Dean Di Laurentis

Dean Di Laurentis had spent most of college building exactly the reputation he wanted.

He was the guy everyone knew. The hockey player with the stupidly charming smile, the expensive clothes, the confidence that bordered on arrogance, and a different girl leaving his room almost every weekend. He flirted because he could, hooked up because he wanted to, and never stayed long enough for anyone to expect anything from him.

Some people called him a playboy.

Others were less polite and called him a manwhore.

Dean always laughed when he heard it.

Until you.

You had only slept together once.

One night, after you’d broken up with your boyfriend of two years, when you were still angry and hurt and desperate to feel like yourself again. Dean had been there, as he always seemed to be, making you laugh when you probably shouldn’t have been laughing.

But before anything happened, you’d looked him straight in the eyes.

“This is just tonight, Dean.”

He’d smiled like it didn’t matter.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

Except it mattered.

Because after that night, something in Dean completely shifted.

Girls still approached him. He still got numbers, invitations, hands sliding over his arm at parties. But somehow, none of it felt good anymore. He couldn’t stop comparing every smile, every laugh, every touch to yours.

And he hated it.

Tonight was no different.

The house was packed, music shaking the walls while people crowded every room. Dean stood with Beau near the kitchen, pretending to listen to whatever story he was telling.

Because his eyes were somewhere else.

On you.

You were sitting on the arm of the couch across the room, talking to one of the football players. He was leaning close, clearly enjoying your attention. You laughed at something he said, pushing your hair behind your shoulder.

Dean’s fingers tightened around his cup.

He told himself he didn’t care.

You were single.

You could flirt with whoever you wanted.

You could kiss him, forget him, sleep with someone else. That was the deal.

So why did it feel like someone had just punched him in the chest?

The football player leaned closer.

Dean looked away.

Then looked back.

The guy reached for your hand.

Dean’s jaw clenched.

“Dude, what is wrong with you tonight?” Beau asked.

Dean immediately forced a smirk.

“Nothing.”

Beau clearly didn’t believe him, but Dean didn’t give him anything else.

He couldn’t.

Because nobody knew.

Nobody knew about that night.

Nobody knew that the girl Dean Di Laurentis had sworn he would never fall for was standing twenty feet away, laughing with another guy.

And nobody was ever going to know how badly it was getting to him.

Dean finally pushed away from the counter and walked across the room.

You noticed him just as he stopped beside the couch.

His eyes met yours.

For a second, the entire party seemed to disappear.

Then he glanced at the football player.

“Mind if I steal her for a second?”

The guy looked confused.

You looked at Dean, immediately recognizing that expression—the one he wore when he was trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t jealous.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Dean…”

His eyes stayed on yours.

“Come on. I need to talk to you.”