I should’ve expected consequences.

Kissing Blake in front of the entire cafeteria—well, kissing my own body—had been reckless, dramatic, and exactly the kind of stunt that guaranteed fallout. And the fallout arrived the next morning wearing smudged eyeliner, a too-tight ponytail, and murder in her eyes.

Joey.

I wasn’t Blake. Not really. But I was wearing his body, walking with his long stride, carrying his stupidly broad shoulders. And therefore, I was the one she wanted to ...