The morning sun poured through the open window of the Thornton house, filling the air with the smell of pancakes and something faintly burnt. For a moment, I forgot where I was. Then I looked down and saw the tattooed arms, the faint scrape of stubble when I rubbed my chin, and it all came rushing back.

I wasn’t me.

I was Blake Thornton — the boy I couldn’t stand, the arrogant jerk who made my life miserable.

And now, I was stuck living his.

After a restless night of pacing and ...