We all have guilty pleasures.
Mine was the boy my father took in. The guy everyone said I was too good for. The one I knew would ruin me.
The way Noah Greyson's voice sounded when he sang whiskey lullabies to me in the dark; how perfect his arms felt wrapped around my stomach with his nose nuzzled in my hair—that's what made me fall. That intimacy was what made me weak.
But now millions of women drift off to sleep while Noah sings the love story we wrote, and it was never meant for the world.
The worst mistake I made wasn't loving him, it was thinking he loved me, too. At least that's what I thought, until now . . .
