re young and have your first big, major crush.

The kind of crush that changes you, that stays with you, that you still think about from time to time.

The crush that’s now standing directly next to me in a crowded bar. That perfect, yet menacing face—I’m staring at it.

I’m staring at him.

And now he’s looking directly at me, seeing me staring.

His lips part, the sharp edges of his white teeth showing as he smirks.

Fuck.

I turn away instantly, my face going hot.

You’re not going to do this. You’re not going to be the silly little girl gawking at the gorgeous, unobtainable Noah Dixon. Not again.

“Hey,” he says in that rich, low voice.

Is he talking to me? He’s talking to me.

I slowly turn back, holding my breath to keep from hyperventilating. Trying to play it cool but my heart is thrashing in my chest.

I meet his eyes, those dark eyes unlike anyone else’s. A deep blue, like the darkest part of the ocean before it goes black or the night just before the stars come out. I’ve sketched them over and over. Dreamt of them. Wished for them to see me. Really see me.

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