The problem with small towns? Your first love never stays your last heartbreak. They say time heals all wounds, but whoever said that never met Memphis Styles-the man who turned my teenage dreams into an adult nightmare. Ten years ago, he shattered my heart into pieces so small, I'm still finding shards of it stuck in my chest. I thought I was safe. I thought I was over him. I even convinced myself I'd moved on. Then he rolled back into town in that same black Chevy that used to make my heart race, wearing that cologne that still haunts my dreams, and suddenly I'm eighteen again-young, foolish, and desperate for his touch. But I'm not that girl anymore. I've built a life without him. A good one. So why do I still catch myself looking for his car when I drive past his mama's house? Why does my heart still skip a beat when I hear his name whispered at the local diner? And why, God help me, does every fiber of my being ache to find out if his kisses still taste like danger and promises? I swore I'd hate Memphis Styles forever. Turns out forever doesn't mean much when you never stopped loving someone in the first place.