Chapter 1: The Bad Boy Claims Me

The school troublemaker claimed he was my husband ever since I got tossed back into high school. I mean, one day I was minding my own business, and suddenly—bam—I was reliving the worst years of my life. Seriously, who gets a do-over like this? Carter Reed, apparently. And me, whether I liked it or not.

Honestly, it was the kind of thing that would’ve made the school counselor’s head spin—probably send her running for her stress ball—if she ever heard Carter say it out loud. But Carter Reed never gave a rip about what adults thought, and by now, I’d learned not to either. Still, hearing him declare it in front of half the cafeteria? Yeah, that was a whole new brand of humiliation. My cheeks burned just thinking about it.

He also swore he’d never be a pushover again. Like, ever. I glanced over, waiting for the punchline, but he just stared straight ahead, jaw set. For a second, I wondered if he actually meant it.

He said it with this wild-eyed determination—eyes blazing, like he was psyching himself up for the Super Bowl, not just another day in the hallway. There was a beat, a pause where the world seemed to hold its breath. The words hung there, half promise, half warning, and I swear I could see the old Carter shining through—reckless, stubborn, totally impossible to rein in. Like he was daring the universe to test him.

He told me not to get my hopes up—that he’d absolutely never marry me. “Don’t even dream about it,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. (As if I was the one chasing him.)

He made a big show of it, too—arms crossed, chin jutted out, voice pitched just loud enough for the nearby lockers to bounce back his defiance. “You hear me, Savannah? Not in this lifetime, not in the next!” He was so dramatic, I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

But here’s the kicker: I’d just gone to Stanford’s summer camp—with, of all people, the school heartthrob. Yeah. That’s my life. It’s like a sitcom, but with more acne.

It wasn’t even a big deal, really. Diego Morales and I were just two nerds with decent grades and even bigger college dreams. Still, Carter acted like I’d eloped to Vegas with his arch-nemesis. The whole school was buzzing—texts, whispers, side-eyes—like we’d set off a gossip bomb that lasted a week straight.

Out of nowhere, Carter started chasing after me, wailing: “Babe, how am I supposed to live without you? Don’t leave!”—and then, for maximum cringe, “I’m richer than him, older than him! I’m way better in bed and have, like, infinite stamina!”

He shouted all this outside the main entrance, voice cracking, arms flailing so wildly the lunch ladies poked their heads out to see what the fuss was about. I almost tripped over my own feet in shock, and two freshmen whipped out their phones to record the scene. Carter’s face was redder than a fire truck, but he just kept going, making everyone’s Monday way more entertaining than usual.

When Carter Reed was dunking, he got tangled up in the net. I mean, full-on, legs and arms everywhere, face lost in the mesh—like he’d tried to invent a new sport and failed spectacularly.

It was the kind of move destined for a blooper reel. One second, he was flying; the next, the net had him in a headlock. The gym froze for a beat—then everybody cracked up. For once, Carter didn’t look cocky—just plain stunned.

He fell and hit his head. The whole gym let out a collective “Oof!” and I winced, half-expecting him to bounce back up. Instead, he just lay there for a second, and I felt my heart stutter.

He landed hard, right on the freshly waxed floor. The coach sprinted over, and someone yelled for the nurse. For a moment, I really thought he was hurt, but then he sat up, rubbing his head and blinking at the ceiling lights like they were UFOs. Only Carter could turn a near-concussion into a comedy routine.

After he woke up, he started following me around, calling me his wife. Like, everywhere. No matter how many times I tried to dodge him, there he was—grinning, relentless, impossible to shake.

At first, I thought he was just messing with me—some elaborate prank to make me squirm. But he kept at it, trailing me from class to class, calling out, “Wife! Wait up!” in this sing-song voice that could make paint peel. My friends lost it every time. The teachers just looked like they’d seen it all before.

I reported it to our homeroom teacher. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? There’s only so much secondhand embarrassment a girl can take.

I figured an adult should handle it, but Mrs. Walker just pressed her fingers to her temples, sighing like she’d aged five years in five minutes. “Carter’s always had a flair for drama,” she muttered, promising to call his parents. I left her office feeling vindicated, but also so, so tired.

The teacher called his parents. The announcement was so matter-of-fact, it almost made me laugh—except it wasn’t funny at all.

They showed up after school, both looking like they’d rather be stuck in traffic. Carter sat between them, arms folded, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. His mom leaned over and whispered, “Boys and their hormones,” shaking her head like she was talking about the weather.

He went through a full set of hospital exams. The works—blood pressure, reflexes, even a vision test. I watched from the hallway, chewing my nails and pretending not to care.

They even wheeled him into the ER for a CT scan. The nurses grilled him with questions, but Carter just smirked through it all. “No, I don’t see double. No, I’m not dizzy. Unless you count being lovesick.” He winked, and the nurse rolled her eyes.

The doctor said, “Maybe he’s just a young man in love.” The guy was ancient, with a crooked tie and a mischievous glint in his eye. He shrugged, handed Carter a lollipop, and told his parents, “Sometimes it’s not a concussion. Sometimes it’s just hormones, folks. Welcome to high school.”

Carter Reed has a crush on me? The thought hit me like a brick. Was this real life, or did I fall into an alternate universe?

No way. No freaking way. (I mean… right?)

I remember just a month ago, I got assigned to sit next to Carter for the first time. I still remember the groan I let out when I saw the chart. Fate really has a twisted sense of humor.

The seating chart had my name right next to his. My stomach sank. Everybody knew Carter spelled trouble. I tried to see the silver lining: at least he’d never copy my homework—he never did it, anyway. That’s something, right?

When we first met, he looked at me like I was radioactive: “Nerd, keep your distance!”

He spat it out with the kind of sneer only a sixteen-year-old boy can muster, like I was contagious or something. I just rolled my eyes, started unpacking my books, and pretended I didn’t care. (Fake it ‘til you make it, right?)

But now…

After just one class, he stared at me like a lovesick fool for the whole forty minutes. “So this is what you looked like back in puberty…” he muttered, squinting at me like I was some weird science experiment.

His gaze was so intense, I started to wonder if I’d spilled something on my shirt. He leaned in, studying me like I was some rare animal at the zoo. It was weirdly flattering… and just plain weird.

I turned to look at him, and he immediately flipped the script: “Totally average! Hmph, nothing worth looking at, not cute at all.”

He practically jumped back, cheeks flaming, acting like he’d never even thought about saying anything nice. He tried to look bored, but his ears were red as cherries. Classic.

The kid in the back row handed him a napkin, looking horrified: “Dude, wipe your mouth, you’re drooling.”

Everyone around us snickered, and Carter shot daggers at them, but grabbed the napkin anyway. He wiped his mouth with way too much force, muttering under his breath about allergies. Sure, Carter. Sure.

I shook my head, trying not to laugh. Seriously, this guy…

This kind of guy would probably drool even if he was cured. I mean, he could win an award for Most Unapologetic Mess.

It was almost impressive, the way he could embarrass himself and still act like he ran the school. I made a mental note: never, ever let Carter catch me blushing.

During the long break, I casually slid Carter a Halls mint, just to see what he’d do.

He was still ungrateful: “Trying to win me over with a piece of candy? Please. Save your little tricks for someone else!”

He said it with a dramatic scoff, but I could see his fingers twitching, like he was dying to grab it anyway. I just shrugged, letting him stew in his own stubbornness.

I just replied, “Okay,” then spun around and offered a mint to the school heartthrob behind me. “Diego Morales, want a mint?”

Diego looked up from his book—his fingers hadn’t even touched the wrapper before Carter swatted his hand away. “Did I say I didn’t want it?”

He glared at both of us, then snatched the candy right out of my hand, like a toddler fighting over a toy.

Diego, always the scholar, managed to insult him without using a single bad word: “Your family’s dog sure guards its food well.”