Thank God my brother's gone when I round the corner of the building and spot my car. With a pounding heart, I walk with my head down and unlock the door.

Once inside, I shut my eyes and try to center myself.

I've just lived through the most intense and wonderful hour of my life. That kiss.

He bit my bottom lip. It throbs and smarts when I trace the spot with my finger. In fairness, I also bit his bottom lip, too. I couldn't help it; I'd gotten swept up in the moment.

That kiss. My God. What am I doing?

Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes and start the car, just in time to see the headlight of Griffin's motorcycle in my rear-view mirror. He's far enough away that no one would suspect that he's watching me, but I know he is.

I back out of the spot and drive toward the exit, and I see him following several car lengths behind. He wants to make sure I'm safe, and the realization makes me smile.

On the main road, I pull into the left hand turn lane, and watch as Griffin soars past me in the middle lane on the bike. Even the way he rides is graceful and cool, and I sigh.

I just kissed that man on the motorcycle. The operative word being man, and not boy. From the way his big hands clasped my throat to the hard look in those tawny eyes, Griffin is all man. It's thrilling and terrifying.

But now I need to get my act together. I'll be home in five minutes and my brother's probably there. My story has to be airtight and straight, and I can't seem flustered one bit. I'm afraid my face, my body, the very air around me, reveal all the emotions churning inside.

I drive into our apartment complex and park in one of our two designated spaces. First I have to look in the mirror, to make sure my hair isn't wild.

Oof. It's definitely out of control.

Probably because Griffin had worked his hands into it, and clasped a handful. The very memory makes my stomach tighten. I smooth it into a ponytail. Then I turn my head left and right, looking at my lips.

I shiver, thinking of how he pressed his big, hard body into mine, practically slamming me against the wall. If someone had seen that, it probably looked violent. But I loved every second. Like when he growled against my mouth, as if he was losing control.

Yeah, my lips are raw and red from his kiss.

It's dark, so I flick on the overhead light to swipe on some pink lipstick. I rub my lips together, feeling a delicious, slightly painful, throb. I hope the sensation doesn't go away for a while, because I crave the constant reminder of Griffin's kiss.

I turn the light off. I'm halfway out of the car when I remember the shoes in the trunk. I grab those too and head inside.

Mom's at the kitchen table, paying bills. When I was little, I thought this was her hobby, something she loved, since she spent so much time doing it. It was only a couple of years ago that I realized she was trying to figure out how to stretch three figures into thirty days. Was this the month where we'd slide on the electric bill? Or would the groceries be tight at the end of the month? Rent was non-negotiable. And now that I work, I'm able to help out a little.

"Hi Julie. How was work?"

"Not bad." I'm trying to be casual as I dump my purse and the bag with the shoes on a chair. I head to the fridge for some water. "Is Ashton around?"

"No, I haven't seen him in hours. You're a little late, aren't you?"

"I went to the bookstore for a little while with one of the girls from work. I wanted to take a peek at a magazine." I can't hide the annoyance in my voice. Why does she need to know everything?

I drink my water and eye Mom. Hard work and little sleep have conspired to make her look older than she really is. She was gorgeous when she was younger, with light brown eyes and thick, black hair cut in a bob. Now she wears her hair short and her face seems like it's all dark circles and sunken cheeks.

Washing the glass and putting it in the dish drain, I sigh as I also wash Ashton's cereal bowl. He never picks up after himself. Then I open my purse and take out thirty dollars, setting it on the table in front of her. "Here. I had an okay night with tips. I'm keeping twenty for gas."

She sighs and looks up, her lips pursed. "I'm sorry, Julie. I wish I didn't have to take this. We're just a little short this month."

We're always a little short, and will be every month for the rest of our lives, probably.

"Well if Ash would either move out or get a job instead of trying to save the world, maybe we could get ahead." I smirk and grab my purse and the shoe bag.

"He's fighting for what he believes in. We can't take that away from him. He says he's close to getting a job with an advocacy group."

I snort. "You should stop babying him."

She shuffles some of the papers. "You'll never understand because you didn't have the problems he did."

"Mom, he had childhood leukemia and survived. He's been cancer free for years. Decades. He should be helping us."

She closes her eyes and sits frozen, as if she doesn't want to deal with the reality of our situation.

I stalk out of the kitchen and head to my room, slamming the thin wood door. My mom cuts Ashton way more slack than she does me, and she tolerates his lazy ass.

When I turn eighteen, things will change. No question about it.

I sigh and plop down on the bed. Everything feels so slow and depressing here, compared to my hour with Griffin. Why does life seem to sparkle when I'm with him? I sweep a glance around my room, with the white headboard and the pink and white comforter and the chair that has morphed into a mountain of clothes. I'd hung big, silver letters above my head, and I stare at them for a few seconds.

LOVE

I roll my eyes. I'm an idiot. My feelings for Griffin aren't love. It's a crush, right? Then why do I feel so edgy and restless? He's probably just playing with me, stringing me along for his amusement. Why would he like me at all? I'm in high school. My stomach sinks a little.

I tear my eyes away from the wall and for the first time, I glance at the shoe bag. It's actually a nice paper bag, white and glossy. Tied with a ribbon. I'd been so flustered by the kiss that I hadn't noticed how pretty the bag was earlier. It was creased where he'd folded it around the box, probably to secure it in his bike bag.

How sweet of him to put my shoes in such a nice package. I untie the white satin ribbon, wondering if I can use it somehow. I look inside and frown. There's a white box that says JIMMY CHOO in black letters on the top.

I slowly slide the box out. The box is sturdy, a treasure itself. There's lots of things I can do with the box.

I lift the top and my heartbeat picks up. There's a cream-colored cloth bag on top, also sporting the designer's name. The fabric is soft as a fleece blanket and for a few seconds, I'm lost in the tactile sensation of it against my fingers.

I set the fabric bag carefully on my bed, and open the tissue paper.

"Oh my God," I whisper out loud.

There, in the box, is a new pair of shoes. They're leather, with a pointed toe and a thin heel. They are delicate and shapely and possibly the sexiest shoe I've ever seen. Not because the heels are so high — I think they're about three inches — but from the graceful sweep of the design. My heartbeat swooshes in my ears as I pick up one shoe and raise it to my nose, inhaling the rich leather. I turn the shoe left and right, then run the pad of my finger over the precise toe tip. The off-white insole is a classy contrast to the black of the leather, and I gape at the designer's name on the label inside.

I've seen these in magazines and know how much they cost. More than I'll ever be able to afford. The idea that Griffin would buy them for me is so overwhelming that I nestle the shoe back inside the tissue paper, put the bag on top and close the lid.

I'm sweating. When will I wear these? I can't casually wear them to school.

Griffin bought me a pair of shoes that cost the equivalent of our rent.

I giggle from sheer giddiness, then hear my brother's voice in the kitchen. Moving fast, I shove the box into the white bag and hurry to my closet. I stuff the bag up on a shelf, in the way back, behind three threadbare stuffed animals, a half-deflated soccer ball and a bag of orphaned socks. No one ever goes into my closet because it's a disaster.

Shutting the door quietly, I decide to face my brother head on in the living room. I don't want to risk him barging in here and asking questions.

I feign a yawn as I walk out of my room. My mom's not at the table, and I can hear the TV going in her room. My brother's slumped on the living room sofa, reading a paperback.

"Hey," I say, making my way to the kitchen to grab a banana.

"Where were you tonight? I came by the restaurant at nine and saw your car."

"Why'd you come by at nine? We close at eight." I eye him as I peel the fruit.

"Oh. Then where were you?"

"Went to the bookstore for a little while with a girl from work."

"That's where I was headed. I was going to see if you wanted to come along."

I still, my hand on the banana peel. This is uncharacteristic of Ashton. He never wants to hang out with me, and I'm instantly suspicious. A chill goes through my body. Griffin and I had come so close to being busted by my brother. If he'd gone to the bookstore alone just a half hour before...

"Well, maybe tomorrow?"

He's staring at me funny. What was up with him tonight? "Yeah, maybe. We'll see. I've got a lot going on tomorrow."

"I'm going to shower. Night."

He mumbles goodnight as I walk back to my room. I finish my banana, shower, and slip on my sleep shorts and a cotton tank — all the while, thinking about Griffin.

I wish I could thank him for the shoes. My heart pounding, I pick up my phone and flick to the number he'd saved in my contacts. No, I can't call him. He'd been insistent about not calling until I turn eighteen. And while I want to call him now and after my birthday, there's a little part of me that has doubts.

He's older. Sophisticated. Clearly out of my league. And why does everyone keep warning me about him? That's not normal. Still. Whatever he's involved with can't be that bad. He's so sweet to me, and someone that kind wouldn't be a criminal, would they?

He's almost definitely the kind of guy who's been with a lot of women. Maybe his sister and my brother just don't want me to get hurt. Or maybe they still have feelings for each other and don't want things to be awkward.

My finger hovers over the "call" icon. No. I can't. Maybe I should text? A quick thank you, something polite. Something so he knows that I appreciate and love his gift.

I think about this as I mindlessly check Snapchat, then Facebook, then Instagram.

Instagram. I grin and adrenaline surges through me. Walking on the balls of my feet, trying to be quiet, I lock my door. Normally I don't, and if anyone tries to barge in and asks me about it, I'll say the doorknob slipped.

I go to my closet and take down the bag containing the shoes. I sit on my bed and lift them carefully out of the box. I'd been so shocked earlier that I hadn't even tried them on. I set them on the wood floor and slip one foot into the shoe, then another, and stand.

They are perfect. He must have taken my old, cheap shoes to the Jimmy Choo store to determine the size. I walk a few steps around my room, trying to be quiet, and then grab my phone.

First I sit on the bed and hold my phone up high, aiming to get a shot of just my bare legs and the shoes. I slip them off my feet. Keeping the shoes on the floor — on the cell phone screen of the photo app they look gorgeous against the cherry wood grain — I pose one bare foot near the left shoe, and position my other foot as if it's about to slip into the right. It only takes a minute to snap a couple dozen photos from different angles.

Then I set my phone on timer and lean it against the leg of my desk, trying to capture just my legs and feet in sexy poses against the pale pink wall of my room.

Satisfied that I have enough photos to work with, I quickly take off the shoes and put them back into the box and their hiding place in the closet. Holding my phone, I turn out the lights, slip into bed, and scroll through the photos.

The first ones are the best. Slightly grainy, they're probably the sexiest photo I've ever taken of myself. My calves are curvy, my legs look soft and the thin stiletto of the heels are accentuated from this angle. I crop the photo so only my mid thighs, knees, legs and shoes are in the frame, and when I'm done, I grin. It looks like I'm wearing nothing but the shoes.

I head to Instagram and add a vignette filter. There's no chance my family will find this; my mother doesn't do social media, and my brother is too clueless about fashion to know that these are thousand-dollar shoes.

Burrowing all the way under my comforter, I let out a little giggle as I post the photo with the hashtag #shoeporn.

Since Griffin told me that he looks at my Instagram, this will be my very public, yet so private, thank you to him.

____