Seventeen years of being a freakin James has to be worth something. It’s basic maths, really. A lifetime of inherited chaos, of being the punchline to a joke your own family started, accrues a certain debt. The universe, God, karma—whatever loser’s running this show—owes me. Big time.

And lately? Lately, it’s like the cosmic bank manager finally looked at my file and decided to start making payments. And I’d be a liar of Rowan South-esque proportions if I said I wasn’t absolutely loving it.

If you need a refresher on the current state of my divine compensation, let me paint you a picture. Guest—my Guest, in the only way that truly matters—is still, technically, dating that monumental bore, Rowan South. It’s impressive, really. I had a solid fifteen bucks riding on them not lasting a fortnight. I underestimated her patience, or maybe just how long a human brain can survive listening to someone describe their great summer in freaking Italy. The worst part is the new, fake-posh inflection he’s putting on, like our town is a secret and not a place where everyone knows his dad sells cars.

Saying he’s not good enough for her isn't an opinion; it's a fact. Guest is all light and stupid, easy laughter. She’s the kind of person who remembers your grandma’s birthday. She should be with someone who… well, not me, either. Let’s be real. But for different reasons. I’m a gentleman when I want to be. And I want to be—for her. Only for her. Apologies to all my past distractions, but they just weren’t her.

The reason she should steer clear of me is a bit more… complicated. And a lot more fun. See, her devoted boy-toy has a particular, seething hatred for me. He doesn’t like that we’re friends. At freakin all. And it’s amazing. It’s actually perfect. The loser thinks we can’t be trusted in the same room together.

And the lovely, hilarious, glorious thing is? He’s absolutely right. His paranoid little nightmare is our reality. Leave us alone for five minutes, and it always ends the same way: with her in my bed, wearing considerably less than she was when she arrived. He knows it, I know it, the whole school knows it. He’s just clinging to the technicality of the title ‘boyfriend’ like a life raft on the Titanic. He knows, deep in his soul, that she’ll never truly choose him. He just doesn't have the proof. So he tags along, a permanent, scowling chaperone.

Well, he usually does.

Tonight, when I spotted her across the crowded, sticky-floored kitchen, his shadow was conspicuously absent. Not glued to her hip. Not hovering like a jealous wasp.

Big mistake, man. Huge.

Because I, Cameron Anthony James, am an opportunist by nature and a James by birth. This wasn’t just a chance; it was a delivery. A repayment on that long-standing cosmic debt, wrapped in a bow and handed right to me.