PEANUT

LUCY WATSON

Copyright © 2022 by Lucy Watson

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

For the fur-babies and humans who love them.

CONTENTS

1.  Blaze of Glory

2.  Spoonful of Sugar

3.  Aliens are Dicks

4.  Rayleigh the Harlot

5.  Water Boy and Gatorade Girl

6.  Infinity Loop Dreams

7.  Just a Small Town Girl

8.  Cowboy Take Me Away

9.  Mutiny on the Bounty

10.  Bonfire Heart

11.  Typhoid Couch Cheetos

12.  Voodoo Water Emergency

13.  Carl the Carrot

14.  Parking Lot Goodbyes

15.  Don’t Fear the Reaper

16.  Here, Fishy, Fishy…

17.  Pigeon Perfection

18.  Shannon Number Two

19.  Everything

20.  Not That Guy

21.  The Caveman Plan

22.  Wanted: Harpoon

23.  Drunk in Love

24.  Something

25.  Our After

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Grandpa Souza’s Rice Pudding

1

BLAZE OF GLORY

Riley Evangeline Souza, you will not eat your feelings.

You. Will. Not. Eat. Your. Feelings.

“Welcome to Taco Bell. May I take your order…”

“One Supreme Taco Party Pack, please,” I say to the drive-thru speaker, feeling my words melt into a giant puddle of shame at my feet.

“Would you like to add a party pack of Cinnabon Delights for two ninety-nine?”

No, I would not. “Sure.”

If I’m going down, I might as well do it in a blaze of sugary glory with a Cinnabon Delight in my mouth.

“Twelve fifty-seven at the second window.”

I grab my wallet, with perfectly manicured fingers from my perfect purse, and set it on my lap while driving my perfectly sleek white car to the window.

I don’t need a mirror to know that my hair, highlighted the perfect shade of blonde to bring out the richness in my deep brown eyes, catches the afternoon sun perfectly.

On the outside, I’m picture-perfect.

On the inside, I’m a flaming ball of shit hurling through the universe.

Yep. That’s me: a shit comet.

I pull up to the second window, flashing the teenage girl working there my signature dimpled smile, and hand her my last credit card, praying it doesn’t decline.

“Cool car.” There’s a spark of envy in her wing-lined green eyes as she takes the card and hands me my taco party for one.

It’s a look that used to recharge my soul.

A look that fueled the fire that kept me burning until I was soaked with sweat. Kept me pushing my body until I transformed from mortal to machine.

A look, once upon a time, I earned with endless hours of hard work at the barre and in mirrored dance studios.

“Thanks.” I don’t add that the car is on the verge of being repossessed, or that if my card declines, I’m making a run for it.

I hear Canada’s nice.

“Any hot sauce?”

I shake my head, my practiced smile fixed in place. “No, thanks.”

“Have a good one.” She hands back my card, though she might as well keep it for all the good it’s doing me.

“You, too.” The smile cracks as flashes of me, crouched over the tacos, tearing into them like one of Joe Exotic’s tigers, plays in my mind.

How far the mighty have fallen…

Shoulders back, chin up, Ms. Souza.

I straighten my shoulders and drive from the window, trying not to flinch as another piece of my old self rips away.

They say a dancer dies twice: first when they retire and again with their last breath.

They make it sound like a quick process.

Boom. Dead. Done.

It’s not.

It’s a slow death that can take decades.

My dancer’s death rattle started eleven months ago with a loud pop and a searing pain in my knee. The Grim Reaper’s been following my ass around ever since.

I tried to shake him from my tail three months ago when I moved from my place with Dylan to my friend Krista’s couch. Then two weeks ago, I tried to lose him on the way from Los Angeles to my grandpa’s. For a brief moment, I thought I’d lost him at a gas station in Gilroy. Wrong.

He’s a persistent bastard.

After hitting every single red light on the planet, I finally park in my usual spot next to the dumpster behind Walgreens so I can easily rid my perfect car of the greasy wrappers when I’m done. Sadly, this isn’t my first Taco Bell rodeo since I’ve slunk back into my hometown.

My throat pinches as hot anger bubbles in my chest. I hate days like this. Days when the pain in my body eases some, and I can’t help but feel this other shit.

Like every ballet dancer, I can handle physical pain. It’s familiar. Something I’ve learned to work with. Something I’ve learned over the years to consider a friend even.

This other shit? Not so much.

Even though I’m a virtual stranger in this town now, I poke my head up for a meerkat peek around the parking lot to make sure no one is here to witness my swan dive turned belly flop into the Olympic pool of life. #SplashHappens.

When I’m sure the coast is clear, I bring the warm plastic bag from the passenger seat to my lap and open it wide enough to catch any cheese and lettuce fall-out.

A year ago, I never would’ve put this processed crap in my body. Now my mouth waters at the thought of stuffing it full of fake cheese and spicy mystery meat.

And Dylan always said I was too rigid and set in my ways…

Well, look at me now, asshole. Eating mystery meat. In a car. Parked next to a dumpster. Ha!

I shake my old Instagram-worthy life from my mind and try to stifle the growing loneliness in my chest with a loud couldn’t-care-less scoff. The sound bounces off the windshield and smacks me in the forehead with a bull’s-eye thud.

I push at my temple with two clammy fingers. Then reach over to the touchscreen console and tap play on my Spotify emergency taco-rodeo playlist, calling on The Weeknd to help barricade me against the unwanted feelings crashing into me. I turn it up, building a wall of sound around me until my old life is blocked from view.

Lip syncing the words to “Save Your Tears,” because I sound like a dying goat whenever I try and sing aloud, I twist around and reach into the backseat, feeling for the half-empty bottle of water I remember tossing there after my last physiotherapy session in LA with Juan.

The awkward movement causes thick blonde waves to stick to my lip gloss, leaving a sticky mess of Tom Ford’s overpriced Petal Pink along my cheek. I swipe at it with the back of my hand. Why bother with a napkin.

My fingers crinkle the plastic as I grab the bottle from the floor and unscrew the top. I take an angry gulp of stale water, swallowing past the shards of glass in my throat, feeling my eyes ache with tears I know I’ll never shed.

Machines don’t cry.

Not even when they finally catch their dream, only to watch it turn to dust in their hands.

Not even when their more-than-just-a-boyfriend falls in love with someone else and asks the machine to move out of the condo they found and rented together but was conveniently only in his name.

Not even when they find out their ex-boyfriend’s new non-rigid girlfriend is somehow already four months pregnant with their perfect ballet baby.

At some point during this year from hell, I convinced myself that leasing a new car I can’t afford and spending the money my mom always sent, that I swore I’d never touch, on a shit-ton of stuff I don’t need, would weld my broken parts back together.

Surprise, surprise. It didn’t.

I’m still a heap of bolts and rusted pieces, but now I also have crappy credit and piling debt. And anger. A colossal steaming pile of anger that sits heavy on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

Especially at night when I’m alone in bed, suffocated by my thoughts.

I want to blame my mom for drilling her look good, feel good creed into me. For teaching me her perfect dimpled smile. For teaching me that I belong onstage—a perfect thing to be admired from afar. Now the stage is gone, and I don’t know where I belong.

Or who I am up close.

My heart races as I open the cardboard pack and shimmy out the first of my cheddar-cheese-topped regrets and take a giant, mystery-meat-filled, crunchy bite.

I close my eyes and sink back into the leather seat when spicy fireworks of greasy goodness explode in my mouth. Relief loosens the vice squeezing my chest as my mind sinks into the calm water beneath my swan-dive-turned-belly-flop splash.

Where I don’t think about the fact I have to pretend to “house sit” for my grandpa while he’s gone because I have a negative balance in my bank account, no job prospects, and no place to live.

Where I don’t think about today being my twenty-sixth birthday. Where I don’t think about the fact I’m spending it alone in a parking lot, eating Taco Bell. Where I don’t think about ballet babies, dream dust, and broken bodies.

I just chew, swallow, chew, swallow, chew.

Until the numbness I crave fills me.

With my stomach screaming muffled curse words against the button of my jeans, and Sia singing her heart out about birds, I turn onto the cozy street of 1920s Craftsman bungalows set on deep lots—a few still with lingering Christmas decorations.

All with charming front porches that hint at an era of frilly yellow aprons, red lipstick, and kitchens that smelled like freshly baked apple pie.

My grandpa made this place his home nearly fifty years ago, back when a right-off-the-boat plumber and a local waitress could afford a whimsical apple-pie bungalow in Palo Alto.

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel when I glimpse the tail end of a vintage orange VW bug peeking out from behind the magnolia tree that eats up most of my grandpa’s front yard.

I’m not in the mood to see anyone, but especially not him.

If I had visited my grandpa in the last two years, or actually asked about his life when he called, I would’ve known he’d converted the old guest house into a rental when he retired. And then I would have known about his VW-driving-tattoo-artist tenant, Nicolas Connell MacGregor.

Who looks like the fourth Hemsworth brother: the sexiest one, covered in bright tattoos, who’s borderline bat-shit crazy.

The tenant who also happens to be my stepbrother’s best friend. The one I thought was my friend too. The friend I maybe-loved once upon a time. The one fourteen-year-old me may have asked to be her first kiss before she left for New York to start chasing her dream.

The one who may have said no… or more accurately, a big fat “Hell, no! I’m not gonna fucking kiss you!” With the amount of shock and disgust usually reserved for that horror movie about human centipedes. And said loud enough that any sentient being within a twenty-mile radius heard.

Including my stepbrother and all his friends.

Good times.

I know it’s pathetic to hold onto a teenage maybe-love grudge, but the heart wants what the heart wants.

Even a rusty mechanical one.

Using what’s left of my stealth ballerina abilities, I’ve successfully avoided my family and Nick since I’ve been back—though, I can’t say Nick’s made it easy.

Two Debbie Downer weeks mostly spent under the covers in a hibernation rotation between YouTube clips of Zackery Quinto as Sexy Spock, a very educational twelve-hour loop of Keanu Reeves doing awesome shit, every Marvel movie on Disney+ that I never had time to watch, and all the seasons of Vikings on Amazon Prime.

I’m pretty sure I’m an honorary shield-maiden now.

I park on the street, suck in my temporary taco pooch, and straighten my spine. Fittingly dark clouds move in as I shuffle-glide past Nick’s rust bucket to the safety of my grandpa’s house, quickly shutting the front door and locking the world out behind me.

Sexy Spock, initiate Hermit Mode…

Hermit Mode initiated, Captain.

I unbutton my jeans, releasing the kraken with a heavy sigh, toss my keys on the console table, and continue across the scuffed hardwood floor to my first childhood bedroom—the one before my mom married Steve—passing a time capsule of framed pictures and Portuguese knickknacks, with a few thousand traditional roosters placed here and there for luck.

Maybe that’s why my life fell apart.

Not enough roosters.

After hours of sweating away my life regrets on my mom’s old stationary bike, I settle onto the living room floor, where I stretch and roll out my tight, soon-to-be Tiger Balm-slathered muscles, with my sweat-smudged-mascara gaze glued to the flat screen above the fireplace.

Which, thanks to my grandpa—who’s lounging in Portugal, sipping espresso and eating custard tarts with his childhood friends, instead of stretched out in his ratty old recliner, AKA “The Good Chair”—is not tuned to an episode of Ancient Aliens.

I breathe in the calming scent of mothballs and burnt coffee, trying to push back the panic clawing at my already shredded chest, knowing, according to the Star Trek calendar in the kitchen, I only have twenty-eight days to hide here before he’s back in that recliner, drinking mud coffee while having an in-depth conversation with alien hunters on the TV.

Twenty-eight days to pull my shit together and move on with my life. Whatever that life looks like. Because it’s one thing to stay at my grandpa’s house while he’s gone, and another thing to live with him because I have nowhere else to go.

I’d sell everything I have for a backpack and a walking stick, drive north until I run out of gas, then disappear off-the-grid, living the rest of my days as a mountain woman, before giving my mom the chance to stab me in the heart with smile number four. That one leaves the ugliest scars that no amount of stage makeup can cover.

I focus on the quality of Kim Kardashian’s hair extensions as she talks about life after Kanye, resisting the urge to crawl back in bed to watch my old performance videos like a masochist, and pull in a deep, resolute breath, giving oxygen to the small spark of determination in my chest until I feel it grow red hot.

That’s it.

My new life starts now.

No more Debbie Downer.

No more parking-lot pity parties.

No more—

The loud whine of an engine struggling to turn over cuts through my proclamation and freezes me mid-roll.

I peer at the sheer curtains darkened by night, praying the sound is coming from a different driveway.

Preferably in a different zip code.

Whiiiine.

Click-click-click.

Whiiiine.

The familiar deep-voiced bellow that follows sends an electric zing through my stomach straight to my fingertips.

“Damnit, Pearl! Not now!”

Slam!

“After everything I’ve done for you!”

Slam!

I scoot-fall off the roller and reach for the remote to turn down the television, since I’m pretty sure Kim’s voice is some kind of beacon for heavily tattooed men with old cars named Pearl.

The second my fingers circle the remote, a succession of solid knocks vibrate the heavy front door.

And I, being the cool and collected person I am, panic-click off the flat screen and fall onto my back, the remote cradled against my racing heart while I peek around the worn brown leather couch to the door.

For all Nick knows, the TV could be on a timer. And I could be fast asleep in bed at six o’clock at night.

An early-to-bed-early-to-rise kind of girl.

TV timers are a thing, right?

My pounding heart kicks against the remote as his muffled voice sounds through the front door. “Seriously? I just saw you turn off the TV.”

Real freaking smooth, Riley.

His raspy voice softens as he continues, “Blue needs me, and Pearl won’t start.”

The bang that follows knocks the breath I was holding from my lungs. You know, the kind of breath that makes you invisible…

“Come on, Ry. I need your help.” The desperate ache in his words slowly works its way through my body. And for reasons unknown, my legs start to twitch to go to him. Traitor legs. “Please,” he pleads on a heavy exhale.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Hold on!” I call out before I can stop myself, and jump up from the floor, ignoring the stiffness in my muscles and warning bells going off in my mind.

I fix my high ponytail, tucking flyaway strands behind my ears, and wipe the floor-dust from my black cropped hoodie and matching leggings as I head to the console table by the door.

I keep my eyes glued to the keys, ignoring the wall-hung mirror near the coat rack, since I’m pretty sure this isn’t a look good, feel good moment. Probably should’ve washed my makeup off before working out. I quickly pat my cheeks like that will somehow put me back together.

Grabbing my keys from the table, I straighten my spine and tighten my core. I flip on the porch light and swing open the front door.

I take a reflexive step back as Nick fills the doorway. My neck tilts further as he moves into my space. His vivid honey-and-gold-flecked eyes, set behind thick-rimmed black glasses, hold mine in an iron grip.

Was he always this freaking tall?

Did I shrink?

I’m surprised by the shiver of warning that runs along my lower back. Maybe it’s because he’s not wearing his usual playful grin, and his dark-blond David Beckham hair, which I’ve only seen in a dapper part and combed neat to the side, is a fresh-shower, towel-dried mess while scruff shadows his sharp jaw.

Maybe it’s because his black T-shirt, showcasing his full sleeves of colorful tattoos, is on inside out, and he’s carrying a suspicious-looking black duffle bag—but this Nick seems… different.

Bigger. Intimidating.

Dangerous even.

“Sorry, I was in the kitchen,” I lie, slapping on a bright, not-nervous-at-all smile from my bag. “Here,” I add, holding out my keys for him to take.

Keys to my new car, old condo, old mailbox, old life.

Keys he doesn’t move to grab.

“You can use my car,” I continue, since he doesn’t seem to understand what the universal sign of holding keys out to someone means.

His intense gaze slices to my feet, then back. “Where’re your shoes?”

My eyes drop to my feet at the unexpected question, like the answer’s written on my black compression socks. “Um.”

Before I can string the words together to tell him that there’s no need for my shoes since I don’t plan on going anywhere, especially not looking like this makeup-melting mess, he drops the duffle bag inside the doorway, brushes past me, and grabs my sneakers from the shoe rack next to my grandpa’s lucky work boots.

I shut the door out of habit and turn at the same time he drops to his knees at my front, sending a sharp breath into my lungs and a startled forty-thousand-volt jolt up my spine.

His dark jeans pull tight around his solid thighs as he sits back on his haunches and sets one of my sneakers on the floor and the other above his knee to loosen the laces.

“Um,” I mumble again, showcasing my extensive vocabulary while my zapped brain tries to process what the heck is happening.

“Lift,” he orders as his strong fingers circle my calf.

His warm touch unlocks a dusty treasure chest of teenage wishes. They dance through my body like fireflies, lighting a jagged pixie-dust path as they go.

When my foot doesn’t budge, his intense eyes flash to mine. His low brows shoot up in a silent command.

I lift my foot.

Why do I lift my foot?

I have no freaking clue.

He turns his attention back to my shoe, working it past the heel, as if putting on my shoe for me is the most normal thing in the world. Like we’ve seen each other more than a handful of times in the last twelve years.

Feeling off balance by the quick turn this night has taken, I bring my hand to his broad shoulder to steady myself. My cold fingers dig into solid, warm muscle.

Under my new layer of hibernation-rotation softness is warm muscle too. Muscle I spent my life polishing into the perfect silhouette.

My eyes turn to the face I haven’t studied this close in years.

I bite the inside of my cheek as my gaze travels from his long lashes nearly brushing his glasses, to his strong nose that used to be too big for his face.

To his full lips that used to be too pretty for a boy.

To his body that used to be too lanky to be ideal.

Now it’s packed with lean muscle that hugs his large frame in a perfect balance of masculine power and grace.

After I left, Nicolas MacGregor went from a cute-but-awkward teen to a Viking god with Golden Ratio perfection.

And I went from a majestic white swan to a gray speckled pigeon with matted feathers and a limp.

Go figure.

I search my mind for something to say, but all I can think about is how I’ve been turned, gripped, dipped, and lifted by more men than I can count, but somehow Nick putting on my shoes feels more intimate than any pas de deux I’ve performed.

Everything always felt more with Nick.

Firefly wishes zip up my neck, reaching the tips of my ears, no doubt turning them a lovely shade of red.

This is not a Cinderella moment, Riley.

For God’s sake, pull it together, girl!

I take in a deep breath. “So, uh… um,” I finish on an exhale of defeat.

It’s official: I’m a genius.

He sets my foot down and quickly ties the laces with long deft fingers, his corded forearm muscles moving with a quiet strength under vibrant tattoos.

I flashback to those arms before they were covered in a Skittles rainbow of tattoo ink. The few light freckles scattered under sandy hair. Jagged pink scars from a skateboarding accident snaking down from his elbow. Purple bruises I knew he sometimes hid under a different kind of sleeve.

I swallow past the splintered memories and tangled words lodged in my throat.

He shifts to the other foot.

I lift.

“Just take my car. It’s fine,” I croak out, finally yanking the tangled string free.

His eyes flash to mine, and his brows pull together like he’s never heard anything so ridiculous. “Do I look fine to you?” His attention turns back to my shoe. “I’m freaking the fuck out, Ry. Freaking. The. Fuck. Out.” He exhales, shaking his head. “You’re gonna have to drive.”

The thought of being trapped in a car with him shifts my heart into fifth gear. “I can just order you an Uber,” I offer, letting my genius flag fly.

“No time,” he says under his breath while tying my laces tight enough to cut off circulation.

Do I complain? Nope.

My foot’s been through worse. Way worse.

He stands, with an unexpected swiftness that startles a shallow breath into my lungs, then peers down at me, nervous energy radiating from every muscled inch of him. “Need anything?”

An escape hatch would be nice.

He must take my three seconds of tongue-tied silence as a no, because in the next heartbeat, my clammy hand is engulfed in his warm one. And he’s leading me out of the freaking house!

Do I tug my hand free from his? Nope. Do I dig my heels in and demand he take my keys and leave me to my Kim-K binge? Sadly, I don’t do that either. Instead, I pray for these “survival instincts” I’ve heard so much about to kick in as he leads me out of the door.

His hand is strong, his grip firm.

The kind of grip I could trust in a lift.

We step onto the front porch, and stuffy mothball air is replaced with the crisp mineral tang of rain-soaked earth.

He sets down the duffle bag, shuts the door, and picks it back up—all while holding my hand in a familiar way that grinds on my last nerve.

He always did have a problem with personal space.

“Where are we going?” I manage to squeak out as we take the stairs.

The adrenaline working through my veins numbs the growing pain in my knee, so at least I descend without my usual hobble.

Note to self: Your survival instincts suck.

Ignoring my question, he tilts his head and clicks his tongue twice, like he’s a freaking cowboy and I’m his horse.

Before I can yank my hand from his and demand non-clicking-giddy-up answers, a nightmare in the shape of a massive pit-bull/monster hybrid stalks from the shadow of Nick’s car, snatching my words from my dry tongue.

My fingers tighten around Nick’s hand, pulling him to a stop. I feel his hot gaze slice to my chilled cheek at the abrupt action.

“What?” he clips out.

“Don’t move,” I whisper, picturing Stephen King banging this scene out on his typewriter in a candle-lit, creepy cabin somewhere.

The beast’s demon eyes size me up as the florescent porch light paints its gray coat a shiny werewolf silver, each step showcasing the one-hundred-plus pounds of hulk muscle packed on its heavy frame.

“That’s my Daisy,” he says on an agitated breath, impatiently tugging us back into a quick stride. At her name, she gives Nick an evil demon bark. A bark that sounded totally different from the backyard.

Of course Nick has a hellhound named Daisy.

“Does she bite?” You know when you think something stupid and it just flies out of your mouth? Yeah. Me too.

“Maybe if you bite her first.” He looks down at me, brows raised, his voice edged with resigned amusement. “You plan on biting my dog, Ry?”

It’s not a question, so I don’t bother answering. Instead, I scan the sky for a full moon.

Full moon, it is.

Daisy takes position at my side, hitting me mid-thigh, sending icy needles of dread through my bones. I scoot closer to Nick, but even the heat radiating from his body does little to melt the ice forming in mine.

After being chased down by a blood-thirsty poodle a few years back, all dogs scare the shit out of me. But especially hellhound ones with Russian powerlifter bodies and bone-crushing jaws.

I clear my throat. “Your dog’s coming with us?” I try for casual, keeping my eyes on my car because I’m pretty sure eye contact is considered some kind of pack challenge.

“Blue’s in labor, and Ben’s freaking out,” he answers, like that explains everything.

“Oh,” I say, like I totally get it.

I run our conversation through my rusty Nick Translator. It tells me that “Blue” is Ben’s wife and she’s in labor. And Nick somehow thinks bringing his hellhound along will help.

He gives my hand a quick squeeze, releasing a nest of Japanese murder hornets in my stomach before letting go.

I push the button on the key fob to unlock the car, wiping my other hand over my leggings as I go to the driver’s side.

I always imagined I’d take my last breath onstage at the Bolshoi to a thundering ovation, a Tchaikovsky farewell to a glorious life. Instead, I’m going to get eaten by a giant hellhound named Daisy with her master sitting shotgun. Pretty sure I taste like old tacos and disappointment, so joke’s on her.

I slink into the driver’s seat as Nick opens the rear passenger door.

The car jostles with Daisy’s powerlifter weight as she settles into the backseat and fills the car with a loud whimper.

“It’ll be a short ride, sweet girl. Promise.” The deep warmth in Nick’s soothing words brushes against my cold mechanical soul.

I hate the fact I’d trade all my new designer clothes for a cocoon made from that voice.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see him give Daisy a quick kiss on her monster head, then shoot her a reassuring smile, pushing up his Clark Kent glasses.

I ignore the painful twist of my heart at the tender way Nick looks at his dog. I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me like that or said words like sweet girl to me. Words I want to snatch from the air and claim as my own.

My shoulders deflate when I realize the heat crawling up my neck isn’t fear. It’s jealousy.

Yep, I’m jealous of a freaking dog.

Please, let this be my rock bottom.

I exhale a breath of self-loathing, slip in my key, and push start. My eyes flare as Sia’s voice blasts from the speakers, sending hot pinpricks from my chest to my fingertips as I scramble to turn it off.

This is not a Sia moment.

Daisy jostles her agreement in the backseat.

Nick slides in and squeezes the duffle bag on the floor between his long legs without a word. His knees knock against the glovebox as he sits back and looks to his cell with a heavy sigh.

He smells like Sport deodorant and fresh laundry. And Man. The virile kind. With no trace of the clove cigarettes I used to snatch from him and hide when he wasn’t looking.

“You can move the seat back,” I say to his Viking profile, blinking back images of him covered in mud, charging into battle with his sword raised.

He may be naked.

Yep. He’s naked.

I mentally cover him with a loincloth, because I’m not a total perv.

“I’m fine,” he says under his breath while he texts. His fingers hover for a moment before his eyes flash to mine. “Let’s go.”

Trying to cover up the fact I was totally staring at him, I employ a sarcastically arched brow and inject copious amounts of irritation into my voice. “It would help if I knew where we’re going, Nick.” It feels weird saying his name.

The last time his name left my lips was four years ago at my mom and Steve’s dreaded annual anniversary party.

Nick had a raven-haired seductress on his arm. I had a debonair Dylan on mine. I said Nick’s name, greeting him with an unimpressed nod. He returned my nod with an asshole grin on his stupid beautiful face and my nickname on his perfect jerk lips.

He looked away first.

Not that I cared.

His face softens. “Ben’s place,” he states, like I’d know where that is. Like I’ve hung out with my stepbrother’s group of friends since I’ve been back.

Off my pointed blank stare, he rakes his fingers through his thick hair, taming it down some, then deftly enters the destination into the navigation system on the touchscreen dash.

A system that took me over a week to figure out. A week spent flipping off the Re-CALC-ulating route computer voice mocking me from the console.

“All good?” He sits back, his steady gaze urging me to get going. I can feel Daisy’s hellhound eyes on me too. Yay.

“Couldn’t be better,” I say dryly as I back out of the driveway.

And away we go.

2

SPOONFUL OF SUGAR

Alien-abduction time lapse.

That’s how my grandpa would explain how I went from coasting down the world’s longest tree-lined driveway to poof, walking hand in hand with Nick across a field-size front yard toward a cozy house in Woodside that looks like it belongs in a Hallmark movie. The one about a sassy city girl who returns to her peach-pie Southern roots to mend a broken heart. Spoiler alert: she falls in love with the grumpy-but-ruggedly-sexy town sheriff.

The warm yellow glow coming from the windows framed by black shutters should feel cozy and inviting, but it doesn’t.

With crickets chirping a macabre waltz, I glance back to my car, parked amongst a handful of classic cars and motorcycles, and exhale a pent-up breath when I don’t spot a black truck among them.

My stepbrother, Winston, always drives a black truck. Ford not Chevy, lifted, and usually splattered with mud.

I’m not ready to answer the hailstorm of questions he’s likely to hurl my way. A prelude to the avalanche my mom will likely bury me under.

Win’s go-to smile flashes in my mind. It’s a warm smile that lights up his hazel eyes. A smile I tried—and failed—to replicate as a nine-year-old girl.

Why was I standing on a stool in front of a Tuscan-style, gold-leaf bathroom mirror, trying to perfect my stepbrother’s smile like a weirdo?

Because everybody loves Winston Night.

Even my mom.

It’s his superpower.

I used to have a superpower too. Now, I’m like a drunk, hammer-less Thor trying to sneak back into Asgard.

My gaze swings up to Nick. “You don’t have to hold my hand,” I mumble, feeling weird that he rounded the car and reached out his hand for me to take, and even weirder that I took it.

I’ve never been the hand-holding type.

Another thing I thought Dylan and I had in common. Turns out, after a short stint as a professional Instagram stalker of him and his new girlfriend, it’s just me.

Nick acknowledges my words with a distracted nod. The landscape lights flickering off his glasses hide his eyes, but I’m pretty sure they’re lost in whatever faraway thought has put that hard look on his face.

He doesn’t let go.

And neither do I.

I try not to think about the sweat forming on my palm, and instead run my tongue over my dry bottom lip, focusing on what an idiot I am for not grabbing my purse. I could sure use some Petal Pink right about now. And my cell phone. Not that I have anyone to call, but still.

The murder hornets buzzing in my stomach move into kill formation as we close in on the Hallmark house.

Teenage me would’ve been stoked to hang out at Ben Crawford’s place, even if there was baby birthing involved.

Twenty-six-year-old me? Not so much.

“Can’t somebody give you a ride home?” I say to Nick’s profile, making sure there’s no mistaking the annoyance in my voice as we step onto the smooth limestone walkway.

It’s flanked by two cast-iron lamp posts that remind me of the old gas lanterns in Central Park. I take in a deep breath, pushing my shoulders back. If I could take on the concrete jungle at fourteen, surely I can handle a few hours with Nick. And whatever trouble will likely follow.

That thought vanishes when he gazes down at me, a cocky smirk playing on his young-Brad Pitt lips. “You got somewhere to be, Peanut?”

And there it is. Fucking Peanut.

My teeth smash together, feeling my old nickname rub along my skin like sandpaper.

“Maybe, I do,” I grind out, tugging my hand from his. I try to spin on my heels and head back to my car, but my traitor legs seem to have a different plan.

Asshole legs.

His grin widens, creasing his cheek in that near-dimple way that used to flip my stomach. Now, it just pisses me off.

I’ve always wondered why young me fell so hard for Nick instead of one of Winston’s other less lanky, less sarcastic, cuter friends.

I decided it was because he practically lived at our house. Because we were secret friends. Because he gave me a stupid nickname that I secretly loved. Because when the rest of the house slept, we’d play Warcraft and watch Steve’s collection of old Westerns and 90s action movies.

Because sometimes I’d lean my head on his bony shoulder and his head would fall to mine. Because sometimes we’d stay like that after the movie ended.

No dimpled smiles.

No jokester grins.

Just us.

Nick and Peanut.

Daisy’s impatient whine cuts through my thoughts. I look over to see her nudging the duffle bag he’s carrying.

“Go ahead,” Nick says to her on an airy chuckle.

As soon as the words leave his lips, Daisy bounds up the stairs to the brightly lit wraparound porch and sits by the glossy black door that matches the shutters.

Her eyes are fixed on us, her pink tongue hanging and bobbing as she pants an excited hurry-up. At least someone’s happy to be here.

I wince, taking in a sharp breath through my teeth as we take the stairs. I reach for the handrail as hot metal grinds its way through my knee.

Guess I’m all out of adrenaline.

“What’s up?” Nick says over his shoulder, pausing his steps, his eyes narrowing down on my face.

“Pulled a muscle earlier,” I lie without missing a beat. I used to be a terrible liar.

List of jobs I’m now qualified for:

1) Competitive eater.

2) Used car salesman.

3) Politician.

Look out world, here I come.

He nods, slowing his ascent to match my geriatric pace.

Daisy spins a few quick circles when we clear the last step. I glance over at the red porch swing as we stop at the door. Nothing bad can happen in a house with a porch swing, right? Like nuns and babies on a plane?

Nick drops to his haunches in front of Daisy, like he did with my shoes. No Cinderella moment for her, though. He scratches under her chin. “I know you’re excited to see Blue”—Yep. He’s full-on talking to his dog—“but Ben’s having a hard time, so you take care of him first, okay?”

Did she just freaking nod?

Before I can wrap my brain around this Doctor Dolittle moment, Nick stands and turns to me, unspoken words teetering on his parted lips as his gaze lingers on my face.

I shift my feet, knowing I look like shit.

I’m sure I don’t smell Downy-fresh either.

Happy Birthday to me.

If I had one of those unraveling party-horn thingies, I’d totally blow it.

“Your freckles are gone,” he says almost to himself, then clears his throat and continues before I can grab a scalpel and dissect his words. “If Ben kills me, find my sister and Milly. They’ll take care of my love babies.”

Love babies? Um, hard pass on whatever that is. And who the heck is Milly?

Just as I step back to tell him that me and my freckle-less face are going home, the front door swings open. Daisy bolts inside as a massive burly man wearing a black and red flannel, worn-out jeans, and a baseball cap pulled low, takes her place on the porch.

My stepdad would totally recruit this guy.

Electric blue-green eyes meet mine, and recognition warms my chest.

He pauses for a beat, like he’s trying to place me, then gives me a chin lift with the corner of his mouth tipped up like old times.

I always liked Jesse. He joined the gang in high school, so I didn’t know him well, but he’s quiet, like me. And comfortable to be around. So I could never understand why everyone was so scared of him. Well, everyone except Win, Ben, and Nick.

I return his chin lift with a half-smile, feeling relieved he’s not a talker either. I’m not a fan of small talk. Or talking in general. But the “So, whatcha been up to?” chat makes me wish I had one of those secret-agent cyanide pills tucked inside my cheek.

His gaze slides to Nick. “Good luck,” he warns on a heavy exhale, then continues down the stairs, vibrating the porch with his heavy footfalls.

“That bad, huh?” Nick calls after him.

“Yep,” Jesse replies, taking off his baseball cap, raking his fingers through thick brown waves without a backward glance.

Nick pulls in a deep breath, steels his spine and turns, pinning me with a steady-eyed gaze. “Let’s do this,” he says like we’re about to parachute into enemy territory.

I know that look.

He gave it to me right before his skateboarding accident.

“Let’s not,” I mumble to his back as I follow him inside and shut the door behind us.

Moron seems to be my default mode tonight. No doubt this will end up somewhere on my list of Stupid Shit I’ve Done. I’m guessing right up there with the street-vendor sushi incident.

“Honey, I’m home,” Nick calls out, like he’s starring in a 1950s sitcom as he struts across the expansive black-and-white-tiled entry.

The warm scent of caramel apples floats around my nose as we step into the Pinterest-worthy living room. It’s decorated in cool blue-gray tones with cozy furniture.

My gaze travels along the rustic dark wood beams of the cathedral ceiling that perfectly match the hardwood floor, landing on the large natural-stone fireplace. Above it is a framed collage of some kind. It wouldn’t be my first choice as a focal-point art piece, but it somehow works.

It’s a beautiful home. Elegant but understated. Unlike the home my mom created when she married Steve. Let’s just say, understated isn’t a word I’d use to describe that childhood home. I’m pretty sure it’s been in a few magazines.

Ben’s home feels beautiful too.

With the insane amount of money his family has, I pictured something less…real.

I follow Nick down the long hallway, trying not to notice the way his jeans mold to the curve of his bubble butt, or the way his flexed muscles push against the veins in the forearm holding the bag handles.

I fail on both counts.

My eyes snap down the hall as a deep voice vibrates the air around me.

“Tahoe?! What the hell is our midwife doing in Tahoe?!” That deep voice has to be Ben.

My steps slow. I don’t want to intrude on this private marriage moment. Nick’s steps don’t falter. If anything, they quicken. Not that I’m surprised.

A woman’s sharp voice follows. “Stop freaking out. Tahoe’s not that far—”

“Too far for me,” Ben growls.

I walk-skip-jog to grab Nick’s arm, pulling him to a stop. His eyes flash to mine. I let go of his arm and give him a steady, narrow-eyed don’t-be-an-asshole look.

We used to talk like this.

With a look.

His jaw hardens, but he doesn’t budge, so I guess it still works.

“I talked to the back-up on call,” the woman tries to reason, sounding frustrated. “My contractions are mild—”

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“Oh, I’m sorry…” Her voice raises, honeyed sarcasm dripping from her steel-clad words. “Are you the one with a nursing degree? Do you have a baby inside you?! That you grew! What I say goes, buddy. Got it?”

You tell ’em, girl.

I mentally raise my solidarity fist in the air.

“Don’t need a fucking degree,” he spits back. “And if you forgot, that’s my baby inside you. My job is to keep you both safe. And that’s exactly what I plan on doing. I’ll get shit ready.”

Ben storms into the hallway toward us, his white T-shirt pulled tight around his broad shoulders and strong chest, his thickly muscled arms tense and battle-ready.

“I’m not going to a hospital, Ben! Do you hear me?! Not going!” The woman’s sharp voice flies after him like a poison-tipped arrow.

A guttural vibration moves through the air when it hits its target.

Did Ben just… growl?

The hallway shrinks at the sound.

This is the Marine Ben my stepbrother told me about. The one who replaced the sweet boy I remember.

Daisy catches up to his side, her tail wagging, seeming oblivious to the fact Ben’s wrath is igniting a Napalm-style inferno around them.

He’s glaring in our direction, but his eyes seem fixed on a battle raging within.

A battle it looks like he might be losing.

My mental solidarity fist falls to my side.

Nick’s steady hand snakes around my waist, snapping my attention to his profile. He scoots me behind him, moving me from the middle of the hallway.

Where I’ve been gaping at Ben like a weirdo.

Nick grabs Ben’s arm before he can stalk past. “Dude—”

“Don’t,” Ben warns, his eyes trained on Nick like lasers.

Daisy stands close, blocking any chance of escape for me. I’m pretty sure it’s on purpose.

Freaking hellhound.

“Pull it together, brother.” There’s a stern warning in Nick’s voice that sends a shiver of goosebumps along my skin.

Ben bats his hand away. “My wife’s about to push out a baby half her body weight. In. Our. Fucking. Home.” He looks over his shoulder, and his nostrils flare as he slings his next words down the hall. “She needs to go to the hospital where they can handle this shit!”

Daisy moves to Ben’s side, pressing her silverback-gorilla body against his leg. His hand automatically falls to the top of her square head.

Looks like Daisy’s survival instincts are on par with my own.

“I’m not going!” The wife catches his words and fires them back at him like a pro.

I like her. Her name’s probably Gina.

Gina’s are always badass.

Nick drops the bag and moves in front of Ben. “What she needs is for you to shut the fuck up,” he spits back in a hushed voice. His gold tiger eyes spark with determination, hardening his face in a look that wipes away the remnants of the jokester skater boy I knew.

I bite the inside of my cheek, holding my breath as Marine Ben and Viking Nick face off for a few testosterone-filled heartbeats.

Ben’s got a good fifteen pounds of heavy muscle on Nick, but Nick’s lean muscles are coiled and ready to strike.

I saw Nick strike once.

It was both terrifying and oddly beautiful.

I quickly lock away the memory and swallow the key.

It hurts going down.

Nick breaks their standoff. “You know how Blue feels about hospitals.” The harsh rasp in his voice softens. “You want to keep her safe? Stop being an asshole and tell her she’s got this. Tell her she’s doing fucking great. Tell her how proud of her you are.” His chin dips, his eyes drilling into Ben’s. “You don’t want to fuck this up.”

After a suspended breath, Ben nods and runs a rough hand down his beard-darkened face. A heavy exhale deflates his chest. His shoulders slump, and his gaze falls to the floor.

Nick gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Whatever bullshit you got playing in your mind, let it go, brother. It’s not real.”

Ben lifts his eyes to Nick.

The fear written in them brushes against the back of my neck. It’s the kind of fear that eats away at your sanity, bit-by-bit, devouring everything until there’s nothing left but chaos.

The kind of fear that comes when you hand over the most vulnerable part of yourself to someone, praying they can keep it safe.

Ben draws a deep breath through his nose, scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. Then his haunted eyes slice to mine.

My spine snaps to attention. He gives me a tired chin lift.

Before I can slap on a totally-not-weird-that-I’m-here smile, Nick claps him on the back, stealing his gaze.

“We’re about to be dads, bro,” Nick says with a devilish glint, looking like Gabriel and Lucifer rolled into one colorful-tattooed package.

“Don’t start this shit again,” Ben groans, tilting his head back.

Daisy’s tail goes into hyperdrive as the heavy fog blanketing us starts to lift. I take in a deep breath, thankful for the fresh air too.

“As the godfather—”

“Nick,” Ben warns, his voice wrapped in feigned annoyance.

“It takes a village, bro.” Nick nods, like he’s the wise Elder King of said village.

“You’re such a pain in the ass.” Ben shakes his head, a reluctant smile tugging on his lips.

Pulling that smile from Ben is Nick’s superpower.

I think I might be newly immune, by the way.

“I’m gonna go set shit up in the den,” Ben finishes on a resigned sigh.

Daisy, who’s apparently fluent in human-speak, immediately heels at his side.

“I’ll go tend to the missus,” Nick says in a terrible Southern drawl while shooting him with a cheesy thumb-finger gun.

Ben shakes his head with an exasperated exhale, that I’m sure still follows Nick wherever he goes, then looks to me. “Good to see you, Ry.” He turns down the hall before I can respond.

Nick’s shoulders slump as he watches Ben and his hellhound lumber down the hall.

“It’s gonna be a long fucking night, Peanut,” he says under his breath with a heavy sigh.

You don’t say…

*Blows party horn*

I stop outside the doorway, shifting my feet, while Nick swaggers into the large bedroom without so much as a courtesy knock.

I lean my shoulder a little against the doorframe, hesitant to follow him in, and turn my gaze from the very petite and very pregnant woman propped up in bed by a stack of giant pillows, to the black-and-white wedding photos on the dresser, down to my double-knotted shoelaces.

Because what’s worse than showing up uninvited to a pregnant stranger’s home birth?

Getting caught staring at that stranger from the doorway like a total creeper, that’s what.

Nick huffs the bag onto the bed, and when he doesn’t turn around to introduce me like a normal person, I bite the inside of my cheek and scoot a little more behind the doorframe, taking me out of her line of sight. #CreeperVibes.

“Can you go get Daisy for me?” Maybe-Gina asks, her tone pouting, her big sapphire-blue Disney eyes glued to Nick.

She looks like Liv Tyler as Arwen from The Lord of the Rings. With a mess of loose chestnut curls piled into a sloppy bun on top of her head, a few wayward wisps framing her delicate heart-shaped face.

Even without makeup and a gazillion months pregnant, wearing a tattered gray men’s T-shirt pulled tight around a giant baby belly, she’s stunning.

In the sort of way that can’t be mimicked with a filter app.

Nick unzips the bag, the movement exaggerated. “I’m so glad you’re here, Nick.” The mock-hurt in his deep voice grows. “No, I’m not using you for your dog—why would you think such a thing…”

Maybe-Gina sighs. “I need Daisy’s snuggles to stop me from killing Ben.” She lays her head back on the giant stack of pillows, then continues to the ceiling, “I can’t even sneeze without him threatening to call an ambulance.”

Nick chuckles while rummaging through the bag. The velvety sound slides across the bit of exposed skin on my stomach.

I slip my hand inside the pocket of my hoodie, fiddling with my keys while I push it down a little, wishing I had something else on.

An invisibility cloak would be nice.

“It’s not funny,” she lifts her head and scolds. “He sent Jesse out to get, not one”—she holds up two fingers—“but two five-pound bags of ice, because he read something about feeding me ice chips during labor.” Her hand drops in defeat, her nose scrunches. “He’s going to force-feed me ten pounds of ice chips, Nick.” Her brows furrow. “I don’t want ice chips.”

She turns her eyes back to the ceiling as her delicate hand rubs soothing circles on her giant belly. “I hate seeing him like this. He hasn’t slept in days.” She releases a heavy sigh, worry stitching her next words together. “Maybe I should just go to the hospital.”

Given her belly-to-body ratio, going to the hospital seems like a darn good idea to me. But it’s none of my business, so I keep quiet and continue to become one with the doorframe.

“Is that what you want?” Nick asks, the airy humor in his voice from a moment ago gone.

She shakes her head. Her blue eyes turn back to her baby belly, and her artfully arched brows pull together in a slight wince. I follow her line of sight, then blink, like that will somehow help me process what I’m seeing. Is her stomach freaking moving?!

Just then, she takes in a sharp breath through her clenched teeth, closes her eyes, and blows out a slow breath through pursed lips.

“You okay?” Nick asks, his body suddenly stock-still.

I blink again. Yep. It’s moving.

“Yeah.” She gives him a strained smile. “Ada dropped off her caramel apple cake,” she says, as if that’s an explanation for why her baby’s trying to fight its way out through her belly button.

“That’ll do it.” Nick nods and expels a short puff of air like he totally gets it.

Note to self: Never get pregnant. Ever.

He finally grabs what he was looking for from his bag of tricks and rounds the bed to her side. “Don’t you worry about Ben, little lady.” He sets a Bluetooth speaker on the nightstand, then gazes down at her. “He’ll be fine.” He gives her a boop on her cute nose with his pointer finger. “And so will you.”

Maybe-Gina shines a sweet smile up at him, a mix of adoration and fatigue. “Do I want to know why you’re setting up a speaker in my room?”

Nick shrugs with a crooked smile. “It’s for a playlist for the newest member of my love flock.”

Love flock? Love babies?

Did Nick start some kind of cult?

He moves back to the duffle bag, without even a glance my way.

Cult-leader jerk.

“You call the girls yet?” he asks while rifling through his duffle-bag bounty. Then he turns to the room and starts spritzing something into the air with all the flair of Mary Poppins.

If he starts singing about a spoonful of sugar, I’m outta here.

I swallow back thoughts of my girls in LA who are probably changing into street clothes right now to grab Thai at Yo Heng’s, fuel for another round of sweaty hours in the studio.

Unlike the other company dancers, with a modicum of work-life balance, my girls are hyper-driven like me, so I’m not surprised they haven’t texted in a while, but it still hurts—way more than I thought it would.

“Not yet,” Maybe-Gina answers. “Not with Ben like this. Plus, my contractions are still mild, so we might not see any real action until the morning.”

My toes twitch to help her as she struggles to sit up.

“I’m so ready to have this baby.” She pouts on a sigh and crisscrosses her legs into a poor man’s Lotus position, her colossal belly cradled on her plaid-pajama thighs. “I’m a pregnant freak of nature.”

“You’re beautiful,” Nick counters simply while grabbing a candle and a few other things from the bag. He sets the candle on the opposite nightstand.

Jealousy digs its poisoned talons into the bottom of my stomach and squeezes. Dylan always told me I was beautiful. But never when I was just me and not the version of me he liked to wear on his arm. Or the version of me onstage. Never when I felt broken, or felt like a freak.

“Right,” she scoffs, tossing his compliment to the floor.

I fight the urge to pick it up and set it on her dresser, among her other precious things, where it belongs.

She drops her gaze to the mystery duffle bag and says, “What did you bring?”

He holds up the spray. “Lavender for anxiety.” Then sets the spray back on the bed, and rummages through his bounty as he talks. “Maternity pads. Herbal bath tabs. Gloves. Cord clamp.” He pauses, looks up. “As the godfather, it’d be my honor—”

“Nick.”

“Moving on.” He turns back to the bag. “Sterile wipes. A mirror, if you want to see…” He clears his throat. “And some other stuff the website said you might need.”

She gives him a watery smile. “You didn’t have to do all this. You’ve been…” She swallows. “An amazing friend, Nick. Thank you.”

I swallow back memories of our hidden childhood friendship as he walks to the dresser with the bag.

“Told you I was awesome.” I can’t see his face, but his cocky tone is typical Nick. He sets the bag on the floor, out of the way, then turns and moves toward the middle of the room. “I’m going to help Ben set shit up, so I’ll leave you in the hands of my trusty assistant.” He sweeps his arm out and motions to me with the theatrics of a Spanish flamenco dancer.

I jerk from the doorframe, feeling a flash of heat under the sudden spotlight of their attention.

Maybe-Gina’s blue eyes widen. “Oh my gosh.” Her cheeks flush. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there.” Her gaze slices to Nick, letting him know he’s an ass for not introducing us.

I agree.

“What? We were having a bonding moment,” he defends with his own pout.

That pout is why we always watched Steve’s cheesy 90s movies instead of one of my non-cheesy fantasy picks.

I may have had a bit of an obsession with Tolkien elves growing up. They had everything I needed to be the perfect ballerina: grace, strength, and magic.

Not to mention they’re totally badass.

She narrows her eyes in a look that has Nick clearing his throat for introductions. “Blue, this is Win’s little sister, Ry.” His otherworldly, golden eyes lock on mine. “Ry, this is my Blue.”

My Blue. I shake away the small pang of hurt that hits my stomach at the distance Nick’s put between us with the Win’s-sister introduction. I’ve known him since I was nine years old. We grew up together. We were friends once. He might have even been my best friend. I think.

Dismissing Nick, I give her what I hope is a warm smile. “Nice to meet you,” I say a little too loudly as I take a few steps into the room because it seems like the natural thing to do.

“You too,” she returns with a bright smile and a small wave.

I wave back.

This is going splendidly…

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have a baby to get ready for.” He gives her a flamenco bow, then shoots me a crooked smile. “Make me proud, Peanut.”

And with that, he grabs his cell from his back pocket and swaggers out of the room the same way he walked in, without a backward glance.

Leaving me here. Alone.

To have a waving contest with a pregnant stranger whose baby is trying to fight its way out. Less than an hour into my new life and it’s not looking good, folks.

She smiles. “I’m Emmy, or Em,” she says to break the awkward silence.

“I’m Riley, or Ry,” I parrot like a dork while trying for a comfortable-around-people smile, knowing there’s a good chance I’ve missed the mark by a mile.

“Can I offer you a maternity pad? Or cord clamp?” she jokes, motioning to Nick’s duffle bag. Her neck flushes around her T-shirt collar. “I’m usually a better host, but I can’t currently see my feet, so I’m afraid this is as good as it’s gonna get.”

I glance to her feet. Her arches are high like beautiful bananas. Lucky girl.

I like that she’s trying to break the ice. Better her than me. Just as I open my mouth, to spew some kind of cringe-worthy attempt at casual conversation, Beyoncé’s “Run the World (Girls)” fills the space between us.

We both follow the sound to the speaker on the nightstand and stare at it for a moment trying to digest all that is Nick MacGregor.

It’s a lot to swallow.

A not-so-dainty belly laugh pulls my gaze back to her. “I’m having a girl, in case you didn’t know,” Emmy says on the tail end of her laugh, wiping her watery eyes.

“Kind of figured that,” I answer with a small chuckle, feeling my thigh muscles twitch through Beyoncé’s dance routine.

Emmy’s smile suddenly disappears. Her eyes go wide as a gasp of air is pulled through her lips. Her eyes hold mine for a beat, her mouth forming a shocked O.

“Everything okay?” I say, crossing the space between us, trying not to limp. My eyes flash to her belly, and I brace myself for whatever’s about to happen next.

With my luck, anything’s possible.

“Either my water just broke, or I peed the bed,” she says on a secret whisper.

I glance to the door. “Do you want me to get Ben?” I whisper back, because why not.

“No!” She grabs my hand, eyes flaring. “He’ll just start freaking out again.”

As if on cue, Ben lumbers in, his sudden presence slowing time for a suspended heartbeat. His dark eyes flicker from his wife to our joined hands. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Glad you guys are hitting it off.”

“I’m still mad at you,” Emmy interjects, shooting a frown at him and squeezing my hand tighter when I try to let go.

“I know,” he says quietly, a heartfelt apology written on his ruggedly handsome face.

He flicks another look my way, probably wondering why the heck I’m still holding his wife’s hand.

He clears his throat. “We’re gonna set the pool up in the den. That okay?”

She nods. I nod too, like I’m part of this conversation.

He moves to my side, his eyes narrowing in on me, making it clear he wants some alone time with his wife.

Too bad for us your wife’s a lot stronger than she looks.

I pull a random smile from my bag and slap it on, then turn to Emmy, who’s forcing her own nothing-to-see-here smile.

He clears his throat. “Everything good?” Suspicion clouds his voice, a bit of the hardness I saw in the hallway returning to his jaw.

“Just girl talk,” she says with a one-shoulder shrug. Like this is how all strangers who identify as female communicate: holding hands with Beyoncé playing in the background.

He grunts with a slow nod, seeming to add this bit of information to a growing list of female shit he doesn’t understand, and moves in a step closer to brush a wayward curl behind her ear.

I scoot further into the space between the nightstand and the bed, giving him room.

“Need anything?” His voice is a deep rumble of low vibrations. His tired eyes are fixed on Emmy, like she’s his beginning, middle, and end.

“I’m good.” Her voice is soft. Her forced smile melts into a genuine one.

“You sure?” He trails a thumb down her jaw, resting his other hand on her round belly, his rough, grease-stained hands at odds with the delicate way he touches her.

This time I throat-punch Jealousy when it tries to sink its claws into my gut again. I refuse to feel jealous of Ben’s happiness. Refuse to taint this beautiful moment with the charred ugliness my dumpster fire of a life has left behind.

I try to look away, but I’m sucked into their love orbit, so I just stare at them, sword-fighting Jealousy while holding his wife’s hand like a loon.

“I’m sure,” she repeats, barely above a whisper.

His thumb moves under her dainty chin and tips it up, his strong working-man’s hand a stark contrast to the soft pink skin of her flushed neck. He bends down and places a tender kiss on her parted lips.

I bite the inside of my cheek and push my shoulder against the wall, like somehow that will open a portal into a different dimension.

Ben breaks the kiss, then gives her a nice firm peck on her forehead before straightening.

Like a nervous tick, my feet shift into third position, and I flick my gaze from their intimacy to the dark wood headboard.

Well, I’m pretty sure I just participated in my first threesome…

Ben pulls a cell from his back pocket and hands it to her. “Mrs. B’s been calling.”

Emmy’s eyes go wide. “What did you tell her?”

“That you were resting.”

“And what did she say?”

He clears his throat again. “She said wolf moons on Mondays bring girl babies.” Then he continues under his breath, “And that she’s mapping the stars and will come over when it’s time.”

Emmy exhales. Her shoulders deflate. “Crap.”

I recognize the look on Emmy’s face. I hold her hand a little tighter, thinking about my mom.

“We put Daisy on door duty, so maybe that’ll hold her off,” he ends on a hopeful note.

“Maybe.” She gives him a small thanks-for-trying nod.

He looks between us. “I’ll leave you to your girl talk.”

“Thanks, babe. Love you.”

“Love you more,” Ben says with a look in his dark brown eyes that makes me believe him. I send a little prayer to whoever’s running this show to keep his wife and baby safe.

He gives me a quick nod and walks out.

As soon as he disappears from the room, Emmy turns to me, panic pulling at her petite features. “My best friend, Mara, can’t be here, so we’re going to have to skip all the getting to know each other stuff and just become friends, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree, stepping out from my hovel, oddly excited about the idea of having an insta-friend. Even a non-machine one.

Her eyes turn serious. “I should warn you that shit’s about to get real weird,” she states in a grave tone, like this is some kind of secret-mission moment.

I want to tell her that she’s talking to a girl who recently googled “How to hypnotize yourself to forget something.” But instead, I just say, “I’m totally fine with weird.”

She nods.

I nod.

My chest swells.

Mission accepted.

3

ALIENS ARE DICKS

Abort mission!

I repeat, abort mission!

I hold my position and stare down at the tiny old lady trying to ram past me with her walker.

For the second time.

When my mission included keeping away the lady—my new insta-friend called her Darth Vader Dottie, AKA Mrs. B—I thought how hard can it be?

“Get out of my way, girl!” the tiny elderly woman bellows. Her beady brown eyes glare up at me from under droopy lids, her rice-paper skin pulled into an impossibly evil scowl.

Turns out, it’s hard.

Really freaking hard.

I cross my arms over my chest and continue to block the hallway. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

Her eyes narrow in a look that, if I’m being honest, scares the bejesus out of me. And I’ve lived through three Vaganova Russian teachers.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” She flicks a sharp, blue-veined hand at me. “Use those bird legs and move it, Tweety!”

Oh. My. God.

I want to tell her these bird legs can push-press Ben’s body weight, but instead, I look over her puff-of-cotton-swab hair to see Nick and Jesse casually leaning against the back of the couch, watching me get attacked by this granny gremlin.

Not helping. Watching.

Like they could use a bucket of popcorn.

The rotating tilt of Daisy’s head says she’s enjoying the show too. I guess them being entertained at my expense is better than all the nervous pacing and grunting they were doing before the midwife showed up, but it’s still annoying.

I take in a steady breath, knowing I’m on my own. “She doesn’t want visitors right now,” I repeat for what feels like the hundredth time.

“Hodgepodge!” She jerks her walker forward.

I block her like one of Steve’s pro-ballers. Not today, Satan!

Her eyes drill into mine. “That baby’s coming any minute. Scoot it!”

It could be because I made a promise to my new insta-friend. Or because I promised myself that tonight’s the start of my new life. Or it could be because my knee hurts and I have uncomfortable sodium bloat. That I’ve been sucking in for over an hour thanks to this stupid hoodie that looks nothing like it did online. Or it could be because Nick’s in the front row of this shitshow, and I refuse to get bested by a gremlin with him watching.

Whatever the reason, I know as long as I’m still standing, there’s no way in hell this lady’s getting past me.

No freaking way.

“None. Shall. Pass,” I growl, each word a separate blood oath, and put my hands on my hips, widening my chicken-leg stance.

I hear Nick stifle a laugh.

Fucking Nick.

“Hey, Mrs. B, I think there’s some of Ada’s caramel apple cake left in the kitchen,” Nick calls out, a sinful grin playing on his soft angel lips.

Her face snaps to him at the mention of cake, then back at me, her witch’s gaze casting dark curses against mine. “I’ll be back, missy.”

“I’ll be here,” I counter, holding my stance under the force of her atomic glare.

We have a high-noon showdown for a few clicks of the clock tower, our hands pistol-ready, before she turns her walker and shuffles away, mumbling something about fried chicken under her breath.

My shoulders relax, and I drop my hands from my hips, watching her disappear from the room, wondering how long I have to recharge before she’s back.

“None shall pass?” Nick says on a raspy chuckle. The throaty sound tosses a lit match on my gasoline-soaked nerves.

Jesse’s lips twitch, his turquoise gaze teasing me from the shadow of his baseball cap. “That was… something.”

Did I say I liked Jesse? I take it back.

“I didn’t see either of you stepping up to help,” I grind out, crossing my arms over my less-than-impressive chest, especially in the lock-em-down sports bra I’m wearing, and give them my best hellfire glare.

Daisy hangs her head in shame. Her metal name tag clangs against the hardwood floor as she moves to her belly, so at least there’s that.

“Looks like you were doing just fine on your own, Peanut.” Nick shoots me a playful wink that lands like a mosquito bite in the middle of my back.

I hate winkers.

That goes double for arrogant Viking winkers with Clark Kent glasses.

“Can you please stop calling me that,” I snap back a little too sharply. I know my mistake when his eyes spark like a shark scenting blood and his teeth scrape over his full bottom lip.

“Sorry, Peanut.” His chin dips, his brows creasing his forehead. “Once a name is given it cannot be ungiven,” he states, like my stupid nickname is part of some divine prophecy. “This is the way.”

Jesse shakes his head in a slow warning. “You start that shit, and I will show you the way out of this fucking house.” I like Jesse again.

“I have spoken.” Nick raises his palm, like his smug words alone commands the gods.

“Were you always this annoying?” I lean a casual shoulder against the wall, trying to channel a Sergei Polunin “Bad Boy of Ballet” level of cool.

“No.” He smirks. “I’d like to think I’ve gotten better with age,” he says, like he just graduated with his master’s degree in annoying people.

I tilt my head, letting him know I’m not impressed.

His smirk grows, letting me know the night’s still young.

The slam of the front door shakes the house.

Nick’s attention swings toward it. His smirk drops, right before a man storms into the living room wearing a black chef’s uniform and a familiar worn-out baseball cap. Can you feel happy to see someone and dread it at the same time? Apparently, yes.

Life tip: If you ever see a cozy-looking porch swing in front of a Hallmark-movie house, run.

In truth, it’s not the questions Winston will ask that I dread; it’s the pitying look that always follows my answers. I loathe that look. It’s one of the reasons I left LA.

“You told me it was a false alarm, asshole!” my stepbrother bellows at Nick, turning his baseball cap backward as he steps up to him.

There are few things in this life I can count on. Winston and Nick fighting about stupid shit is one of them.

Nick straightens from his casual couch lean, a slow confident grin spreading on his face. “Did I? My bad,” he says, his voice tauntingly smooth.

“You wanna play it like that?” Winston challenges.

I exhale, knowing what’s coming next.

His voice drops, and his hazel eyes narrow into slits. “You’ve called down the thunder. Well, now you’ve got it.”

I shake my head. The other thing I can count on is my stepbrother working cheesy lines from the old Westerns we grew up on into Every. Single. Conversation. Ever.

Jesse mutters something under his breath, pinching his brows together with his fingers.

“You already lost, bro,” Nick states with a puffed chest and points proudly to his black T-shirt that’s currently on inside out.

“And…?” Win asks, the top of his cheeks and neck flushed with simmering anger.

Nick looks to his shirt and seethes, “Damn it.”

Before I can save myself, he strips off his T-shirt, turning it right-side out with the motion, and blinds me with a drool-worthy chest and a six pack of lean marble-muscle perfection, framed by two Adonis lust handles, all covered in a kaleidoscope of neon colors with bits of his natural Hemsworth skin peeking through.

Loin-cloth Viking Nick has nothing on Reality Nick.

Nothing.

I squint against the unwanted flickering images of me running my tongue between the planes of his twitching stomach muscles, his strong fingers threading in my hair as I pepper teasing kisses down to…

Dear Universe,

Consider this my formal letter of resignation.

Sincerely,

Ry

My vision clears as Nick slips his shirt back on. A victorious grin spreads across his face as he repoints to his T-shirt.

A T-shirt with The Godfather movie logo scrawled across it. No doubt, if he had a sword, he’d be raising it with a triumphant war cry.

Winston scoffs. “That all you got?” He motions a sharp hand in the direction the gremlin granny went. “While you were busy picking out a stupid shirt, I was filling up Em’s freezer with homemade baby food for my goddaughter.” His voice drops, “Fruit hand-picked by me and pureed in small batches, bro.” He crosses his arms over his quarterback-all-star chest. “Small batches,” he repeats, like he just snatched the sword from Nick’s raised hand and stabbed him with it.

Winston lets his words sink in for a beat. Then a not-so-innocent farm-boy smile slides across his handsome face. There are a million reasons why my friends were all in love with my stepbrother. That smile was one of them.

Nick’s nostrils flare, his eyes narrow, his scruff-covered jaw clenches.

“I made her crib,” Jesse casually slips into the conversation, his eyes on his phone. “From a white oak I planted when I was a kid with my dad.” He looks up. “Cut that shit down myself while you two were picking berries and trying on clothes.”

He turns back to his cell, having just impaled them both without even breaking a sweat.

Forget Sergei, I hereby appoint Lumberjack Jesse the King of Cool.

“You’re such a dick,” Winston hisses at Jesse.

“You’re both dicks,” Nick adds, solemnly crossing his arms over his chest. An unfortunate chest of smooth, Michelangelo-carved-marble perfection that I can never unsee.

Jesse grunts, a twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth.

The clanking of Daisy’s name tag on the floor draws my attention. I turn in time to see her jump to her feet with her creepy White Walker ice-blue eyes fixed in my direction, seconds before a faint trembling cry sounds from down the hall.

Everyone swings their heads toward the sound. Immediate silence blankets the room.

My eyes catch Win’s, and I hold my breath at the flash of surprise at seeing me here. His surprise is quickly tossed aside for something more important: Ben’s new baby.

I turn my gaze down the hall too, feeling a strange happy bubble forming in my chest at the sound of Ben’s baby.

I move a few steps out of the hallway and lean my back against the living room wall to give them all a better view.

“That’s a good cry, yeah? I mean, she sounds healthy, right?” Win asks no one and everyone, his glossy hazel eyes fixed down the hall.

“Yeah, that’s a good cry,” Jesse answers, his stern features melting into a broad smile that lights up his face in a way I’ve never seen on him before. I’m surprised by the rugged beauty of it.

I glance back to see Nick staring past me with an awed expression that reminds me of the lanky skater boy wearing Converse and baggy clothes before he transformed into the Norse god with cool tattoos.

“She’s really here,” he says softly, taking off his glasses and retaking his leaning position against the back of the couch.

“What did you think was gonna happen?” the demon granny chimes in as she reemerges from the Gates of Hell to take position with her walker next to Jesse. “Bunch of geniuses.” Her perma-glare lands on me, making it clear I’m included in her assessment.

Her witchy eyes flick past me, and her harsh wrinkles soften when the baby renews its growing objection to being in this new cold world.

Can’t say it gets any better from here, kiddo.

A few jovial voices travel into the living room from down the hall. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can feel their emotions like static electricity moving through the air, raising the hair on my arms.

Nick clears his throat. “We have a baby girl,” he says, his eyes brimming with tears as a watery smile spreads across his Golden Ratio face. It’s a look so beautiful it jump-starts my mechanical heart into a choppy rhythm.

My palm pushes against the uncomfortable ache forming under my breastbone.

“Yep,” Winston says with a hearty clap on Nick’s back, his smooth, deep voice thick with emotion.

Jesse grunts, pinching his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger. Is he…crying?

I definitely don’t want to be here when these guys find out it’s not actually their baby.

My gaze flicks to the front door as my hand slides into the front pocket of my hoodie, wrapping around my keys. The temptation to slip out while everyone’s distracted grows stronger with each choppy heartbeat. Underneath the temptation to sneak away is an expanding bubble of excitement to see Ben’s baby.

“Lord help the poor girl,” the gremlin granny adds, turning her beady eyes to the heavens.

I want to tell her she’s looking in the wrong direction, but I bite my tongue.

“She’s gonna be raised by a bunch of heathens.” She shakes her head and darts a sharp glare my way, effectively popping the excitement bubble to see the baby.

And with that, I decide to relinquish my title as Keeper of the Hallway and officially start my new life tomorrow.

I take a few casual side steps toward the front door, which will lead me to a strawberry milkshake from McDonalds and my hibernation-rotation bed.

Where, after venturing down a YouTube rabbit hole or two while sipping my artificially sweet strawberry goodness, I’ll simply hypnotize myself to forget this night ever happened.

Easy-breezy.

As if sensing my milkshake plans, Daisy creeps my way and plants her butt right in the middle of my escape path, looking up at me with her thickly muscled neck tilted to the side, the tip of her pink tongue peeking out.

I grip my keys harder, trying to throw her some of my newly acquired alpha-female vibes—I’m pretty sure if I can face down a demon in a teal velour tracksuit, I can handle one measly hellhound.

“She wants you to take her outside,” Nick translates, slipping his glasses back on.

I look down at Daisy, half expecting for her to nod or something, then back to Nick. “Can’t you take her?”

“If she wanted Nick to take her, she would’ve asked him.” The granny barks her two cents.

I mentally flip her off. With both hands.

Nick chuckles with a shake of his head, like he’s privy to my private thoughts.

I mentally flip him off too, just in case he is.

“You can go through the den. Poop bags are on the desk.” He motions his head toward the double doors on the other end of the living room, then pulls out his phone, dismissing me. I’m surprised by the pang in my chest.

Jerk.

“I’ll go with you,” Winston says, taking a few steps from the couch, turning his baseball cap back the right way around and pushing the bill up a little on his forehead.

Backward is for eating, fishing, and fighting. Frontward, pushed up a little on his forehead, is for serious talks. Yay.

My mind races with flashcards of lame excuses for why I haven’t visited. Why I always text instead of calling him back. Why I flaked on his restaurant’s grand opening. Why I’m such an asshole.

The last one I think is genetic, so…

The doorbell rings through the house with an old-fashioned ding-dong. Win flicks his hazel eyes toward the entryway, then shoots me a we’re-gonna-talk-later look as he goes to answer it.

“Saved by the bell,” Nick says to his phone with a smirk.

“Whatever.” I blow out a dramatic breath, trying not to roll my eyes like the teen who left him and this place behind, and make my way toward the den with Daisy at my side.

I glance over my shoulder to see a gaggle of silver-haired ladies shuffle inside, talking in hushed voices brimming with giddy excitement.

Daisy’s tail takes off like a helicopter blade.

My lips tighten in a thin line.

Looks like Demon Granny brought back-up.

Fantastic.

After Daisy squats over every single inch of the expansive, landscape-lit green grass and lifts her leg to every single available bush and tree—which I’m pretty sure is some kind of psychological intimidation game—she stalks up to the surprisingly comfortable oversized wood chair I’m sitting in, one of ten situated around a large above-ground fire pit. And looks at me, cocking her head to the side.

“I think you missed a spot,” I mumble.

Yes, I’m fully aware I’m talking to a dog, but when in Rome…

She sits and rests her bull head on my crisscrossed chicken legs, looking up at me with expectant crystal-blue eyes.

I wait for a shiver of fear to run through my body, but I must be exhausted because the only thought that comes to mind is that she looks kind of cute like this. Still, if she’s waiting for me to pet her head, she’s gonna be waiting a long time.

“Don’t take it personally. I’m not really a dog person,” I tell her on an exhale, resting my head on the back of the chair, looking to the blanket of stars. I should sit under the stars more often.

I take in a deep breath of cleansing mountain air, tracing Orion’s belt with my tired gaze, while my mind travels back in time to the childhood trips my grandpa would drag me on whenever my mom would go on one of her “find herself” weekends.

And the stories about the stars he would tell in his thick Portuguese accent in front of a roaring fire while we roasted chestnuts in foil and marshmallows on sticks.

I decided I wanted to grow up to be like the brave little hummingbird who made the stars by poking holes in the blanketed sky.

Then I decided I wanted to be the star.

Specifically, Sirius, the brightest one.

I close my heavy lids, listening to the mix of cars swooshing in the far distance, faint voices coming from inside the house, and crickets chirping a relaxing Vivaldi lullaby, feeling at peace for the first time in months.

Somehow my hand finds its way to Daisy’s giant bull head, prompting her to nudge deeper into my legs, her hot breath warming my calves through the thin material of my leggings.

If I ask nicely, maybe my new-insta friend will let me pop a tent and live in her backyard. Maybe I’ll start a YouTube lifestyle channel… Or go on a survival reality show like Emmy said her best friend has done (the reason I’m tonight’s insta-friend) and come back with the million-dollar prize.

Then I can just buy some land of my own.

Away from everything.

And everyone.

4

RAYLEIGH THE HARLOT

A sharp whistle cuts through my inner peace. My eyes shoot open as Daisy springs from my lap and takes off toward it.

“Ben’s bringing the baby out,” Nick calls to me in his deep, raspy voice. I look over to see him holding the door open with his shoulder while waving me inside like I’m about to miss the last train to Crazy Town.

The blur that’s Daisy skids to a stop at the door. Nick says something to her before she disappears inside.

To my surprise, he doesn’t follow her in. Instead, he just stares in my direction. He’s too far away for me to see his foot, but I’m pretty sure he’s tapping it like an agitated mom whose kid’s late for school. Well, I guess that’s the end of my backyard Zen time.

I exhale when he gives me another short wave to hurry. I must have been a real dick in my past life. Like someone who shoots endangered animals for sport.

I send a quick goodbye to Orion, unfold my stiff legs, wishing I had finished stretching them out properly, and reluctantly head toward the house.

When I don’t break Daisy’s land speed record, like His Highness expects, he rests an impatient tattooed hand on his narrow hip. Probably still tapping his foot.

Do I quicken my steps? Um, let’s just say sloth brides walking down the aisle to their sloth grooms move faster than I’m moving right now.

“You don’t have to wait for me,” I call out, my words overflowing with irritation.

It’s not like I asked him to come outside and get me. I was doing just fine. Better than fine. A few more hours in that comfy chair under the stars, and I’m pretty sure I would’ve solved all the world’s problems. Or at least a few of my own.

In a blink, he drops his hand from his hip, closes the space between us with a dozen or so long strides, and stops at my front for a suspended heartbeat. Then grabs my hand without a word and sets a slower-than-expected pace toward the house.

My traitor stomach flips at his touch, which pisses me off. “I didn’t come back home to be manhandled by you, Nick.” I raise our clenched hands, my explanation to his confused look.

A lazy grin spreads across his face. “Manhandled?”

The way he says manhandled catapults a swarm of dancing fireflies to my cheeks.

I drop his heavy hand like a hot coal.

He clears his throat and arches an arrogant eyebrow. “I’d like to state for the record that you’re the one who grabbed my hand, so technically you manhandled me.”

“No, I didn’t,” I scoff. At the same time an eerie feeling tickles the back of my neck. I try to playback the scene in my mind, but it’s too foggy to make out.

He shrugs. “I remembered you pulled a muscle, so I was offering you my arm.” He gives me a pointed look. “Like the gentleman I am. When you grabbed my hand.” Wicked humor flashes in his eyes. “Roughly, I might add.”

And then I see it. A hazy picture of me… grabbing his hand?

I shake away the phantom image. “Whatever,” I say under my breath, feeling heat crawl up my neck to my ears.

Nick chuckles softly, letting me know he thinks I’m an idiot, as he places a hand on my lower back, guiding me toward the house like we’re walking through a Michelin-star restaurant. Does my pulse quicken at his touch? Yep.

I glance up at the scattered-diamond and black-velvet sky, sending out a call for help. If there was ever a time for an alien abduction, it’s now.

They send my call straight to voicemail as we step into the den.

Green bastards.

We move around the unused birthing pool and past the soft leather couch in front of an unlit Christmas tree.

Dylan and I were always too busy trying to survive Nutcracker season to put up a tree.

I wonder if he and his new girlfriend had one this year. I wonder if they had gifts piled underneath and wore matching pajamas as they opened them.

I wonder if I should care more than I do.

The sound of feminine laughter seeping in from the living room pulls me from my thoughts. As we approach the doorway, I rush to tame down my ponytail of frizzing beach waves and wipe at the hellhound-drool Daisy left on my leggings.

“You look fine,” Nick says on an exaggerated sigh.

“Thanks,” I say in an I-didn’t-ask-you voice, quickening my steps, feeling even more insecure than a moment ago.

“Hold up.” He snakes a hand across my stomach, stopping me. My breath hitches at the searing touch of his long fingers on my exposed skin.

Note to self: Burn this top.

He quickly drops his hand, leaving his print branded on my stomach, and clears his throat. “I didn’t tell Win you were in town. I figured there’s a good reason you’re hiding out.”

I bristle. And open my mouth to tell him that I’m not hiding, but I’m not a good enough liar to pull that one off yet, so I just say, “Okay.”

He holds my brown eyes captive with his honey-gold ones for an intense beat as his Viking energy swirls around my body, trying to bend me to his will.

Once upon a time, one of these steady looks from him would have me spilling all my secrets. I raise my fashionably full brows to let him know that shit doesn’t work on me anymore. I hope I’m right.

“I thought you were in a rush.” I point a sarcastic finger toward the living room.

He crosses his arms over his chest like he has all the time in the world. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Peanut.” He dips his chin.

“Why do you care?”

“We’re friends,” he says like he’s stating the obvious.

Is that why you introduced me as Win’s little sister? Because we’re such good friends?

I scoff. “We haven’t talked in years.”

“So?” His brows pull tight.

“Sorry to be the one to break it to you, Nick, but that’s not how friends work.” I sound like I’m the one who drafted the “Friendship” blueprint.

“That’s how it works with us.” His voice hardens.

Us. I flinch as my mechanical heart punches through my Vulcan steel chest and reaches out for... A friend? A life rope? A hug? A new host body because this one is totally effed up? I don’t know.

I take a step back, putting him out of heart-reach. “Thanks for your concern, but I’m fine.” I raise my brows in response to his gaze. “Really,” I add, surprised at how convincing it sounds. Maybe I’m a better liar than I thought.

After studying my face for a tense beat, his eyes narrow. “We’ll talk later.”

I tilt my head with a vacant smile. “Or not.”

After a few stuttered heartbeats, his hand returns to my lower back, and he guides me into the spacious living room. He never used to do this hand-on-the-back thing. I don’t like it. Liar

My eyes travel to Jesse, sitting on one of the blueish-gray chairs on either side of a soft-blue loveseat with his elbows on his knees and his eyes on his phone.

I turn my guarded glance to the silver-haired women busy loving on Daisy from the cream couch, all wearing various shades of pastel. My tight chest relaxes a bit when I don’t spot the gremlin among them.

They pause their cooing to beam warm Golden Girls smiles my way. I smile back, but keep my guard up, knowing the outside doesn’t always match the inside.

“It’ll be a minute longer, honey. They’re on a video call with Derek,” the one in pale yellow, with a smoky voice and a head of beautiful silver coils, says to Nick, then slides her gaze to me, her smile widening.

“He still snowed in?” Nick asks while guiding me further into the room.

“From what I could gather. Poor guy.” She shakes her head, with her lips pressed together in a sad smile. “It’s gonna kill him to miss this.”

There’s nothing like a group of people you’ve never met, talking to someone who you haven’t seen in years, about people you don’t know, to make you feel like an outsider.

Nick stops us in front of the stately stone fireplace, center stage. Perfect.

I shift my turned-out feet and cross my arms over my stomach, forcing my slumping shoulders back, and my spine straight.

And shift my feet again.

Set me on a stage in front of thousands, and I can perform a flawless “Dance of the Little Swans” with a pulled hamstring.

Set me in front of a couch of pastel seniors and I can’t even stand up straight.

Nick bends down. His low voice brushes my ear and sends a shiver through my body. “Relax, Peanut. They don’t bite.”

“I’m totally relaxed,” I say under my breath, keeping my eyes fixed ahead while my heart uses my sternum as a punching bag.

“Totally,” he mocks on a soft laugh, before he straightens to his full six-foot-three glory, casting me in his shadow.

I continue to ignore him, watching Daisy move from the pastel-blue Golden Girl to the slight one in a lavender sweater with an oxygen thingy in her nose.

I try not to shift my feet again while blanketing the group with another polite smile.

The lavender lady looks up from scratching under Daisy’s chin, to me. She gets a twinkle in her eye before she turns to Nick. “Well, aren’t you going to introduce us to your girlfriend?”

I can’t help but snort at the girlfriend part, feeling Nick’s gaze drop to me at the sound.

“That’s my kid sister, Riley,” Winston says in his smooth voice as he walks into the room, carrying a glass of water.

His chef’s jacket hangs open to show an army-green T-shirt with Outlaw scrawled across it. Figures. Nick puts a little space between us, something he used to do whenever Winston was around. It always bothered me. Now, I take a few side steps of my own.

Win hands the glass of water to the lady with a smoky voice in yellow. Then heads my way and throws a heavy arm over my shoulder, pulling me into a warm side-hug that I’m surprisingly grateful for. I ignore Nick’s gaze on me and relax into it. And exhale away some of the tension in my body, since I’m ninety-nine percent sure Winston’s decided to save his hailstorm of questions for a different day.

Maybe birthday wishes do come true.

He motions to the couch with his standard-issue boyish grin. “Riley, these are my best girls.”

Best girls?

He reels off their names: Betsy (oxygen nose thingy, lavender), Ada (smoky voice, yellow), and Josie (thick glasses, blue flowers).

They melt at Win’s playful best girls introduction, suddenly looking decades younger.

Note to self: Find a way to sell his Chris Pratt charm as youth serum and make millions.

“Nice to meet you all,” I say, sweeping a generic smile over the couch.

Their faces brighten, but before they can reciprocate, Granny Gremlin shuffles in from the hallway, dropping the temperature in the room a few thousand degrees.

She turns her arctic glare from Win to Nick, then settles her scowl on me. “Hey, Tweety. Come here.”

Um. I’d rather lick the bathroom floor of a gas station, thanks. I pretend not to notice her and send another birthday wish to the universe.

When she doesn’t disappear, I scoot closer to Win, who smells like hickory smoke and spicy barbecue from his restaurant. He meets my imploring save-me-from-her gaze, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze, then arches an apologetic brow—don’t you dare—and drops his arm.

My eyes narrow, letting him know he’s a coward, before I turn back to the room, praying for a sinkhole to swallow me up.

“Her name is Rayleigh, Dottie. Don’t be rude,” Josie, admonishes. Then she looks to me through thick, purple-rimmed glasses, a sweet grandmotherly expression on her round face, and says, “I had a cousin named Rayleigh. She was a beauty like you.”

I run a hand over the frizz that was smooth-as-silk hair this morning.

Did I mention she had thick glasses? Yeah.

“She was a harlot,” Dottie scoffs as she motions for her to scoot over. “Ran off with Edith’s husband, leaving her a houseful of his brats, or did you forget.”

“Well, she was still pretty,” Josie returns defensively as she reluctantly scoots over to make room on the couch.

Winston snickers at my side.

Nick runs a hand over his mouth to hide his grin.

Jesse grunts from the chair.

What they don’t do is correct my name.

Rayleigh the Harlot, it is.

Dottie sinks into the plush cushions, her feet barely touching the floor, which makes her seem kind of cute and cuddly. I’m pretty sure that’s how she lures her victims.

I shoot a poisoned-dart smile her way, then give her my back, letting her know she can’t order me around—it’s a power play I’m not really feeling.

I don’t know why I look to Nick for help, since he’s the reason I’m here in the first place, but old habits die hard apparently.

He tilts his head, and his strong chin dips in an apology, which I’d believe if it weren’t for the wicked grin tugging at his jerk lips.

“I hate you both,” I say under my breath to the boys who were once my protectors.

“You love me,” Winston chides. “Which is why I forgive you for not calling when you got into town.”

I want to tell him I forgive him for forgetting my birthday, but I don’t.

He moves a step closer, pushing up his baseball cap with his thumb, his clear hazel eyes narrowing as he slowly takes in the mess that is my current state. “You good, Ry?”

My body goes still at the question. The urge to hand over some of this crap I’ve been lugging around is so strong I forget to breathe.

“You deaf?” I hear Dottie squawk. I glance over my shoulder to see her waving her cell phone at me. “I need you to send pictures from this thing.”

I turn back, letting the truth burn on my tongue like dry ice, shining my best dimpled smile at him. “I’m just peachy, thanks.” I take a step back, straighten my shoulders, looking between them. “If you’ll excuse me, it seems the witch is ready for her sacrifice. The sacrifice being me, in case you didn’t know.” My eyes narrow on Nick. “Because getting kidnapped by my stepbrother’s deranged friend didn’t suck enough.”

Nick’s suppressed grin breaks free. “Don’t you think you’re being a tad dramatic?”

I shrug. It’s what happens when you’ve spent months on a diet of Vikings and reality TV. I spin on my sacrificial heels and drag my hesitant feet to the couch while the room erupts into baby-themed small talk. For once I’m thankful for small talk.

Dottie scoots over, pointing an arthritic finger for me to sit in the sliver of a space she’s granted me beside her. Then holds her phone out in front of us so I can see the screen.

She smells sweet, like honey and warm milk. Someone with her personality should smell like burnt hair and sulfur. Or that giant flower in Cornwall that smells like dead people. Yep. She should smell like dead people. Just saying.

“Send these pictures to Mary, Carmen, Beth, and Joanie,” she orders. Then adds, “Tell them the baby has my eyes.”

“How can she have your eyes?” Ada asks from the other end of the couch.

Dottie leans forward to peer around Josie. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, Ada.” She says it like she’s an authority on all things holy, then turns back to me and shoves her phone at me. “Put one of those heart thingies all you kids use in the messages.”

I take the phone. “A please would be nice,” I mumble under my breath while trying to remember the list of names she rattled off.

“Please,” she says around a mouthful of glass shards.

It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it.

Feeling a little lighter, I look to the phone and freeze for a heartbeat. It takes a few more beats for my brain to reconcile the sweet lady in the pictures with the grouchy hag sitting next to me. The hag who apparently made it down the hall after all.

She’s cradling a bundled baby, with a squished face and a shock full of black hair, against her teal chest. The unshed tears in her eyes and the tender smile she wears transforms her face into something soft and unrecognizable.

Beautiful even. Like Betty White.

My gaze slowly creeps from the pictures to her.

Maybe underneath all those demon layers is a sweet Betty White.

Her bitter eyes flash to mine, narrowing into slits. “What?!”

Maybe not.

I turn back to the phone and send the pictures to the names on her contact list that sound familiar. And to a few more just in case. When I hit send on the final batch, deciding for the second and final time to put an official end to the night, the murmured voices in the room suddenly go quiet.

I lift my gaze from the phone to see Winston pull off his hat, quickly running a hand through his short brown hair, trying to tame his hat-head down but somehow making it worse.

Nick takes off his glasses, then immediately slips them back on, a telltale for nervousness I always thought was cute.

My eyes track Ben as he walks to the middle of the living room. His slow, careful steps and the look on his ruggedly handsome face say his entire world is cradled snug in his powerful arms.

I can’t help but wonder if my dad held me like that. Probably not. But maybe.

His world starts to cry, so he gives her a gentle shushing-bounce in a rhythm all parents seem to know. Even brand-new, combat-ready Marine ones.

A few awws from the Golden Girls sound through the room. I might have thrown an aww or two of my own into the mix.

Her trembling cries soften into precious hiccups that send fuzzy bubbles through my chest, followed by a few uncomfortable feelings I can’t put a name to.

Ben’s a dad. With a wife. And has a home. With a fire pit.

He’s only a few years older than me, but right now I feel eons younger. Maybe spending my life in a ballet bubble has stunted me somehow.

I release a hot puff of ballet-bubble air, feeling Daisy’s steady psychopath stare tingling my cheek. I give her my best alpha side-eye, which she translates into some kind of invitation for her to plop on the floor and rest her heavy head on my feet.

Not beside them, but on them.

It feels strangely comforting.

Note to self: Invent weighted hellhound slippers and make millions.

Ben clears his throat and casts a watery smile at the room. There’s so much love in his dark eyes that when they briefly lock on mine it fills my chest to the point of near pain.

He swallows. “I’d like to introduce you all to Rose Isabella Crawford.” His deep voice rumbles with emotion through the air, and the room erupts into happy tears at the baby’s name.

“Your grandma would be so happy, Ben. It’s a beautiful tribute,” Josie says around a sniffle. The room agrees.

It takes a few seconds of wading through the muck of my childhood to pull out a memory of Ben’s grandma.

I remember the text Win sent about her passing, and that Ben was heading home for the funeral.

I returned his message with a sad-face emoji.

I’d like to think I would’ve called or texted something better if I hadn’t been about to go into surgery, but who knows.

I’d seen Ben’s Grandma Rose a dozen or so times, but only talked with her once, at one of Win’s baseball games. I remember her deep-red lipstick. And the way she whistled through her fingers without smudging it.

She shared her white wicker basket full of after-game snacks with me while my mom’s judging eyes burned the back of my neck, probably calculating the carbs of each bite. But I didn’t care. I just wanted to feel like a normal girl. Eating potato chips and chicken-salad sandwiches while watching her stepbrother and his friends slaughter the visiting team.

No mirrors. No perfect form. No perfect feet. No perfect extensions. Just me. And a spunky old lady cheering on “her boys.” It was a few precious moments of normalcy that was worth the “Curse of the Souza Ass” lecture I knew was coming when we got home.

“Look at your competition. How many fat asses do you see? How many thighs do you see rubbing together? None. You want to eat crap and get a big ass like the rest of the Souzas, fine. Stop wasting Steve’s money, and just quit now.”

She knew failure wasn’t an option. She knew how guilty I felt that Steve paid for my classes and intensives. And that the only way I knew to repay him was with success. Success that could only be achieved by pushing harder than the competition. Training harder. Working harder. Because my mom was right: My body would always fight the Souza curse. And I was never going to be naturally ballet-perfect, a definition that seems to be evolving. Too late for me, though.

A sharp pain spreads up my side and pulls me to the present. I turn my narrowed eyes to Dottie whose bony elbow is yet again digging into my ribs as she reaches for another tissue from her pocket, forcing me to angle my body even further into the armrest to avoid permanent liver damage.

My venomous gaze slices to the man responsible for me being here. He’s taking paparazzi-style pictures of Ben and the baby with his cell, like they’re on the red carpet. The megawatt smile on his face could power Times Square. It’s nuts how two people can be in the same room and experience completely different realities.

His gaze slams into mine from around his cell. My cheeks heat when I’m caught staring at him. Again. He lowers his phone a bit, and his lightbulb smile dims as he gives me a “What’s wrong?” look.

Feeling like a jerk for pulling him from his once-in-a-lifetime photo shoot, I give him a “Nothing” shake of my head and a shoulder shrug.

He arches his brows. “You sure?”

I shrug with a quick nod. “Yep.”

Our mind-meld is cut short when the midwife walks into the room, wearing pale pink scrubs, her heavy head of cool salt-and-pepper locs pulled back into a low ponytail.

Mac’s Powder Kiss lipstick in the shade “Candy” would look awesome with her warm complexion. She moves to Ben’s side with a take-charge sureness that I’m certain comes in handy with new parents.

“It’s baby meet-and-greet time,” she says brightly, waving a bottle of hand sanitizer to the room. “Then we’ll get her back to mama so they can get some rest.” Which is code to keep the line moving. Without wasting a breath, her eyes scan the room and land on the couch. “Let’s start with these ladies.”

After I quietly decline my turn, with a let-them-go-first smile and head tilt to the other ladies, Ben’s baby is gently passed from one set of sanitized hands to the next.

Dottie rudely takes an extra turn, even though she already held the baby. Not surprised.

They all look up at Ben from the couch, holding his world snug in their arms, with love in their eyes and a series of three words on their lips:

She’s so perfect.

She’s so beautiful.

She’s so lovely.

Each word feels like a curse I want to shield her from. Do my fingers tingle to bust out in some kind of counter spell? Yep. It seems I have issues. A lot of issues. #MyIssuesHaveIssues.

Jesse grunts his adoration to the baby, startling her into an angry cry, earning a lopsided bashful grin from him, and a few giggles from the group.

As always, Win swoops in to save the day, soothing her cries with a lullaby rendition of some country song I’d never heard before. I bet Krista would know it, though.

Reason number three all my friends loved Winston Night: he plays guitar and sings in a hot-chocolate timbre that warms you from the inside out.

Steve was always quick to remind us that Win gets “his pipes” from his mom, something I know my mom hated.

Besides her goat-singing talent, I also inherited her competitive streak, so I know how much she loathes being bested. Especially by Steve’s small-town childhood sweetheart who blew into our cold house like a warm breeze a few times a year to visit Win.

Cindy was loud. Had a big laugh to match her big bottle-blonde hair. She hugged hard like she meant it. And lived harder. Traveling across the country from one dive-bar gig to the next. She had crow’s feet. And faint lines around her mouth from planting her frosted lips on every cheek she came across. Hair that was more frizz than curl. And a slow Southern twang that made you want to ask her questions just to hear her talk.

My mom described Cindy as a “simple woman” to her friends. A venom-laced insult said with smile number three on her perfect face.

No doubt my mom was prettier than Win’s mom on the outside. But on the inside, she couldn’t hold a candle to her. And she knew it.

Win’s rich-chocolate country lullaby proves too much for the Golden Girls, who start their sniffling again. It isn’t lost to me that Dottie is the loudest among them. Or that even demons in tracksuits can cry. I may have dabbed the inner corner of my dry eyes to feel better about my machine self.

With the promise of Ada’s “famous” strawberry cheesecake, Dottie urges the gang to the kitchen.

When the midwife disappears to check on Emmy, it leaves Ben, Win, and Nick to wrap up the meet-and-greet. It’s probably only been twenty-five minutes, but it feels like a curse-casting eternity.

Stretching my numb toes under Daisy’s head, I peek from under my heavy lashes to see Win gingerly hand the baby back to a hovering Ben with a gentle smile. Then he quietly gets up from the designated baby-holding chair and grabs his chef’s coat slung over the back.

He catches my gaze as he walks toward the kitchen, motioning his head for me to follow.

I tilt my chin down to Daisy busy drooling on my feet.

She’s also snoring like an old man, by the way.

Sure, I don’t want to wake Daisy—never wake a sleeping hellhound and all that—but the truth is, I want to see Nick hold the baby.

Why? I have no clue.

When my attention swings back to the room, Nick’s already sitting in the chair, holding his rainbow-colored arms out to Ben in a generic cradle position.

With the brightest Christmas-morning smile I’ve ever seen, lighting up his Golden Ratio face. His excitement crashes into me, a tidal wave knocking the air from my lungs. Daisy gives a quick snort awake, then swings her bulky head from me to Nick.

Ben hands him the baby as I destroy my perfect manicure for something to do, peeking at them from under my sweat/mascara-clumped lashes. That I’m sure look as gross as they feel.

“I’m gonna go check on Em. You good?” Ben says, his gravelly voice dripping with fatigue.

I think about my new insta-friend and how exhausted she must be. I know if I’d just popped out a baby, the last thing I’d want is a houseful of people passing said baby around and eating cheesecake in my kitchen, but that’s just me.

“Yeah,” Nick replies distractedly, his adoring gaze fixed on the bundle in his arms. A little chubby arm pokes out from under the blanket. He covers her chub with his tattooed hand, his smile growing. “Hey, little one.”

My heart skips a choppy beat at the gentle way he’s looking at her.

“I’m your Uncle Nick,” he says softly, his raspy voice choked with emotion.

I swallow past the tightness in my throat and force a smile at Ben as he walks my way. I should say congratulations or something, but his eyes drop to Daisy before I have a chance. She holds his eyes and starts to whine for him at my feet.

“Shortcake?” he asks, pausing his stride.

In a flash, she jumps from the floor and is at his side, her tail wagging.

What’s up with these people and cake?

I watch as my lame excuse for staying here follows Ben out of the room. I turn my gaze back to my now-chipped nails, stealing glances at Nick, feeling like a total intruder on this private moment. I glance to the voices coming from the kitchen, knowing I should probably join them. That would be the normal thing to do, right?

My attention flashes to Nick at the sound of the baby fussing, to see him rock her gently with sweet shushing noises. It seems underneath the Viking exterior and arrogant grin is the same teenage boy who used to stop his skateboard to save snails from getting squished on the sidewalk.

“I can’t sing like your Uncle Win, but how about I tell you a story my nan used to tell me. That sound good?” Her fussing mellows, and she coo-gurgle-grunts the cutest answer ever. I must make a noise or something, because Nick’s eyes jump to mine, and the corner of his lip tips up. “Looks like Auntie Ry wants to hear a story too.” There’s no mistaking the teasing in his eyes. Auntie Ry.

I slowly shake my head to let him know he’s a dork but can’t shake my growing smile.

Nick’s gaze drops back to the bundle in his arms. And then the room fades away as the hypnotic lilt of Scottish Gaelic flows from his lips, like the language was made to be spoken by only him, and weaves a spell around me.

I flashback to the last time I heard him talk like this, while fighting off the firefly wishes swarming to my heart.

My mom was at an away-game with Steve. The lady that was supposed to watch us left after arguing with someone on the phone and never came back. Win was busy with his girlfriend. And me? I was dying in bed with the worst flu I’d ever had in my twelve years of life, listening to Nick talk to his grandma on the phone while he paced my bedroom.

The next thing I knew the covers were yanked off, a cold washcloth was on my forehead, Advil was being shoved past my lips, and a strong hand was lifting my head to a glass of cool water.

Then the bed dipped. And Nick was trailing his fingers through my damp hair talking to me in this same soothing language while my fever broke, probably telling me the same story he’s telling Ben’s baby now.

To my feverish ears it sounded like Elvish from The Lord of the Rings, which would explain Nick’s otherworldly eyes and his lanky yet graceful body.

I fell asleep to his fifteen-year-old hypnotic voice, and dreamt he was a Tolkien elf from Middle-earth sent here to protect me.

Did he credit himself for saving my life that night? Yes.

Did he guilt me into washing his dirty laundry for a month? Also, yes.

Did I fall in maybe-love with him when I woke up in the morning to see him crashed out next to me, drooling on my pillow, his hand wrapped around a thermometer. And a clove cigarette he didn’t leave to smoke still tucked behind his ear.

Unfortunately, I did that too.

My nearly teenage brain thought him taking care of me meant he maybe-loved me back. But the truth was, he was just being Nick. And I would always just be his best friend’s little sister.

The midwife walks in, snapping me back to the present.

“We all set here?” she says, looking between us.

I glance to Nick to see his eyes are fixed on me. “You’re up, Peanut.”

I don’t know why the idea of holding Ben’s baby sends a spike of fear up my spine, but it does.

I wave my hand. “Oh, that’s okay.” I look to the midwife. “I’m sure Emmy wants her back.” I force a smile.

She looks like she’s going to say something when Nick chimes in, “Come on.” He stands for me to sit in the chair, the baby tucked safe in his strong arms, a weirdly excited smile playing on his lips.

I turn to the midwife to see her eyes soften as she falls victim to his magnetic charm. She meets my gaze with a small, bewitched smile tugging at her bare lips. “Go ahead. Just bring her back when you’re done.” She looks to Nick for a few heartbeats longer, probably taking a mental snapshot—it’s not every day you see a sexy tattooed Norse god cradling a baby—then disappears from the room.

I exhale. And reluctantly make my way to the chair, feeling nervous as hell. Aren’t baby-holding instincts supposed to be written in the human genetic code or something?

Feeling awkward, I sit and hold out my arms in the same generic pose he gave Ben.

He gently sets her in my arms. Her head cradles in the crook of my elbow, and I’m surprised by how heavy she is.

“Be right back,” he says, giving the baby and me a parting look.

“Where’re you going?” I rush out in a panic, totally freaked at the idea of being left alone.

What if she cries? What if she needs something?

“To the bathroom,” he says, motioning to the den. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” He gives me a patronizing pat on the top of my head, then shoots me an arrogant wink before swaggering out of the room. People like him were put on the earth to make people like me miserable. Guaranteed.

I look down to the heavy bundle in my arms, surprised to see her slate-blue eyes are quietly exploring the ceiling. Her mouth is making little pucker movements. Auntie Ry.

And just like that, my machine heart swells in my chest, pushing against the rusted nuts and bolts, until it threatens to burst.

Her eyes lock on mine, and I’m done for.

Love at first sight is a thing, y’all.

It’s a mother freaking thing.

I study her little features, feeling a smile I didn’t pull from my bag spread across my face. She has a mop of dark hair like her dad. A delicate chin like her mom, and the sweetest cherub cheeks I’ve ever seen.

She’s so perfect.

She’s so beautiful.

She’s so lovely.

I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to be perfect, or beautiful, or lovely. That stars are nothing but gas and dust. And that the brightest ones are dying, collapsing under the weight of what they’ve become. Until one day they’ll explode into a supernova, leaving behind a black hole that devours everything in its path.

I want to tell her to always have a back-up plan. To make sure her name is on the lease if she moves in with someone. Because sometimes promises are broken.

And people don’t always love you back.

But instead, I swallow my words and run my fingers over her soft black hair, watching her little nose scrunch at the action.

When I hear movement coming from the den, I quickly bend down to her little pink ear and whisper, “Happy Birthday, Rose.”

Wait… Did she just freaking smile?

5

WATER BOY AND GATORADE GIRL

I crack open my eyes, then slam them shut as the morning light shoots needles straight into my brain. I groan. My head pounds like a jackhammer’s going to town on it.

I roll onto my back, throwing an arm over my eyes to keep them from popping out of my skull. Am I hungover? Did I spend last night passed out on my grandpa’s homemade wine, having drunk hallucination dreams about Vikings, hellhounds, and gremlins in velour tracksuits?

It wouldn’t be the first time since I’ve been back that I’ve woken up to a throbbing headache and an empty jug of wine on the nightstand.

Holding my breath, I send a prayer to the gods of drunk dreams and turn to the nightstand, letting out a puff of air when I don’t see an empty jug. Just a half glass of water in front of a digital clock letting me know it’s too damn early to be awake, especially since I flopped around the bed like a dying fish most of the night.

I rub my burning eyes, wincing at my painfully mascara-stiff eyelashes as I try to wrap my mind around the fact last night actually happened.

My mind flashes to Nick, driving us home while Daisy poked her head from the backseat, bobbing it to Blondie’s “Maria” blasting from the speakers.

According to Nick, it’s her favorite song.

It says a lot about the state of your night when a giant hellhound bobbing her head to Blondie while a Viking Doctor Dolittle air drums on your steering wheel isn’t even the weirdest thing that happened.

I throw my arm back over my eyes and decide to spend the rest of the day in this exact position, starting my new life tomorrow. My body sinks into the mattress at the idea, then freezes. Wait. Is that… snoring?

My lungs seize in my chest as my ears pick up a soft rumble coming from somewhere in my room.

Somewhere close.

Fear flash-freezes my blood, stiffening my limbs.

I slowly scoot a frozen leg under the covers until it comes in contact with something.

Something that shouldn’t be in my bed.

I’m going to freaking kill Nick.

A nuclear flash of anger thaws my frozen body.

I picture myself standing over him, an iron sword at his manly throat. My blonde hair braided like a badass Viking shield-maiden with him on his knees, groveling for his life. I hate that he’s even a sexy groveler.

The bed jostles, sending my heart to my throat, right before quick, steaming, stinky-hot breaths hit against the arm slung over my eyes. And I quickly realize you can be scared shitless and pissed off at the same time.

Mustering the last remnants of my will to live, I rip my arm from my eyes like a Band-Aid, and stare right into White Walker crystalline blue eyes.

Sexy Spock, initiate Alpha Mode.

Alpha Mode initiated, Captain.

“Back off,” I growl. Before I have time to weigh out the pros and cons of growling at a hellhound, Daisy dips her bulky head and smacks a big, fat, slobbery kiss… Right. On. My. Mouth.

I blow raspberries, wipe my arm across my mouth to get her slobber off my lips, jack-knife into a sitting position, and quickly scoot against the headboard.

When she goes in for a second make-out session, I swing my pounding head to the side and use my two active brain cells to come up with a plan to save me from her smelly slobber assault: I belt out her favorite Blondie song from the car. Yeah, I know. #DarwinAwardsWinner.

I don’t remember all the words, but I manage to croak out a dying-goat version, doubling the speed of the jackhammer behind my eyes.

When Daisy moves back from slobbering on my neck, giving me room to scoot away, I shoot an apology to my two genius brain cells for not having faith in them.

Her head tilts. Then she plops down, covering nearly half the queen bed, and settles in to enjoy this budget-matinee performance.

I keep mumble-singing, feeling like one of those flute-playing cobra charmers, slowly moving the covers from my bare legs, inching them to the edge of the bed.

A murky conversation I had with Nick during the drive home, about his sweet girl loving sleepovers, plays in my mind. His sweet girl, being Daisy. The sleepover in question was with me.

I don’t remember my exact answer, but I’m sure it fell somewhere between a polite “No, thanks” and a big fat “Hell, no!” No, being the operative word.

Did I mention I’m going to kill Nick?

I slowly reach down and grab last-night’s hoodie from the floor, then stand on stiff limbs to the familiar sound of crunching knees, followed by pops and clicks from ankles and feet. And a few toes. Crackle-and-pop mornings are what happens after years of pushing your body to the limit. Not to mention arthritis in both knees. And my left ankle. Let’s just say mornings are slow-going.

I may have turned twenty-six yesterday, but on the inside, I’m setting centenarian world records.

I adjust the sports bra cutting into my lower boob, then slip on the hoodie, not caring it’s inside out, feeling Daisy’s eyes follow me as I hobble-walk to the door.

My fingers itch to grab some leggings from the barrage of messy suitcases and bags in the corner to slip over my lacy pink boy shorts—that seem to have magically shrunk around my Souza-cursed booty—but I decide I have more important things to worry about than flashing Daisy my butt cheeks.

Like living.

Logically I know after sleeping with me she’s (probably) not going to eat me now. But the same part of my brain that had me springing from my bed as a kid to avoid the ankle-grabbing monster underneath sends a shiver down the back of my neck and whispers in my ear for me to run. My singing morphs into a goat-mumble as the taste of freedom and urge to pee quickens my steps.

I know the cobra spell’s broken when a heavy thud hits the floor behind me. Her claws click-clack against the hardwood as she follows me out of the room and down the hall.

I make it to the safety of the bathroom and spin my body to shut the door before she can follow me in, but her monster head beats me to it.

I look down at her, injecting some of my mom’s icy tone into my husky morning voice, and point down the hall. “Go away.” Hearing too much of my mom in my voice, I tack on a halfhearted, “Please.”

After a few skipped heartbeats, her head dips and she reluctantly backs a few steps out of the doorway, then looks up at me with blue eyes that seem more wounded puppy than White Walker. It’s probably the lighting.

I exhale. “Fine. You want to be a weirdo and watch me pee. Have at it.” Her pointed ears perk up at the invitation, and her tail starts a slow windshield-wiper wag.

I shake my head, let go of the door, and stomp to the toilet. I tug down my underwear and sit, casually resting my elbows on my knees, trying to squash the awkwardness prickling my cheeks.

Does she squeeze her massive body into the space between the linen cabinet and my knees? Yes.

Do I pee? Nope.

I’ve never been a shy pee-er, but I’ve never had a hellhound staring me down while trying to do it either. “Do you mind?” She nudges her wet nose against my hand to pet her, apparently not minding at all.

With an agitated exhale, I give her a sterile pat on the head, then reach over and grab the economy-size tissue box from the sink counter. And throw it as hard as I can out of the bathroom door, surprised when it soars down the hall.

“Go-get-it,” I rush out in a playful voice while adding professional baseball pitcher to my list of possible new-life professions.

She takes off after it, shaking the floor with her hulking weight hard enough to register on the seismic Richter scale. She’d make a terrible ballet dancer.

I use the four seconds she’s gone to relieve my bladder, or at least start to—turns out I drank a lot of water when I got home. A lot.

Daisy lumbers back in with the destroyed tissue box in her Cujo jaw.

She drops the mangled mess at my feet, then stares at me with twinkling eyes, her slobbery tongue hanging to the side, her tail hitting a Riverdance finale against the linen cabinet.

I throw it again. It doesn’t fly nearly as far in its mangled condition, so I scramble to use the precious few seconds to finish up and flush.

Then make my way to the sink, reluctantly glancing at the mirror while I turn the water on. Yep. I look as good as I feel.

My brown eyes are bloodshot with clumpy black spider legs for lashes. My lips are puffy and chapped. My hair has lost its battle with frizz. And my skin is blotchy where my all-day foundation didn’t make it through the night. With a huge zit on my chin reminding me why I never sleep with my makeup on.

“Your freckles are gone.”

With his raspy voice echoing in my mind, I peer a little closer at the mirror, seeing the ghost pattern of freckles that used to be scattered over my nose and cheeks from Saturdays baking in the sun while I watched Nick perfect his double kick-flip at the skate park.

I was his Gatorade girl. Which meant I guarded the ice-pack-and-Gatorade-filled backpack against other overheated skaters, handing him a cold one when he needed a break.

Which is as fangirl pathetic as it sounds.

In between Gatorade duties, I took deposits from boys who wanted their skateboard decks designed by him. His artwork was often chaotic and dark, totally at odds with his constant crooked smile, but his talent was undeniable.

After we left the park, I’d follow him on my pink Schwinn to The Creamery, where he’d buy us lunch with his deposit money. And I’d spend the calories I’d saved all week to enjoy it.

We’d sit at the counter, wolfing down our bacon cheeseburgers and Cajun fries, so we could split a chocolate fudge sundae for dessert—minus the nuts. Nick’s allergic to nuts.

Peanuts, in particular. Hence the nickname.

Dessert was my favorite part, because we’d always scoot closer to each other, our elbows and knees sometimes touching.

In between decadent ice-cream spoonfuls, we’d have different versions of the same conversation, whispering our futures to each other in our sundae bubble.

With fudge on his full lips, he’d talk about becoming a pro skateboarder someday like Tony Hawk. And how he was going to buy his mom a house of her own. And a new car that didn’t break down all the time. And how if I played my cards right, he’d hire me as his permanent Gatorade girl. He always said that part with a teasing grin that fluttered my stomach—even before I thought I maybe-loved him. And before I stupidly thought he maybe-loved me back.

I’d tell him that when I become a principal dancer, if he was lucky, I’ll hire him as my permanent water boy. For some reason, his smile always grew brighter at that.

I shake away the once-distant memory made clear again from proximity to my old life, wash my hands, and brush my teeth. And then use the same generic bar soap to go to town on my face, not caring it’s going to dry out my sensitive skin.

All while ignoring Daisy’s dragon breath fanning my leg.

Her wet nose nudges a hurry-up against the outside of my thigh, sending a shot of anger through my body. “Leave me alone,” I grumble around soapy water, giving my face a final rinse, promising myself a long hot shower after I drop Daisy off.

I turn off the water, then blindly yank a towel from the rack, my anger bubbling to the surface as I pat my face dry. I’m cranky for a hundred reasons, but right now the biggest one is sitting next to a chewed-up tissue box, waiting to play fetch.

I level her with my bloodshot eyes and cross my arms over my chest. “Did your jerk owner let you in?” No doubt my grandpa gave Nick a set of house keys before he left. “Bet he thought it was hilarious.” My shoulders tighten at the thought.

Daisy lets me know how little she cares about what I have to say by nudging the tissue box—or what’s left of it—toward my feet with her nose.

I release a defeated sigh, then reach down and throw the box, watching it fall apart mid-air with an avalanche of tissues raining down the hall. Lovely.

I shake my head, turning back to the mirror and pull my tangled hair out of its sloppy ponytail, gathering it for an equally sloppy top bun.

My gaze lands on the makeup case as I secure the hair tie around the blonde rat’s nest on top of my head. Some people meditate to quiet their nerves. Some people have a glass of wine. Or pop a Xanax. I sew the ribbons and elastics on my pointe shoes. And do my makeup.

I tell myself that’s the only reason I spend the next ten minutes applying a NikkiTutorials no-makeup-makeup look. And definitely not because I want to look decent when I bitch Nick out this morning after returning his slobbering devil dog.

Satisfied my look is as look is good as it’s gonna get, I toss the tinted lip balm back into the case and turn to Daisy.

As soon as our eyes meet, she jumps to her giant paws and does an excited spin that causes a weak smile to spread on my face.

I can count on zero hands how many times anyone’s been this excited to hang out with me. The closest contenders were the sushi chefs at Yojisan. I miss those guys. And their spicy tuna roll.

Stopping in the doorway, I peer down at her standing in the mess of tissue, and lose my bluster at the sweet, playful look in her eyes. “Anyone tell you, you’re pretty goofy for a hellhound?” Speaking of goofy, I fully realize I’m talking to a dog. Again. I wait to care. Nope. Don’t care. “Come on, let’s go get some coffee. Then I’ll get you home.” I flick my wrist down the hall.

She turns her silverback-gorilla body around and heads down the hall, glancing over her shoulder every few steps to make sure I’m following.

A soft laugh escapes my lips.

Yep. Goofy.

I move through the scattered tissues, deciding to clean up and get dressed to drop her off after I guzzle a few pots of my grandpa’s mud coffee, which I hope will help quiet my pounding head.

Daisy struts into the kitchen, like this is just how we spend our mornings, and sits in front of the counter near the sink, her stare tracking me as I walk to the cupboard.

My tired gaze catches on the giant doggy door, leading to the backyard. This is why Nick always found more bloopers in the old Western movies than me. He notices everything. Details aren’t really my thing. Unless they have to do with choreography. I walk over to the doggy door and flip the latch, locking it.

Then turn to her. “Is that how you got in?” I try to hold on to my anger at Nick, but it slips through my fingers, knowing he didn’t let her in. Which sucks because it’s much easier dealing with Nick when I’m pissed.

“Coffee first. Then I’ll take you home,” I say behind a yawn.

She turns her nose up to the old Captain Kirk cookie jar on the counter that used to be packed with Oreos, which is why I’ve avoided it. Once I start down the Oreo path, there’s no turning back.

I move to her side and lift the lid to see it’s full of multi-colored doggy treats.

I give a small chuckle, thinking of my eccentric grandpa. Who probably installed a doggy door just so Daisy could come over for treats. I’m sure he has a stash of dog food somewhere too.

If you come to my grandpa’s house, he will feed you. By force if he has to. Until every morsel of bacalhau and potatoes are cleaned from your plate. And then, when you think you’re so full that you’ll need a crane to lift you from the table, he’ll bring out the rice pudding topped with fresh cinnamon.

And you’ll eat it. All.

Even if your calorie-counting mom is giving you the evil eye.

Because nothing feels better than the warm smile Fernando Souza gives you when you hand him your clean plate.

Then, after the plates are stacked, he’ll roll you to the couch and make you sit through a gazillion reruns of his favorite Star Trek episodes. Episodes he can recite by heart. And after years of this, so can you.

You’ll also be able to name all the constellations and their prospective alien species.

I’m pretty sure my grandpa’s the only Portuguese, devout-Catholic, alien-hunter Trekkie on the planet. And one of the few people on this space rock that I love.

A quiet ache in my heart moves through my chest at the thought of his rough face and kind brown eyes. Promising myself I’m going to text him later, I grab a huge handful of treats and drop them on the floor—not taking the chance of a hellhound mistaking one of my fingers for a Milk Bone—and back away as Daisy goes to town crunching on them.

With her busy eating off the original burnt-orange 70s hexagon tiles, that are now considered retro and trendy, I get busy making mud coffee.

I grab the brown tin of generic coffee from the cupboard and ready the Mr. Coffee my grandpa got as a wedding present. I’d bet my signed Darci Kistler pointe shoes that when the world ends, there will be two things left: a cockroach and my grandpa’s coffee maker.

I stifle another yawn with the back of my hand and flip on the switch to brew what I hope will zap some life back into me.

Leaning against the counter, I glance to my chipped nails, wishing I hadn’t promised Win I’d have dinner at his restaurant tonight. A night he calls “Tomahawk Steak Tuesday,” one of his busiest nights. Only my stepbrother can turn a boring weekday into a steak-eating event.

He means well, but I’d rather sprinkle glass in my eye than hang out at a restaurant full of people I probably used to know. I’ll have to find a look-good-feel-good outfit to wear and redo my manicure myself since my broke ass can’t afford a real one.

A tickle of foreboding moves along my lower back, just before a lightning bolt of realization slams into my chest.

I suck in a sharp breath and race to the bedroom with Daisy at my heels. Snatching my cell from the dresser, I pray when I unlock the screen I don’t see…

Half a dozen missed texts from my mom.

7:48 – Mom: Happy Birthday! Hope you’re having a great night. Steve sends his love. Give Dylan mine. xo

8:50 – Mom: I just spoke with Dylan. Do you know how embarrassed I am? Call me. Now.

9:15 – Mom: He said you moved in with Krista? Who is Krista? Call me back.

10:20 – Steve: Hey, kiddo, your mom’s freaking out. Can you just give her a quick call? Thanks.

10:45 – Mom: Win said you’re in town. I assume you’re at your grandpa’s. Do you know what it looks like that I don’t even know where my own daughter is?! I’m coming over in the morning. Be there.

7:08 – Leaving now. Get ready. We’re going for a hike.

My blood runs cold.

Going on a hike is the kiss of death with my mom.

For a fleeting moment, I wish I would’ve listened to Dylan when he tried to persuade me to tell my mom about my knee.

He thought I was nuts to keep something so huge from my family. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was afraid telling them would make it somehow more real. Or maybe I thought if I waited long enough, it would all just go away. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with my mom saying the things out loud I’ve screamed a million times in my head.

You overtrained! You didn’t strengthen your knees! You did this to yourself!

My eyes jump to the clock, and I quickly calculate that I have about twenty-eight minutes before she prances in here. And I’m in no way prepared to deal with smile number four. Not even close. Steve’s football-coach voice sounds in my head. “Never walk onto the field without a game plan, kiddo.”

I kick myself for spending months hibernating on Krista’s couch. And now weeks hibernating in my childhood bed at my grandpa’s, getting lost in mindless shows like an idiot, when I should’ve been working on my game plan.

Should’ve been figuring out my next move like Steve drilled into me.

Daisy and I race into the kitchen with a new plan to down a few cups of coffee so I can think straight, get dressed in something that hides the fact I’ve added a layer of non-ballerina softness over my lean muscles, and drop Daisy off at Nick’s.

Then I’ll throw back a handful of Advil and go on a kiss of death hike with my mom.

Or… I can just grow a spine. Daisy nudges my hand until it’s resting on her head.

With an echo of Sia’s “Unstoppable” playing in my mind, I decide no more hikes. It’s time to deal with my mom, woman to woman. Time to stand up to her and tell her this is my life and if I want to spend it busking on Fisherman’s Wharf for a sourdough chowder bowl, that’s exactly what I’ll freaking do.

Feeling stronger, I give Daisy a pat on her head and pull a mug down from the cupboard, nearly dropping it when the front door slams.

“Riley!” my mom’s brittle voice calls out from the other end of the house. She’s pissed.

At her sharp voice, I deflate into a ten-year-old girl. I’m not proud that I grab Daisy’s collar and stealth-run with her out the backdoor, gently shutting it behind us.

“Hurry,” I whisper-yell, urging her into an excited sprint, wanting to save her from the wrath of Alessandra Night.

I clench my teeth against the stiff pain in my knee as we take off through the side yard to Nick’s door at a Usain Bolt world-record speed. The permanent callouses enshrined on the pads of my feet from years of en pointe serve me well against the rough concrete.

I quickly add Tony Robbins firewalker to my list of possible new-life professions.

Daisy sails through Nick’s doggy door without breaking her stride. I follow without a single ounce of her grace. Maybe she would make a good ballet dancer after all.

My knees scrape the concrete, and the hard plastic edge of the doggy door cuts into my ribs as I pull myself inside. With my heart lodged in my throat, I watch Daisy slowly light-foot it into another room like a teenager sneaking in past curfew. Odd.

I push the thought aside and quickly stand, sliding my gaze over the sleek living room decorated in shades of gray and dark woods to the open chef’s kitchen with a breakfast bar.

I don’t know what I expected Nick’s place to look like, but this wasn’t it.

His home is… nice. Really nice.

And smells like banana bread.

Before I can fully process that I’m standing in Nick’s entryway, uninvited, two things happen: a cream-colored ferret wearing a red cardigan charges into the room as a parrot perched in the corner sing-squawks “Can’t help falling in love…” in the style of Elvis.

Thinking I must have hit my head too hard on the doggy door, I close my eyes for a few steadying breaths and press my palm against my forehead. Then open them to a mangy-looking black cat near the charcoal-gray couch, with its back arched like it’s readying an attack.

I slowly back up against the door—suddenly having a face-off with my mom doesn’t sound so bad.

“It’s too fucking early for Elvis, bro.” Nick’s deep voice is thick with sleep as he lumbers into the room. The air thickens with his presence, making it hard to take in a full breath.

He’s only wearing black boxer briefs that mold his muscular thighs like a second skin, hitting right below the V-line of his narrow hips. My traitorous gaze glides up over his solid chest and stomach, then down until it gets stuck on the outline of his impressive…

“Peanut?”

My eyes snap to his.

“What’s going on?” he asks behind a yawn, rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes.

My heart pounds. My palms sweat. Heat spreads from my chest to the tips of my ears. Okay. I’m in my underwear too. But they’re boy shorts, not skimpy lingerie. People wear stuff like this to the gym all the time. Right?

I wish I could remember if he’s farsighted, or nearsighted. Not that it matters.

His eyes drop to the attack cat who’s started a loud mewl-growl at me. “Peaches, no.” When it gives a short mewl of objection, he points a sharp finger down the hall. “Bed. Now.” It’s the same steely voice Steve used whenever Win and his friends got out of hand. Which was often.

Apparently, Nick took notes, because the cat and the ferret immediately jump into action and scurry from the room.

His head swings back to me, and I see the second he realizes I’m standing in my underwear.

A look that can only be described as sheer horror flashes across his face. His scruff-covered jaw hardens as he turns his head away, adverting his eyes. “Why are you naked?” he asks, like seeing me in my underwear is a personal affront to his senses.

I yell for my self-esteem to raise her battle shield and watch helplessly as an arrow pierces her heart. #GoneTooSoon.

When I don’t answer, because I have no freaking idea what to say, he adds, “Are you okay?” The concern in his voice peels back a few machine layers, exposing something delicate and vulnerable underneath.

“I’m fine,” I state, crossing my arms over my stomach, spot-welding my layers back in place, then start mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on my dignity. “I was just returning your dog who somehow ended up at my house.” The snotty tone in my voice has more to do with embarrassment than anger.

The air in the room shifts. His piercing gaze slices to mine, his brows lower. “In your underwear?”

Just then, the parrot belts out another Elvis ballad, this one about suspicious minds, buying me some time to answer. I like this bird. Even if he is suspicious.

“Presley, quiet.” Silence immediately falls between us. Nick swings his steely glare back to me and orders, “Stay.” He punctuates this order with the same sharp finger point he used on his attack cat.

Before I can tell him to kiss my growing Souza ass, he disappears from the room, taking the solid globes of his bubble butt with him. Jerk.

I look to my feet and demand they carry me out of the door. They grab their picket signs and go on strike. I can’t say I blame them. Being my feet sucks.

He returns a few breaths later, wearing low-slung gray sweats and his glasses. With his eyes averted, he tosses a pair of heavy black sweats at me.

I catch them—feeling my cheeks pin-prickle with heat.

It’s not that I expected him to confess his undying love upon gazing at me in my pink underwear, but I didn’t expect him to be this disgusted by me either. I tug on the sweats, rolling them at the waist a few dozen times to keep them from slipping from my hips.

“Thanks,” I say evenly, hoping there’s no edge of hurt in my voice. I glance over my shoulder at the door. I’m sure my mom’s gone. “I’ll just be on my way now. Sorry to wake you. Have a good day.” Like a total nut job, I force dimpled smile number two.

If this isn’t my rock bottom, fuck it all.

His brows raise. “That’s it? You’re just gonna barge in, scare my babies half to death, then leave?” he says, like I’m the black swan in this scenario. “I don’t think so.” He crosses his arms over his lean-muscled chest.

Did he just say I scared his babies?

“Are you serious right now?” I take a step forward, pointing a thumb at my inside-out hoodie. “I woke up to your giant hellhound drooling down my neck. Then she slobbered all over my face. And in my mouth.” I shudder at the slobbery memory.

“You’re pissed because my girl wanted a cuddle and a kiss?” He slowly shakes his head. “Wow, Ry.”

Well, when he says it like that… I push back the picture of Daisy excitedly trotting toward me with a destroyed tissue box in her mouth, ignoring the pang of guilt that follows.

Goofy hellhound.

“Stop trying to turn it around on me, Nick. I’m not the black swan here.”

His brows raise. “You sure?” I push away the flashes of him sitting on the garage floor, watching me perform a ten-year-old’s manic version of Swan Lake.

I’m totally the black swan. I stab the air with my black-feathered finger and raise my voice. “I had to sing her that stupid Blondie song just so she would let me out of bed—”

“And she lived through that?” he says flatly, cocking his sarcastic jerk brow.

Yes, he once caught me belting out a goat version of “Bleeding Love” by Leona Lewis. And, yes, as a result he pretended to be deaf in one ear for an entire month.

I fold my arms over my chest. “I don’t remember you being such a jerk.”

He dips his chin. “I don’t remember you being so”—he scans my face like the word he’s looking for is hidden on it—“twitchy.”

“Twitchy?” I repeat, thinking I heard him wrong. Bitchy? Sure. Twitchy? Not a chance.

“Yep,” he says, satisfied with his observation.

“I’m not twitchy,” I argue, making sure every single muscle in my body is statue-still.

“I’d call sneaking into my house in your underwear, pretty fucking twitchy, Peanut.”

“I told you I was returning your dog.”

“And you thought you’d follow her in. Through the doggy door. In your underwear,” he deadpans.

“I wanted to make sure she got in safe.” I raise my chin to keep my head above the bullshit quicksand I’m sinking in. Where’s a freaking low-hanging vine when you need one?

“How long are you going to do this?” he asks on an irritated exhale.

“Do what?”

His lips press into a thin line as he slowly shakes his head, like he’s disappointed in me.

Well, join the club, buddy.

I match his irritated exhale with one of my own. “Whatever. Just keep your dog out of my house, and you won’t have to see me again.” I move a step back with non-twitchy grace, take a mental bow, ending this pas de deux from hell, and turn for my grand exit when a series of sharp knocks on the front door flings me from the stage like a rag doll.

My stomach lodges in my throat.

Dealing with my mom is one thing. Dealing with her wearing Nick’s sweats in his living room is another.

“I’m not here,” I rush out on a harsh whisper. Not waiting for a response, I scurry down the hall and through the first open door I see.

And scramble onto the king-size bed, pulling the metal-gray sheets and fluffy comforter over my head. Which, for whatever reason, seems like a stellar idea.

The sheets, still warm from Nick’s body, feel soft and cozy against the exposed skin of my stomach. They smell like Nick too. Masculine, woodsy, and clean.

I can’t help but wonder how many other women have been between these sheets. I’m sure a lot. And I’m sure they all look like sexy, tattooed pin-up girls.

Nick has a type: the opposite of me.

Not that I care.

The bed jostles with Daisy’s weight. She lies down, and her body presses against my side at the same time Nick’s deep voice mixes with my mom’s soft feminine timbre.

My mom’s using her “it’s showtime” voice. It’s smooth as silk and sweet as honey. And fake as fuck. Not that anyone would know that but my grandpa and me.

My mom doesn’t break character. Ever.

I don’t need to hear what she’s saying to know she’s playing the victim. Poor selfless Alessandra. Who gave up everything to raise her daughter at seventeen. Committing herself to a life of ballet could-have-beens. All for an ungrateful daughter who doesn’t even call her when she’s in town. Insert crocodile tears.

I’ve heard it all a million times.

I don’t need to see her to know she’s standing in front of Nick like an ageless Brazilian supermodel.

With sun-kissed Gisele Bündchen hair pulled into a sporty ponytail, at the perfect height to showcase her regal cheekbones. Looking up at him with sultry deep-brown eyes and giving him her feigned sob story from perfectly pouty lips.

We share the same features, but on me, unless I have on my picture-perfect makeup, they look decidedly ordinary and plain in comparison.

I should feel relieved when I hear the front door shutting, but I’m starting to think dealing with Nicolas MacGregor is far worse than dealing with my mom.

I feel him walk into the room, then hear the dresser drawer slide open and shut. After a few strangled breaths, Nick’s raspy voice breaks the silence. “I told you no sleepovers. Go to your room.”

Daisy lands on the floor with a heavy thud. She gives him a small whine.

His voice softens. “You know I still love you. We’ll talk about this later.”

This statement is followed by the slow click-clack of her receding footsteps.

He clears his throat, his voice losing its tenderness. “Next time you decide to hide out from your mom at my place, make sure you don’t leave the coffee on, your car in the driveway, your phone on the dresser, and tissues scattered ‘everywhere.’”

My chest tightens. “Shit,” I say against my comforter cocoon.

“She was ready to call the cops, Ry.” There’s a sharp bite in his voice I’ve never heard directed at me before. It stings.

“What did you tell her?”

“That your twitchy ass took Daisy to Sawyer Trail with a friend. And that I’ll have you call her when you get back.”

“Okay,” I say at a loss for words as my mind spins, searching for my next play.

“Come to the kitchen.” It’s not a request.

When did he get so freaking bossy?

“Or I can just leave, and you can go back to sleep, and we can pretend this never happened,” I counter.

When he doesn’t answer, I push the covers down to an empty room and sit up, skipping my gaze around his personal space.

No skateboard decks hanging on the walls. No graffiti. No cheesy music playing from the paint-splattered boombox on the floor. No posters held up by duct tape. Just sleek masculine furniture. And a metal desk in the corner full of books and neatly stacked papers.

I don’t know why I feel a pang of homesickness for Nick’s old room, that smelled like musky old carpet, Axe body spray, and clove cigarettes.

I shake away the thought before it takes hold and stand from his bed, rolling up the waist of his huge sweats that unraveled during my ungraceful bed dive. Plus, it gives me something to do while I try to figure out how to get out of this mess. Or at least not make it worse.

Coming up with nothing, I take in a deep breath and make my way to the living room to get this over with.

Then there’s a good chance I’m gonna fill my grandpa’s camping thermos with coffee, pack my overpriced shit, and hit the road—leaving another dumpster fire in my rearview.

This one even bigger than the last.

Note to self: Invent a fire extinguisher for life and make millions.

6

INFINITY LOOP DREAMS

I curl my toes around the cold metal foot bar of Nick’s leather-backed breakfast stool, propelling my knees into a nervous bounce.

My knees never bounce.

I’ve spent years training away my nervous ticks, replacing them with static lines that can hold position for hours.

Nick’s right. I’m like a freaking squirrel on crack now. I take another twitchy sip of the coffee he made, hoping to drown the nervous butterflies in my stomach, and flicker my eyes from the pile of banana bread sitting on a napkin to the bowl of Cocoa Puffs he poured, that I also didn’t ask for. I also didn’t want to sit at his breakfast bar, yet here I am.

The twitchy sip is equal parts sugar, cream, and dark roast.

Dylan knew I take my coffee black in the morning because sweet things on an empty stomach make me queasy. He knew I ate three scrambled eggs and avocado toast for breakfast during the week, and a cup of plain Greek yogurt topped with fresh blueberries and granola on the weekends. And that I’d never eat Cocoa Puffs.

My chest squeezes tight. I should care that he’s waking someone else up with gentle kisses on her shoulder, but I don’t. Not really.

I care he knew how I like my coffee.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The thought slams against my battle armor, sending sparks flying, but my armor doesn’t give an inch. I flip off the thought with wintry smile number eight. It’s Vulcan steel, motherfucker.

Feeling Nick’s gaze burn my cheeks, I lift my eyes to see him take a sip of his coffee while studying me like I’m that modern-art piece everyone hates but pretends to ponder over cave-aged wine and monotone voices. Everyone except him. He doesn’t even bother hiding the fact he thinks it’s pretentious crap.

With a heavy exhale, he leans back against the kitchen counter, crossing a tattooed arm over his newly donned white T-shirt, his long fingers gripping the flexed bicep of the arm holding the coffee cup. The scruff on his face is turning into a heavy stubble that frames his soft lips. I remind myself I don’t like men with stubble, or tattoos, or arrogant soft lips.

Presley gently squawks his agreement and adds dirty-blond bedhead to the list of things not to like in a man. I agree. Nick’s sexy bedhead hair and bedroom eyes aren’t my thing either. I give Presley a mental high five for having good taste in men.

Forcing air into my lungs, I set my coffee down and pick up the spoon from the bowl of Cocoa Puffs, and slosh the cereal around, watching the milk turn chocolaty brown, not really knowing what else to do.

I want to break the awkward silence and ask him what my mom said. But I don’t—I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough. I’m sure she left me a rant message on my phone. I’m also sure she went through all my personal things looking for evidence to use against me in her twisted court of law.

“Works better if you put the spoon in your mouth,” he says, before taking another sip of coffee, his gaze holding mine over the cup.

“Thanks for the tip,” I say dryly while continuing my Cocoa Puffs assault, letting him know with my raised brows I’m done with whatever this is. If it weren’t for the fact my mom’s most likely still next door, I wouldn’t have to be here at all. I bet she’s over there trying to figure out the password to my laptop.

I try not to flinch as his laser gaze penetrates my Vulcan layers.

I’m used to people looking at me. But Nick never just looks at me.

He looks inside to the parts I keep hidden.

A hot shiver runs down my neck, and I shift in my seat, pushing up the sleeves of my sweatshirt, feeling suddenly hot and suffocated by it.

“You ready to talk now?” he asks, like his sugar coffee is some kind of truth serum.

“About what?” I take a bite of the Cocoa Puffs for something to do, wiping milk from my chin with my knuckles, because I’m classy like that.

He twists his body at the waist to set his coffee cup down on the counter, rips a paper towel from the holder near one of my grandpa’s lucky roosters, then crosses the space between us. “You hiding out because you and your man split?” His voice is low and serious as he hands me the paper towel across the breakfast counter.

I take it from his outstretched hand, but a spike of hot irritation crumples it between my fingers. Of course, my mom told Nick that Dylan and I broke up.

I swallow the cereal, schooling my no-makeup-makeup face. “Last time I checked, my personal life was none of your business.”

His eyes flash with something that sends a tingle up my spine and causes the air in the room to become charged with an energy that quickens my pulse.

He leans his elbows on the counter, looking up at me from under lowered lashes. “Maybe you should check again,” he states evenly, his heated gaze burning into mine.

I shift in my seat, ignoring the fact his voice heats my veins like a shot of Scottish whiskey, and give him my best kiss-my-ass smile. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks for the sugar coffee.” I tap the counter in a final goodbye. “Take care.”

His jaw ticks.

I swivel the stool from the counter and tighten my thighs to make a beeline for the front door, when my gaze lands on the furry rat-baguette in a cardigan, currently blocking my escape.

The second our eyes meet, it goes up onto its hind legs like a hobbit-size bear, and chip-chortles a death wish at me, its sharp fangs flashing from its little rabies mouth. It takes a few hind-leg steps closer, its sharp black claws scratching at the air.

“Get it away,” I yelp to Nick, bringing my knees to my chest and staring into its soulless, beady black eyes.

“Good boy, Finn. I got it from here.”

Good boy? My murderous glare slices from the retreating ferret to see Nick stalk around the breakfast bar, a serious look pulling at his chiseled features. “Nick,” I warn, hating the smooth way his name rolls from my tongue now.

“Riley,” he counters and stops at my front, peering down at me. I try to move, but his soul-piercing dark gaze pins me to the stool like an insect to a corkboard.

“What do you want from me?” I snap, dropping my knees from my chest.

“The truth.”

“The truth?” I repeat, buying myself a few moments to formulate a decent lie.

“Your ex said you’re going through some serious shit but wouldn’t tell your mom what it is. She’s worried about you, and so am I.”

I fucking hate Dylan. And my mom. And Nick.

“I’m fine,” I say, feeling my cheeks turn Tom Ford’s Runway Red.

“Stop lying to me.” A spark of anger flashes in his golden gaze. He takes a step closer. “Does your grandpa even know you’re here?”

“Of course,” I scoff, with a don’t-be-ridiculous look on my face.

It’s only been two weeks. And I do plan on texting him later, so...

His eyes harden. “Again, bullshit.” He shakes his head. “Three strikes, Ry.” He pulls his phone from his sweats pocket with a heavy sigh, and messes with the screen.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m calling Win,” he says, flicking his hard gaze to mine, then turns back to his phone and continues under his breath, “Maybe you’ll tell him why you’re all twitchy now with that fucked-up look in your eyes.”

“Wait!” I jump off the stool to grab the phone from his hand, knowing one call to my stepbrother will bring Steve and a Wyatt Earp-style interrogation I’m not ready for yet. Or ever.

Nick pivots and easily lifts the phone out of my reach, giving me a waft of Sport deodorant and sex-me-up pheromones. I fill my lungs with him like a weirdo. I hate that he smells so good.

Especially when I absolutely do not.

I drop my hand as anger spikes my pulse. “You want the truth? Fine.” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “My life is totally fucked. Everything is fucked. Are you happy now?” I don’t really swear out loud, so it sounds strange coming out of my mouth. But they’re probably the most honest words I’ve said in months. Or years, even.

“No. I’m not happy,” he says with a tinge of hurt at the suggestion, and slides his phone into his pocket, his eyes locked on mine. “What can I do to help?” It’s just like Nick to think he can swoop in and make everything better.

Not this time, buddy.

I give him a bitter laugh. “You can’t help me, Nick.”

“Try me.” He dips his chin and tilts his head in a command for me to do just that.

To try him. To trust him.

The sound of swooshing blood fills my ears. I clench my jaw tight as the truth threatens to break free.

The cliff of control I was barely hanging onto slips from my fingertips. Gravity moves my stomach to my throat, pushing out my last words as I fall toward the canyon of lava below.

“You know what? You want to help? Fine.” I take a step back, trying to put space between me and my words, and sharpen my voice. “For starters, I had surgery to repair my knee, that guess what?” I cross my arms over my chest, feeling a chill run through me. “Didn’t work. So I’ll probably never dance professionally again, which is just freaking fantastic, since that’s all I know how to do.”

His eyes flash to my knees. I feel like there should be ugly, ragged scars hiding under these sweats. Something to mark the enormity of my loss. But there are only two small pink dots on either side of my right knee from the surgical scope. And a few marks from the graphs.

His bedroom eyes meet mine from behind his glasses, with a soft look on his beautiful scruffy face that flares my nostrils and burns my eyes.

And there it is: fucking pity.

I flashback to the last time he gave me this look. I was the fourteen-year-old girl he didn’t love back. The girl who just made a fool out of herself in front of his friends. The girl whose glass heart he didn’t want to break. But he did. And he knew it.

Now, I’m the twitchy woman with a broken body and a rusty mechanical heart who sneaks into houses in her underwear and binge-eats Taco Bell in empty parking lots.

And now he’s… freaking perfect.

I swallow past angry shards of green glass stuck in my throat.

His shoulders deflate. “I’m so sorry, Ry. I had no idea—” His deep, gentle voice stings like the snap of a razor-sharp whip against my skin.

I cut him off before he can do permanent damage. “Don’t.” I raise my hand. “I don’t need your pity, Nick. You said you could help me, right? So, help.” I slam the door on the desperation creeping into my voice.

“Alright.” He nods, his heated eyes drilling into mine with an unspoken vow that fills an empty part of me I forgot I had.

I order my mouth to stop talking. Does it listen?

Nope.

“I’d rather gouge my eyes out than teach right now.” My stomach knots at the thought of the job offer in New York sitting in my inbox. “So I need a real job, like today, because I’m broke. And when I say broke, I mean no money. Nada. Zero. Zip. Zilch. And piles of credit card debt because I’m the idiot who bought a stupid car she can’t afford and thought shopping through a phone app somehow doesn’t count.”

“Okay.” He nods again, his gaze unyielding as it holds mine, like he’s got this. Like he’s ready to slay my monsters with his Elvish arrows and twin swords. I can’t help the small spark of firefly hope that flickers in my chest.

“After you’re done working your magic on all that”—I wave my chipped-manicure hand in an exaggerated motion through the air—“maybe you can tell me what kind of person doesn’t cry when their doctor says their career is over. Or when their contract doesn’t get renewed because the company believes it too.” I huff out a breath with a shake of my head. “Who doesn’t shed one single tear when their boyfriend kicks them out and moves their new pregnant girlfriend in.” I scrunch my forehead in disgust. “There’s something seriously wrong with me, Nick.” My shoulders slump under the weight of how messed up I really am.

At that, his nostrils flair and his heated gaze turns icy like he’s pissed at me, or pissed at himself for getting involved in my jacked-up life. Yeah. Probably that.

I drop my eyes to my feet.

They used to hold my power.

Now they’re just feet.

“Nothing’s wrong with you.” His deep, grainy voice trickles through my body like warm sand in an hourglass, his heavy hand landing on my shoulder near the crook of my neck. I breathe him in and close my eyes, sword fighting the pathetic urge to press my cheek into the top of his hand.

I wish I could take it all back. Wish I’d said none of it out loud. But there it is. The truth. What he wanted. Served up on a pity platter.

“Riley, look at me.”

After a few stuttered heartbeats, I lift my eyes to his. The intensity in them reaches down my throat and squeezes my lungs.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he repeats, the Middle-earth steel in his deep voice slicing through my Vulcan armor like butter.

It falls to the floor with a heavy clang. Presley gives a startled squawk at the sound.

In Nick’s otherworldly gaze, I see the freckle-faced ballet girl he knew.

The girl who kept his secrets safe.

She was the white swan.

I’m not her anymore.

I’m the girl who stays in bed all day watching mindless crap on my laptop, who works out all night to keep the pain alive in my body so I can’t feel anything else. And when that doesn’t work, I’m the girl who spends hours getting ready for #lifeisgood selfies so my old life thinks my new life is freaking fantastic. And for a moment, when the comments and likes roll in, I’m the girl who believes it. Believes, she’s still perfect.

But then the mirage fades like it always does, and I’m left looking at nothing but miles and miles of barren wasteland covered in dream dust, so I drive to an empty Walgreens parking lot and tear into Taco Bell until I’m so full that’s all I can think about.

“You don’t know me,” I whisper, wrapping my black-feathered arms around my stomach, feeling exposed for the first time since I left this place years ago. “Not anymore.”

“Would you stop saying shit like that?” His fingers tighten on my shoulder, his brows furrow. “I’ll always know you. You’ll always know me. That’s how we work. Got it?”

I brace myself against the storm of emotions in his voice, wincing as a sharp wind slices straight through me. I can’t believe I thought staying in LA would be too painful. Thought going back to New York would be too hard.

That running home would be easier.

I should’ve known Nick could destroy my armor with just a look.

And without it, I feel everything.

I nod, flicking my eyes to the crease on his white T-shirt, afraid my mask has slipped and he’ll see how much his words mean to me. Afraid he’ll see how much I need a friend right now. How much I need him.

My first real friend. My first maybe-love.

But not my first kiss.

Or my other firsts.

He tips my chin up with gentle fingers until our eyes lock. “We’re family,” he states evenly, holding my gaze captive. “Yeah?”

Flashes of us eating traditional Sunday dinner at my grandpa’s plays in my mind. Nick pretending to be fluent in Portuguese at the dinner table. My grandpa playing along just to annoy my mom. And Win doing a terrible job at stifling his laugh.

After dinner, my grandpa would take us kids fishing at his secret place, a small artificial lake created over a hundred years ago by a banker to supply water to his mansion. We’d sit on the enormous boulders, our fishing poles in hand, waiting for bites that never came, hanging onto the words of his fantastical stories about Atlantis while the sun disappeared behind the trees.

Every golden childhood memory I have has Nick weaved in it.

“Yeah,” I repeat, not knowing if the memories of us as kids make me feel better or worse.

A familiar skater-boy smile softens his masculine face, right before he pulls me into an unexpected hug that startles a breath from my lungs.

My back stiffens at the feel of his heavy arms curling around my broken wings, his touch strong and steady. Two things I’m not even close to feeling right now. His hand cradles the back of my head, bringing me to his chest.

Like I’m his to protect.

I can’t help but close my eyes, imagining it’s true.

The urge to close the distance between our bodies, so I can feel more of him, so he can protect more of me, tugs at my lower stomach, but I don’t move. I keep my feet planted, trying to remember how to breathe.

“It’s gonna get weird if you don’t hug me back.” He chuckles over the top of my head.

“It’s already weird,” I say, like my heart isn’t beating out of my chest.

I bring my arms around his narrow waist, allowing a single firefly to flutter my lower belly, and hug him back with every ounce of perfect I have left in me.

It’s not much, but it’s his to take—if he wants it.

His heavy body sags into mine, giving me more of his weight. His chest deflates with a deep sigh that I feel seep under my skin, radiating his warmth through my cold veins.

I flash to the last time he held me like this. He had a swollen eye and blood dripping from his split bottom lip. Both my fault. And I had snot running from my nose and hot tears of regret streaking down my cheeks.

The unwanted memory, locked away and hidden with time, takes hold of my chest and squeezes unbearably tight, until the last of my breath is gone.

My hands move higher on his broad back, along a path of layered Viking muscles, reminding myself that he’s a man now. That he’s safe from his childhood monsters.

My eyes burn, and an ache forms in my throat as memories of us flood my mind until I feel like I’m drowning in them. I can’t help but hug him tighter, not caring that I’m probably getting no-makeup makeup on his white T-shirt.

As soon as fourteen-year-old me stepped off the plane in New York, with passengers hustling past and homesickness wringing my gut like a wet rag, I’d turned on my cell and checked my messages.

I’d held my breath as shaky fingers searched for one from the boy whose voice could fill the hollowness in my chest.

A boy who felt like home.

A boy who didn’t even bother showing up at the airport for a goodbye. Or at my house. Or at the skate park on my last Saturday here. Or at The Creamery where I ate my last fudge sundae, alone, while checking the door for my best friend. Who never came.

Who didn’t even bother leaving a message so I’d know I was more than just his best friend’s little sister. That the friendship I imagined we shared was real. That after everything we’d been through, all the secrets we kept safe for each other, all the days and nights we snuck away to hang out, he wouldn’t just throw it all away because I asked for one stupid kiss.

One. Stupid. Kiss.

After going over my voicemails and texts a dozen more times at the baggage carousel, the blossom of hope that I’d somehow missed his message wilted and died.

And the glowing-hot-metal truth that he threw it away, me away, that I wasn’t worth even a single goodbye, forged the first layer of my Vulcan armor. I slipped it on, feeling my skin burn as it settled in place, and picked up my luggage.

Never again would I be so stupid. Never again would I believe the lies people tell, especially the ones people tell without saying a word.

Those ones hurt the most.

On the cab ride to my new life, I erased his name from my phone, deleted every Brandon Flowers song that reminded me of him, and locked away my firefly wishes for good, vowing to leave Nick MacGregor behind forever.

I thought the fact I never googled him. Not once. Or clicked on his social media profiles. Not once. Or asked about him when I talked with my grandpa or Win. Not once. Meant I’d succeeded. That I could throw him away just as easily as he did me.

Now I’m not so sure.

Nick’s knee bumps against my thigh, sending a tingle across my lower belly. Did he move closer? Did I? Then his palm slides to my cheek, tucking me closer to his chest, his heart thumping a steady warrior beat against my cheek.

I once thought executing thirty-two perfect fouettés in a row was the best feeling ever. I was wrong. Being wrapped in Nick’s heavy arms with his heart beating against my cheek is.

I know it’s probably pathetic that if I had Dr. Strange’s Time Stone, I’d make this my infinity loop, but it is what it is.

A deranged parrot-style “Love Me Tender” fills the room, snapping me back to reality. After a few ear-piercing notes, Nick clears his throat, and his muscles relax under my fingers.

I’m anything but relaxed.

My body hums with something I don’t want to feel right now. Especially not for Nick.

“Fucking Presley,” Nick chuckles, giving my shoulders a final squeeze, bringing the guillotine down on our moment. He drops his arms and turns his head to the asshole bird. “Alright, bud. That’s enough.”

I command my hands to let go of his narrow waist. It takes a suspended second, but unlike my traitor feet, they actually listen—I promise them a red manicure later for good behavior. After a life of pale pinks and clear polish, red’s a treat.

“Thank-you-thank-you-very-much,” Presley squawks, his head bobbing, obviously proud of himself. I’m not saying if I had a bow and arrow I’d use it on him, but I’m not saying I wouldn’t.

Nick turns back to me, catching my gaze, holding it for a few fluttered heartbeats. It’s not lost on me he takes a few steps back toward the couch. I take a reflexive step back, bumping the kitchen stool, feeling a sudden chill in the room.

I try to pick up my armor from the floor, but I’m too tired to heave its weight.

He clears his throat. “I know a guy who can maybe help with your knee. I’ll give him a call.”

It takes a few seconds for his words to reach the cloud I’m slowly drifting down from. But when they do, I can’t help the snort-scoff that follows.

I shake my head. “This isn’t something you know a guy for, Nick. I don’t need a mechanic.” I need a miracle worker.

The Grim Reaper’s phantom gaze lands on me from the corner of the room. Not yet, asshole.

The muscles of Nick’s jaw flex. “Like I said, I know a guy.” His tone says not to argue.

“It’ll just be a waste of time, but if it’ll make you feel better, have at it.” My voice sounds small to my ears. I bite the inside of my cheek and press the top of my toes into the hardwood, feeling them crack and pop. “Can you promise not to tell my family about any of this? Even Win? I’m still trying to figure it all out…” I know I have to tell my mom at some point, just not yet.

“Of course,” he says with a shrug, like it goes without saying. And I guess it does. We’ve always kept each other’s secrets safe. Even ones we shouldn’t. It’s one of the few things I could count on. “So how much money do you need?” He pulls his phone from his sweats pocket like he’s ticking off items on his Ry to-do list. When I don’t answer, he adds, “To cover your debt, and to get you back on your feet.”

Just shoot me now.

The gravity of my loser-laced confessions slumps my shoulders and pushes out a long breath. “I’m not taking your money, Nick.” I drop my gaze to his bare feet.

Long toes. Square nails. Masculine veins and tendons intertwined on top.

Even his feet are beautiful.

He messes with his phone. “What’s your Venmo?” It’s not a question, it’s an order.

I meet his steady gold-flecked gaze, watching the doctors call code blue on my dignity. “Like I said, I’m not taking your money.”

His brows furrow. “Why not?” He rests a defensive hand on his narrow hip, the angry spark in his eyes letting me know I’ve brushed against an old nerve.

Nick never talked about how it felt seeing his friends with so much when he and his sister had so little, knowing the only reason they could attend Bradford with the gang was because his mom worked in the cafeteria.

I knew it had to bother him. It bothered me he was always busy doing stuff around our house when he stayed over, and at my grandpa’s when he had us for dinner—mowing the lawn and fixing whatever needed to be fixed—but I understood why. Nick didn’t want handouts. He didn’t want to owe anyone anything. I may not know what it feels like to be poor, but I know the feeling of owing someone, and I hate it too.

“I didn’t come home to get bailed out by you or anyone.” I soften my tone, flicking my gaze to the front door. “But thanks, it’s nice of you to offer,” I add with a forced smile because it is nice.

His granite shoulders relax at the truth in my words.

He nods, studying me with an intensity that shrinks me into my hoodie like a baby turtle, then says, “I need an assistant. You could fill the position until you figure something else out.” His unexpected offer jolts my shoulders back.

“You want me to be your assistant?” My ego deflates, sounding like one of the whoopee cushions my grandpa would plant on unsuspecting guests. “Like, at your tattoo place?”

If you’re lucky, I’ll hire you as my permanent Gatorade Girl…

A moment ago, the idea of working at my old school sent a shiver of dread down my spine. Now, it doesn’t seem so bad.

He nods. “You need money, I need help.” He dips his chin off my look. “Don’t overthink it, Ry,” he orders like he can see the rusty gears spinning in my head.

If I were stronger, I’d be in New York right now. If I were stronger, it wouldn’t kill me to watch other dancers chase perfection while I hobbled after it with broken wings. But I’m not strong. I’m weak with jealousy.

So, here I am, trying to figure this new-life shit out.

A new life that needs a new job.

I flicker my twitchy gaze over his shoulder to the giant flat screen on the far wall, biting the inside of my cheek. The likelihood of getting a real job with no experience is pretty slim, but work for Nick? My computer skills are limited to social media and YouTube. My phone skills these days are limited to bill collectors. I’d probably suck at being an assistant. And what’s worse than having to work for Nick? Getting fired by Nick.

“I don’t think I’m really assistant material,” I say, forcing a casual shrug. “I’m not even sure what an assistant does.” That’s not entirely true. My neighbor in LA was an assistant to a top talent agent at WME. And according to our mailbox chats, he was the glue that held everything together. I can’t even hold Ben’s baby without freaking out, so…

He rubs a hand over his scruff. “You’d run my social media, deal with emails, and take care of my babies—just stuff like that.” He adjusts his glasses. “If you don’t like it, we can find you something else.” We. He adjusts his glasses again. “Win would hire you as a server in a heartbeat.” His voice softens. “You’d make a shit load in tips.”

The idea of working for Win, imagining what my mom would say, or what smile she’d shoot my way knowing he had to give me a pity job, solidifies my decision.

I fill my lungs and watch my dignity take her last breath. #GoneButNotForgotten. “I’ll give the assistant thing a try, thanks.” I straighten my spine, injecting some steel into my voice. “But if I suck at it, you have to promise to let me know.” I point at his chest so he knows I’m totally serious. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated to give me a job or anything, because you’re not.”

His lips slide into a grin, creasing his cheek in that way I hate. “Oh, I’ll let you know,” he teases with a wink that should annoy me but feels like a million butterfly kisses along my skin.

I bite my lip to keep the ridiculous urge to giggle at bay.

Rigid Riley does not giggle.

“This is a mistake, isn’t it,” I say, deciding not to fight the helium inflating my chest at our playful banter, and at the thought of actually having a job. A real job I can put on my resume. To get more real jobs in the future. I’m pretty sure this qualifies as a game plan. I hope.

“Probably.” His grin turns cocky. “I’ve been told I’m kind of a pain in the ass.”

“You?” I say in feigned disbelief.

His eyes brighten. “I know, right? It shocked me too.” He puts a tattooed hand over his heart. “Especially since I’m obviously fucking awesome.”

Even before Nick was a Norse god, he had the confidence of one. So I’m not surprised by his arrogant proclamation, or the fact it makes me smile.

“Obviously,” I say with a snicker, my cheeks burning from the wild-hyena smile I can’t seem to shake.

A familiar chip-chortle breaks our moment, causing Nick to shoot a glance over his shoulder. “Give me a sec, bro.” He turns back to me. “The babies need breakfast.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck, flexing his sculpted bicep. “Go call your mom so she stops freaking out, and I’ll feed them.”

The thought of calling my mom turns the cloud I’ve been floating on to concrete, sending me crashing to earth.

“Alright,” I exhale with a nod, sounding every bit as excited as I feel.

“Daisy has a vet appointment at eleven, so maybe be back here at ten to take her? I’m pretty slammed today, so it would help a lot.”

My pulse spikes. “You want me to start today?” I tuck a hair behind my ear, my heart banging against my ribcage. Usually, I have weeks to prepare for a new show, not hours.

He slips his phone into his pocket. “Unless you’ve got other plans.”

Not wanting to seem ungrateful, I rush out, “No, today’s great.” Do I want to start work today? No. Do I weirdly want to be the best assistant he’s ever known? Yes. I take a step back. “I’ll be back at ten sharp,” I say with a snap of my fingers, proving that Nick’s brand of crazy is definitely contagious.

“Cool, thanks.” He looks like he wants to add something, but just gives me a quick nod, letting me know he’s done.

I return his nod and spin to the door with a strange coil of excitement curling in my belly.

As far back as I can remember, my days were planned. My schedule filled with goals. My nights spent going over daily “Note to Self” lists of things I could improve on for the next day. It feels good to have something to do again. Something to get ready for.

A purpose.

Even if that purpose is taking Nick’s hellhound to the vet and caring for his love babies.

Nick’s low voice startles my hand as I reach for the doorknob. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Riley.” I turn to meet his steady gaze. “Not one fucking thing.” The conviction in his voice reaches down my throat and rips the air from my lungs. “You decide when it’s time to let go of ballet, not some doctor.”

I nod to the keeper of my biggest secret with a fragile smile.

I want to tell him I’ve mostly let go. That even the gnawing ache to dance, to move, to stretch, to soar that once vibrated and hummed in every cell of my body has faded into a distant echo. Something there, but not really. Like in Giselle, I’m stuck in the ghostly in-between.

My chest tightens at the thought, and my gaze flickers to my battered armor lying on the floor. My fingers twitch to haul it back on.

Maybe I’ll put it back on tomorrow.

Nick shifts his stance. “And as far as your ex goes, you dodged a bullet. That other chick’s going to be stuck with his non-blinking babies.” His sharp brows furrow. “That shit’s not for you, Peanut. You deserve blinking babies,” he states with his masculine face etched in serious lines.

“I, what?” I say, running the absurdity of his words through my Nick Translator. It comes back with a 404-error code. Rusty piece of shit.

He huffs with a flick of his wrist like I should know what he’s talking about. “At your parents’ anniversary, that asshole didn’t blink the entire night. Freaked me the fuck out. And don’t even get me started on dudes who wear loafers.” He punctuates the severity of his next words with raised brows. “Loafers, Ry.” Then shakes his head in disappointment. “What were you thinking?”

Leave it up to Nick to notice something like that.

A picture of a frozen-eyed, loafer-wearing Dylan takes center stage in my mind, propelling a hearty laugh from my chest. “He thought he looked like Ryan Gosling,” I say, trying to contain my laugh as it ventures into weird territory. A costume fitter once made the mistake of telling Dylan he looked like Ryan Gosling in La La Land, fueling every single wardrobe choice since. “I made him leave the fedora in the car.”

Nick smirks with a throaty chuckle, running a hand through his thick, totally-not-sexy bedhead hair. “Like I said, you dodged a bullet, babe.”

Babe. That one syllable carried on his deep voice brushes along my skin like Mulberry silk.

He shoots another quick glance over his shoulder at the angry chip-chortle growing louder. “You better go. Finn gets nippy when he’s hungry.”

I nod, my hand finding the doorknob in a flash, not wanting to stick around to find out what happens when a rat-baguette gets nippy. “See you at ten.”

“Sharp,” he teases with a crisp snap of his fingers.

“On the dot.” I throw one of my grandpa’s sayings at him with playfully arched brows. Nick catches it with a warm smile that feels like the morning sun against my skin.

I shut the door behind me with the same dose of nervous excitement that used to run through my body at the murmur of a packed house on opening night.

This is it.

My new-life game plan.

And I’m going to freaking rock it.

7

JUST A SMALL TOWN GIRL

A few hours into my new life and I am, indeed, rocking it.

1) Hot shower to wash away my infinity-loop dreams. Check.

2) A gallon of mud coffee followed by a handful of Advil. Check.

3) Text to my grandpa to tell him I’m in town. Check.

4) Perfectly applied, natural, glowy makeup. Check.

One call to my mom that ruins it all… Check.

I can tell my stepdad is in the room with her by the sweet cotton candy in her voice as she asks a gazillion questions, mostly about Dylan. Who, according to her, sounded like he missed me on the phone.

I kill her dreams of us getting back together by telling her the sobering truth: her dream son-in-law is expecting his first ballet baby with his new, non-rigid girlfriend.

Then I twist the knife further by announcing that I resigned from the company (lie) with no intention of going back (truth), which she assumes is because of Dylan.

I don’t correct her.

But if she knew me—like really knew me—she’d know I’d never leave my job over a boyfriend. She’d know the story I’m telling her is complete bullshit, because I’d never walk away from what I’ve busted my ass for since I was seven because of a man. Especially not for one who kicked me to the curb when I needed him the most. Not that he knew that.

Like my mom, I never break character, keeping my dimpled mask firmly in place. Even with my ballet girls. Even when we drowned my crappy life in two-buck chuck and bottom-shelf tequila.

At least the call ends better than it started, with my mom having to postpone our discuss-my-future talk until she gets back on Saturday from her girls’ trip to Aspen.

It’s safe to say, I’d rather wear a wig made of matted shower-drain hair, every day of my life, than sit down to a discuss-my-future talk with my mom, but it is what it is.

At ten sharp, I take in a deep breath, roll my shoulders back, replace dark thoughts with a bright ready-to-work smile, pull my low ponytail to the side, run a hand down my soft cream sweater, and knock on Nick’s front door.

He swings it open with his cell to his ear, motioning me inside. “Is that even legal?” he says to whoever’s on the other end.

I walk past him, not noticing how the air in his house smells like clean man now, with just a hint of banana bread and rat-baguette, or how his neatly combed David Beckham hair sharpens his scruff-covered jaw, or how he can make dark jeans, a simple white T-shirt, and an Army-green bomber jacket look like a Pinterest board for guys with James Dean’s brand of sexy.

Even with a parrot on his shoulder.

“If it were me, no fucking way I’d do it.” He shuts the front door, still talking on his cell. “That shit’s nothing but trouble.” Our eyes snag as he moves past me to the couch, sending a little unwanted flutter in my belly. “Money comes and goes, bro. That other shit is forever.”

He snaps his finger in front of Presley and points to his perch in the corner. Presley takes off for it with a squawk.

“Listen, I’ve gotta run. Hit me up later to let me know how it goes.” He ends the call and turns to me, his chiseled features set in serious lines. “You’re late.”

My spine shoots straight. “No, I’m not.” I pull my phone from my back pocket to show him the time.

He chuckles. “I’m just messing with you.”

I give him the evil eye while slipping my phone back into my pocket.

He turns toward the hall. “Daisy, let’s go.” When she doesn’t appear, his shoulders slump. “Come on, girl. I’m already late.”

A few heartbeats later, Daisy comes sulking into the room, her steps slow, her head down as she stops in front of Nick. The rest of Nick’s rabid animals watch her from the hallway like she’s being shipped off to war.

Nick takes a knee so he’s eye-level with her. “You know I’d take you if I could, but Pearl won’t start, so I’ve got to take Geraldine today.” Geraldine? He places his hands on either side of her wide, boxy face. “Riley will take you for ice cream after, okay?”

I will?

Her ears perk up at the word ice cream.

“That sound good? Strawberry with sprinkles?” he adds, prompting a head tilt and slow wag of her tale. He chuckles, giving her a love rub on her head before standing.

Something about the love rub sends a panicked zing up my spine, followed by a flood of worry.

What if Daisy gets off her leash? And runs away.

Or worse, gets hit by a car?

My heartbeat trips over itself at the thought, my gaze slicing to the row of rabid fur babies staring at me from the hallway. What if something happens to one of them on my watch? I can’t even take care of myself. Or a houseplant.

“You, okay?” I jolt a little at Nick’s deep voice.

I clear my throat. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I force an I’m-totally-not-going-to-accidentally-kill-or-lose-your-beloved-pets smile.

His gaze slides over my face, eyes narrowing. “You seem… nervous.”

“Why would I be nervous?” I scoff with a wooden laugh while running a twitchy hand down my ponytail.

He scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip, studying me a beat longer.

I shift my feet and raise my brows off his blatant inspection.

“Just so you know, Daisy can sense that shit.” He drops his gaze to her, and his tone softens. “And we need to keep our girl calm so Dr. Ross doesn’t have a hard time.”

Our girl.

I let those two words do a double pirouette on my heart before booting them off the stage.

He shrugs. “It’s cool if you want me to reschedule so I can take her.” He’s giving me an out.

An out I want to make a mad dash for, but say, “I can handle a little trip to the vet, Nick.” I shake my head like he’s being ridiculous.

Am I a compulsive liar now? Maybe.

“I didn’t think you couldn’t.” He gives me a sweet smile that lets me know, without a doubt, I’m going to screw this up.

Sexy Spock, beam me the hell out of here!

Escape is impossible, Captain.

I flip off Sexy Spock, watching Nick grab a pink leash and a plastic bag from the counter.

Our fingers brush when he hands me the bag, sending a little spark up my arm, which I’m sure is just static shock or something.

He nods to the bag. “I packed some t-r-e-a-t-s, and Mr. Fluffy in case she gets scared.”

“Treats and Mr. Fluffy, got it,” I repeat, like I’m competing with Presley for a job.

The second the word “treats” leave my lips, Daisy’s in front of me, sitting with her paw in the air for me to shake. My eyes flash to Nick’s, his dancing with laughter.

“I’ll text you a list of her no-no words.” He gives a chin up to the bag. “The jerky’s her favorite.”

Yep. Already messing this up.

I shake her paw, not wanting to leave her hanging, then reach into the plastic bag for the jerky.

Fighting the urge to close my eyes, I hold it out for her to take, imagining my hand disappearing with it.

She bites into the jerky with just the tips of her front teeth, her lips pulled back with the effort to be careful, which might be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

She really is a goofy hellhound.

My smile dims when I look up to see Nick holding out a credit card for me to take. “For the vet and ice cream. Fill your tank up too.” His tone says not to argue.

In a different dimension, there’s another me who wouldn’t have to take his card. A different me, who would just be doing an old friend a favor by taking his dog to the vet.

“Thanks.” My cheeks heat as I grab the card from his artist fingers and slip it into my purse.

“I’m the one who should be thanking you.” He hands me his phone from his pocket. “Put your info in and I’ll text you the vet’s address.” He bends down to hook Daisy’s leash onto her collar. “I’d like to send you an advance, if that’s cool.”

“I don’t need an advance,” I say, feeling heat crawl up my neck.

He straightens. “It’s not a problem, Ry.”

“I’m good, thanks.” I turn to the phone, letting him know I’m not going to budge.

In my old life I owed everyone. My mom. Steve. Sponsors. Donors.

But this is the new me.

And the new me won’t owe anyone shit.

My elegant fingers feel clumsy as I scroll through Nick’s contacts, not surprised he knows a shit ton of people, and enter my info, including the email I’ve had since I was thirteen.

The email he never used after I left.

I hold out his phone for him, noticing the veins on the top of his hands as he grabs it to text me the vet info. I had no idea hand veins could be sexy, but there it is: sexy hand veins.

My phone chimes in my purse with his text.

He slips his phone into his pocket. “If Stacy’s selling chocolate for her daughter’s soccer team, get some,” he says, handing me Daisy’s leash.

“Okay.” I have no clue who Stacy is, but if there’s chocolate involved, I’m here for it.

“After her appointment, hit up Rita’s Ice Cream in Roosevelt Shopping Center.” His forehead creases. “You know where that is, right?”

“Off Jefferson, near Lucky’s?” I adjust my grip on the leash, trying to pull the familiar place from my childhood haze.

“Lucky’s is a Whole Foods now, but yeah. Get her a single scoop of strawberry in a cup, but don’t let her eat the whole thing or she’ll get tummy issues.”

“Alright.” I can’t help but smile at that.

It’s not every day you hear a guy who looks like he can single-handedly slay dragons talk about no-no words and tummy issues.

His brows raise. “Even when she does that thing with her nose, don’t give in.” He slowly shakes his head in warning. “Her tummy issues are no joke.”

“I get it, Nick. Not the full scoop.” I use a tone that lets him know I heard him the first time.

He drops his gaze to Daisy. “You be a good girl for my Peanut, okay?”

I don’t want to feel a flutter in my belly at his words, but I do.

He looks over his shoulder to his other babies. “Stay out of trouble.” His voice sharpens. “Peaches, be gentle.” The mangy cat slices her evil green eyes to me. “Gentle,” Nick repeats with a little more force behind his word.

“Shit. Almost forgot.” He reaches in his pocket, pulls out a silver key, and holds it up. “Few have been bestowed such an honor. Use it wisely.” He grins, holding it out to me like it’s King Elendil’s sword and not a key to his house.

I take it from his fingers, feeling a smile tug at my lips. You will not think he’s cute.

“And could you stay with Daisy until I get home?” He turns and grabs a travel mug from the counter, probably full of his sugar coffee. “She gets anxiety if she’s left alone for long, which is why I usually take her to the shop with me. If I can’t get the parts for Pearl today, maybe we can take your car tomorrow?”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Cool, thanks.” He pauses, looking between Daisy and me. “Sometimes she gets a little… clingy during her visits. If you play Journey, it’ll help her relax.”

“I’m not playing Journey for your dog, Nick,” I deadpan. A girl’s gotta draw the line somewhere, right?

He grins. “‘Don’t Stop Believing’ is her song.” Then boops me on the nose as he moves past, turning back when he reaches the door. “Text me if you need anything.” He glances at the kitchen. “Your grandpa filled my freezer before he left. Please help me eat it,” he pleads with scrunched brows. “I feel like shit when he does the hand thing.”

I hold out my hand with my palm up, mimicking the dreaded Hand of Guilt and my grandpa’s thick Portuguese accent. “You might starve to death, my neto, and then what would I do with myself?”

Nick chuckles. “Last time he left, I had to eat my weight in those fish-ball things. I just can’t do it this time.” He shivers.

“You could always just toss them—”

“Shh.” He shushes me, darting his wide eyes around, like the suggestion is sacrilege, while making the sign of the cross as he backs out the door.

I snicker as it closes, looking down at Daisy. Her blue eyes swing up to mine. “Your dad’s a dork.”

Her tail wags in agreement, her tongue lopping to the side, letting me know dorkiness runs in the family.

I pat her head.

Today might be a good day after all.

Can you die from one-hundred-plus pounds of clingy hellhound sitting on your lap like a giant gorilla baby with her weight crushed against your chest?

Yes. Yes, you can.

“Daisy…” I wheeze out, my shoulder blades grinding against the wooden bench in the waiting area. I try to push her forward enough to take some artificially scented lemon air into my lungs. “I can’t breathe.”

She leans her head back to plant another slobbery kiss on my face, letting me know she’ll miss me when I’m gone.

This has been our routine for the last ten minutes.

I’m pretty sure I have two minutes left until my short life flashes before my eyes.

“Thanks.” I wipe at my cheek with the back of my hand, her leash still clenched in my fist.

I know she can’t run into the busy street with the door closed, but it seems my logical side has decided this would be a great time to take her dream vacation: sipping red wine on a gondola ride in Venice with some hot Italian in a striped shirt serenading her as he steers the boat.

Which would explain why I buckled Daisy into the passenger seat and practically crawled my car to her appointment.

Did a swarm of Tesla drivers flip me off for holding up traffic on El Camino while I shrank into my seat with my cheeks on fire? Yes.

Did that make me hit the gas? Nope.

When I backed out of my grandpa’s driveway, bribing Daisy with chicken jerky so she’d stay strapped into the seat, I knew one thing for sure: there’s no way in hell Nick’s “love baby” was getting hurt or lost or maimed on my watch.

No freaking way.

I wiggle my toes to make sure they still work, feeling pins and needles roll over my lower legs from the lack of circulation.

“Daisy, down,” I order again, injecting some of Steve’s steely tone into my voice this time. She doesn’t budge. I click my tongue twice like Nick did on that first night. Nothing.

Not even a courtesy glance my way.

I exhale what little oxygen I have left, coming to terms with my death-by-gorilla fate, as my gaze catches with Stacy, the receptionist. The one Nick said to buy chocolate from for her daughter’s soccer team.

The one who also happens to be the only person on the planet who can pull off pink scrubs with pictures of cat’s knitting on them, paired with a fuzzy cat ears headband holding back thick red hair.

When I was the one who walked in with Daisy instead of Nick, she tried to hide her disappointment with a warm smile and an enthusiastic greeting.

But it was there if you looked for it. Which I did.

I’m pretty sure the fresh coat of lipstick is for him. Not that I blame her. I put on a fresh coat for the Taco Bell drive-thru lady, so…

She laughs with a shake of her head at Daisy on my lap and gushes, “She does that with Nick too. It’s just the cutest thing.”

I want to tell her it doesn’t feel cute—it feels like Winston parked his truck on my chest. But just lift my brows with a lopsided you-want-to-trade-places grin.

Her eyes slide to Daisy. “How about a treat for such a good girl?”

I brace myself at the no-no word.

Daisy springs from my lap in a flash, her leash snapping free from my death grip. I scramble on dead legs to grab the leash, but it’s like trying to catch a piece of paper picked up by the wind.

She skids to a stop in front of the counter, plops on her butt, and raises her paw, her tongue panting with excitement.

“She loves her treats,” I say, like Daisy and me go way back, while I bend down to return her leash to my death grip.

“You think?” Stacy smirks, her voice airy with humor. She moves around the high reception counter, her blue eyes sparkling when she stops in front of Daisy.

Daisy raises both paws, alternating, like maybe that will help hurry along her treat.

Stacy bends at the waist with a soft laugh, shaking both paws. “Now, that’s a good shake.” Then pulls out a treat from her pocket. A treat Daisy inhales like a vacuum, immediately raising her paw for another one.

Stacy laughs harder. “You’ll get another one after your appointment.” She scratches Daisy under her chin, looking up at me. “I still can’t believe this is the same dog as before.” She turns back to Daisy, giving her more love rubs. “I knew you were going to be such a sweet girl,” she says in a smoochy voice.

“What was she like before?” I can’t help but ask, feeling something in her smoochy words snare my mind like a sharp hook.

“Nick didn’t tell you?” She straightens, her voice tinged with surprise, her keen eyes reevaluating who I am to him.

We were secret friends. Then strangers. And now? I’m not sure what we are.

I shake my head, readjusting my purse strap, feeling a heated layer of insecurity press against my skin.

“Daisy, you’re up.” We both turn toward the all-business voice to see a middle-aged woman with utility-short hair, dressed in blue scrubs, holding the door open with her back, letting in the distant sound of dogs barking.

She gives me a pleasant smile, then looks down to her clipboard.

Daisy swings her puppy eyes from the woman to meet mine, her tail falling to a barely there wag.

Stacy holds out her hand for the leash. “She’s just getting a vaccine and her nails clipped today,” she says in a reassuring voice.

Do I look worried?

“Cool.” I shoot her a bright smile and hand her the leash, turning my gaze to Daisy. “I’ll be right here.” I’m pointing at the bench like a weirdo. “And after, we’ll get ice cream,” I continue, hating to see her looking up at me with that nervous glint in her puppy eyes. “With sprinkles,” I add, feeling the strange tightness in my chest relax when her tail wags again.

If you would’ve asked me this morning if I would be talking to Nick’s dog in public. The answer would be a swift, no. But here I am. Dog-talking. Surrounded by other dog-talking people.

“Oooh, ice cream,” Stacy repeats with a twinkle in her eyes as she leads Daisy to the woman I assume is her doctor.

Not a dog snatcher dressed as a vet to steal Nick’s dog.

Definitely not.

Do I give Daisy a wide smile and a wave when she looks back at me?

Yep. Sure do.

At this rate, I’m only a few days away from being one of those people who wears T-shirts with their dog’s face on it.

She’s not your dog, Riley…

I know that.

Then why are you picturing driving cross-country with her like Thelma and Louise…

I’m not.

In matching scarves…

Shut up.

And oversized sunglasses—

I slam the door on the annoying voice that has no clue what it’s talking about.

The office phone rings, prompting Stacy to shuffle past me with a give-me-a-sec smile.

I shift my feet, watching her answer the phone, feeling awkward hovering at the reception counter but afraid if I sit, she’ll forget to tell me about Daisy. Though that might be for the best.

I’m pretty sure whatever put that look in her eyes will only make me feel worse about how I treated Daisy this morning.

“You’re pissed because my girl wanted a cuddle and a kiss?”

I glance out the windows as I head back to the bench and see another woman in blue scrubs walking toward the glass double doors, a tray full of Starbucks balanced in her hand.

Taking a seat, I pull my cell out of my purse for something to do. Maybe I should text Krista to see how she’s doing? See how the gang is? My hands hover over the text, but I can’t bring myself to do it. If I ask her questions, she’ll ask me questions. Questions I don’t feel like answering. Not today.

Maybe tomorrow.

The Starbucks woman walks in, surrounded by the sort of spark-and-snap energy that makes you notice her.

Onstage, I have that kind of energy too.

Offstage, not so much.

I glance between my phone and her as she scans the waiting area, her eyes briefly catching mine before they land on Stacy.

“Nick’s late?” she asks, making her way around the long U-shaped reception counter. A zing shoots up the back of my neck at his name. “He’s never late.” There’s a hint of concern in her voice that makes me take a closer look.

Her thick chestnut ponytail is sleek and bouncy, with wispy bangs that give her big brown eyes added depth and frame her girl-next-door-pretty face perfectly.

Note to self: YouTube Brad Mondo videos on how to cut wispy bangs.

Stacy takes the coffee from her outstretched hand, and her eyes meet mine, her lips tipping into a warm smile. “His, uh, girlfriend brought Daisy in today.” The way she says girlfriend sounds like she pulled a label from a basket of possibilities and stuck it on me, hoping it was the right one.

Wrong.

The Starbucks woman turns to me, her smile surprised. “I didn’t know he had a girlfriend.” She puts down the tray. “How did I not know this?”

I return her smile, shaking my head. “Oh, we’re just friends.” Her oh-that-makes-more-sense look has me continuing, “I mean, we grew up together, like in the same house.” Stop talking, Riley. “He’s best friends with my stepbrother.” Stop. Talking. “So we’re kind of like family, I guess.” I add the words Nick gave me earlier with a shrug. In a lame attempt to do what? Let her know I’m more than just a friend to Nick? That I have a history with him.

Why do I need her to know that? Why do I care what she thinks?

Her smile brightens. “Then I guess that makes you my family too.” She walks toward me. “I’m Milly, Katie’s wife.”

It takes a few blinks to put the pieces together.

I didn’t know Nick’s sister, Katie, that well because she lived with their grandma. But she was always sweet to me at school. And I could tell she loved her brother, so I liked her.

Do I want Milly to like me, so she’ll tell Nick how awesome I am? Yep.

I stand and take her hand in mine. “I’m Riley,” I say, flashing her a lightbulb smile as I shake it. “It’s great to meet you.”

“So, Win’s your brother?”

“Stepbrother, but yeah.” I don’t know why I always feel the need to clarify, but it is what it is. Besides my grandpa, Steve’s the closest thing to a father I’ve had, but he’s not really mine. He belongs to Win. Win’s not really mine either. They belong to each other.

“How the hell did you survive growing up with Win and Nick?” she jokes with a mock-serious face. “I can only handle one at a time, and even then…” She takes a sip of her coffee, her brows raised in an exasperated look, which pretty much sums up being with Win and Nick in the same room.

My nearly genuine laugh mixes with the phone ringing in the background. I pray it’s for Milly, because I’m almost positive this is the start of a conversation that will most likely exceed my small-talk limit for the day.

“We were just talking about you!” Stacy exclaims on the phone, the excitement in her voice snagging our attention.

I know by the look on her face—a look I may have worn once or twice in my life—that Nick’s on the other end.

Stacy turns to us with the phone to her ear, her cheeks flushed. “Yeah, she’s here.” My heart hammers. “I was wondering about that…” Her eyes hold mine, humor glittering in them. “She did what? Well, then I guess we have to forgive you,” she concedes with a throaty laugh as she twists the cord around her finger. “You, too. Alright, bye.” She hangs up the phone, looking starstruck.

I may have worn that look once or twice, too.

“Do I want to know what that was about?” Milly chuckles to herself.

Stacy clears her throat, taming her grin. “He said Riley broke into his house, scared his babies, ate all of the banana bread he baked for us, and then stole his favorite sweats.”

Oh. My. God.

“Just when I was starting to like you,” Milly teases with a laugh.

“I didn’t eat your banana bread.” My cheeks heat, and I’m not sure if I want to laugh at Nick’s shenanigans or hire a hitman. Maybe both.

“I wouldn’t blame you.” Milly’s smile widens. “It’s so good,” she says as she heads back to the reception area.

Stacy holds up a Venti cup at me. “Do you want his coffee? It’s an Americano with cream and like a pound of sugar.”

Not really. “Sure,” I say, walking to grab it from her hand. “Thanks.”

Stacy turns to Milly. “I was just telling her about Daisy’s adoption.”

Milly’s hand goes to her heart, and her eyes flash to mine. “It was fate, those two. Or three if you count Peaches.”

I take a sip of Nick’s warm sugar coffee, weirdly eager to hear the story of how Daisy came to be Nick’s hellhound.

Stacy holds her coffee cup with two hands like its hot chocolate and we’re gathered around a fire. “While Nick was filling out paperwork for a mangled stray, Daisy was dropped off by an officer who didn’t think she’d make it long enough for Animal Welfare to arrive—”

The office phone rings, jolting my fingers around the cup.

“I’ll get it,” Milly says, moving to the phone.

Stacy’s voice softens as she continues, “In the ten years I spent at the Humane Society, I’d never seen that kind of abuse.” Her eyes darken. “It just broke my heart.”

My heart squeezes at her words. My skin feels tight as I try not to picture what kind of abuse would put that dark look in her light blue eyes.

She takes in a cleansing breath. “We agreed the kindest thing to do would be to put her down. Nick overheard and asked to fill out her paperwork next, saying he’d pay for her care. We told him she probably wouldn’t make it. And if she did… well, she’d been through a lot, so there’s no telling how she’d react, or what problems she’d have down the road, behavioral or otherwise.”

I nod, taking another sweet sip past the bitter lump in my throat.

“He came back every day, bringing her toys and getting us addicted to his banana bread.” A smile touches the corner of her lip. “A few weeks later, he walked out of here with a feral cat in a body cast and an emaciated pit bull.” She laughs. “But you would’ve thought he’d won the lottery by how excited he was.”

Her laughter trails as our attention swings toward the doctor walking in with her puppy-eyed patient. “She’s good to go,” she says, handing me the leash. “She might be a little tired tonight from her shots but should be back to normal tomorrow.”

Should? What does she mean should? My heart speeds up.

She turns back to Daisy. “Be good. We’ll see you soon.”

The doctor looks at Milly. “Can you give Danny a hand in the back?”

“Sure thing.” Milly catches my eyes as she goes to the door. “It was great meeting you. I hope to see you again soon.”

“Yeah, me too.” I hand Nick’s credit card to Stacy, still feeling a little seasick from Daisy’s story.

My hand may have found the top of Daisy’s head while Stacy rang up prescriptions and a shit ton of soccer chocolate.

My nose may have nuzzled Daisy back when her wet nose hit the crook of my neck as I buckled her into the seat.

I also may have fed her the entire scoop of strawberry ice cream with extra rainbow sprinkles and a few more t-r-e-a-t-s.

While playing Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing.”

In a busy parking lot.

While she bobbed her head with ice cream on her face.

While I sang to her with soccer chocolate on mine.

Good times.

8

COWBOY TAKE ME AWAY

I’m sure one day I’ll look back at the fact I’ve been sitting on Nick’s bed, staring at the door for over an hour with one of his T-shirts pulled over my nose, and laugh.

That day is not today.

My arms tighten around Daisy’s neck as I hear Peaches give another mewl-growl from the other side of the door, followed by a chip-chortle from her rabid-ferret sidekick.

Daisy swings her gaze to me as another loud rumble quakes her stomach. I brace myself for the death-toot that I know will follow.

I’ve never regretted ice cream more in my life.

I’m pretty sure the toxic fumes she’s been expelling for the last hour could be used as an agent in chemical warfare, hence the reason Nick’s T-shirt is pulled up over my nose like a gas mask.

A T-shirt I had to borrow because his serial killer cat spit a decapitated mouse-rat hybrid on my cozy sweater while I was on the couch. Then picked it up from the floor and chased me around the house with it in her mouth, letting me know I was next.

I glance at my discarded rat sweater in the corner with a shiver of disgust.

“Babies, I’m home.” My stomach does a soccer-chocolate-filled grand jeté at Nick’s deep voice and the sound of the front door shutting.

Daisy leaps from the bed, hitting the hardwood with a loud thud, and does a series of excited spins near the bedroom door.

I don’t leap off the bed. Or spin.

I stay frozen, like some stalker who wears Nick’s clothes when he’s not home and rolls around in his bed while smelling his pillows.

For the record, I only smelled his pillow once.

At least getting found in his bedroom, wearing his “All Night Long” Lionel Richie T-shirt, isn’t as bad as being found in his living room after crawling through his doggy door in my underwear. Right?

Wrong. This is worse. Much worse.

“Riley?” Nick says through the door with a quick knock.

“Come in,” I say, like this is my room.

He fills the doorway, his ferret on one shoulder, Presley on the other, with Peaches rubbing against his boots.

“Hey, girl.” He gives Daisy a distracted rub on her head, his puzzled gaze fixed on me. Probably wondering why I’m in his bed with Lionel Richie covering half my face.

Good question.

I see the moment the answer hits him.

A mix of horror and disgust scrunches his face as he pulls his white shirt up over his nose. “Peanut. Babe. What did you eat?”

My eyes go wide. “It wasn’t me.”

He looks to his babies. “Save yourselves!” he exclaims, pointing a sharp finger down the hall like he’s going to hold off the stink army so they can live to tell the tale of his greatness.

I squeeze his pillow to my chest, wishing for the spontaneous human combustion my grandpa swears is a thing, watching his babies take off down the hall. Except for Daisy, who follows as he crosses the room to the window.

The window that I tried to open repeatedly while cursing the demon of stuck windows back to hell.

I refuse to notice the bit of toned, brightly inked stomach exposed by his hiked-up shirt, or the band of dark-gray boxer-briefs peeking out from his jeans.

Instead, I focus on the serious side-eye he’s shooting my way like golden arrows aimed at my ego.

Sorry, bud, it’s already deflated.

He pushes the window open with ease and turns to face me, tugging his shirt from his nose as he waves fresh air in like a madman. “Why do you have the door closed? Are you trying to kill my baby with your gut rot?”

Gut rot?

Yep. Gut rot. A phrase no one wants associated with them. But especially not by an old teenage maybe-love crush.

I pull the shirt from my nose, making a show of putting his pillow back. “I’m hiding from your psycho cat who spit a decapitated rat on me, then chased me with it.” A shiver rolls up my spine at the memory. “And it’s your dog who’s trying to kill me.” I point to Daisy with a twitchy finger. “Her gut rot, not mine.”

Daisy tilts her head like she can’t believe I’d throw her under the bus. I hold her puppy eyes for a few I’m-sorry-girl heartbeats.

“Wrong.” He rests a tattooed hand on his narrow hip, the other pointing a finger at Daisy’s head. She gives it a slobbery kiss. “My sweet girl only gets tummy issues if someone feeds her an entire scoop of strawberry ice cream, which I know you wouldn’t do, right?”

His challenging gaze drills into mine.

“Um, right…” I want to tell him I only fed her all of it because her adoption story broke my heart and I didn’t know what else to do.

“So it’s your gut rot that’s making my eyes burn?”

I exhale. “Yeah.” I slide my gaze to Daisy. “It’s mine.”

He grins in triumph. “Glad we could clear that up. You should really get it checked out.”

I give him a narrowed-eyed don’t-push-it look.

He continues, “And just so you know, Peaches only feeds people she likes.”

She was trying to feed me?

“Oh,” I say, feeling like an idiot.

Silence falls over the room. I can feel him looking at me, but my gaze is glued to the invisible piece of lint I’m picking off his shirt.

I see him move to his desk in my peripheral.

“So, besides the gut rot, how was your day, honey?” he asks in an old-timey husband voice as he grabs something from his desk and slips it in his pocket.

I meet his gaze. Unlike his, there’s zero humor in mine. “I ruined your dog. And insulted your cat, but other than that, just great.”

I wish I was back in my ballet bubble, where I had rules and choreographed steps to follow. Rules I followed to a T. Steps I executed with a machine-like precision. Here? I’m a twitchy mess, with no freaking clue what I’m doing.

He chuckles. “Peaches likes you. And after a few hours, Daisy’ll be fine.” Smirking, he rakes his gaze over my shirt. “I’m more worried about you stealing all my clothes.”

I glance at the shirt I’m tented in. “I’ll give it back… and your sweats.”

“Keep ’em. They look better on you.”

It’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve ever gotten from him, so I’m not sure how to respond. The volcanic explosion of gas from Daisy saves me from overthinking the throwaway compliment, turning it into something it’s not.

“Outside?” he asks Daisy, then heads to the door. I should follow him out, since this is his bedroom, but I don’t. “After her walk, I’m gonna head over to see Blue and the baby for a bit.”

“Okay, cool.” Is it weird that I’m disappointed he’s not inviting me to tag along? Weird that I want to hold the baby again? I force a smile. “Have fun. Tell her I say hi.”

“Will do.” He stops at the door. “I’ll pick you up at eight?”

My chest jolts. “What? Why?”

“I’m taking you to dinner at Win’s.” He holds my gaze. “Tonight”—he raises his brows and finishes in an outrageously bad Southern drawl—“you ride with the bulls, darlin’.”

“What does that mean?” I can’t help but ask, feeling a tingle of foreboding run up my spine to my neck.

His answer comes in the form of a devilish grin before he walks out. The grin hints at Nick’s brand of trouble, which tells me everything I need to know about riding with bulls at Win’s.

It’s gonna suck.

Big time.

When I open the front door to see Nick standing on the porch dressed in a black cowboy hat, black T-shirt, and dark jeans, I realize if you’re into tattooed cowboys, Nick would be a dangerous level of hot.

Even with my perfectly bold red lips and artfully tousled hair, and wearing my sexy jeans paired with a fitted white Henley, I can’t shimmy my way anywhere near his level of hot.

Well, lucky for me, smoking-hot Viking cowboys who ride rusty motorcycles named Geraldine (reason number two I insist we take my car), and smell like leather and sin, aren’t my thing.

That includes ones who wear contacts instead of their Clark Kent glasses so I can see the gold flecks in their eyes more clearly. And the slight under-eye puffiness that gives those eyes that sweet Leonardo DiCaprio Romeo and Juliet vibe.

But especially not ones who give you their arm to walk you through Win’s busy restaurant—a restaurant that feels like I’m stepping into one of the Westerns we grew up watching—and take off their hat when they sit across from you, revealing thick dirty-blond hair that begs your fingers to see if it’s as soft as it looks. Yep. Thank God, I’m not into any of that.

Because if I were, I might feel jealousy prick at the back of my neck at the California cowgirls who keep hovering across from our table for a chance to catch said Viking cowboy’s eye.

Too bad for them he’s too busy shoving forkfuls of Winston’s famous Tomahawk Ribeye in my face while yapping on about the glorious colors of something called a jewel beetle to notice.

“You’ve got to try it from this cut.” I turn from my dwindling iced tea to see Nick holding out another forkful of juicy steak for me. “Last one,” he says off my raised brows. “Promise.”

It’s not that I don’t appreciate him feeding me the best steak of my life—even if it feels super weird being fed like a baby bird in public—but the constant waves of nerves make each bite a risky endeavor.

I know my mom’s not in town, and it’s clear now that nobody remembers me here, but I still feel on edge—the reason my barbecued chicken sits mostly untouched. That and the fact I have a hard time eating in front of people. Not my grandpa. Or Nick, for some reason. But I’ve always felt uncomfortable eating out. It could be because I spent my childhood with my mom’s judging eyes on each bite I took. Or I’m just weird. Probably both.

“You’re worse than my grandpa.” I exhale, leaning forward to take the offered bite from his fork.

“It’s in my DNA,” he says right before a forkful of loaded baked potato disappears past his lips.

I bring a napkin to my mouth, asking around my bite, “What do you mean?”

He lays his sinewy arm on the table, wrist up, and presses his thumb to his ring finger. “You see that—”

“Not this shit again.” A deep voice draws our attention.

My gaze swings up to Jesse wearing his usual low-brow scowl and a gray T-shirt pulled tight around his lumberjack arms. Arms he gets from cutting down actual trees to make custom furniture.

Note to self: Brand wood chopping as the newest LA fitness trend and make millions.

He gives me a stoic chin lift.

I smile in return, remembering the happy tears he shed for baby Rose. Underneath his tough exterior is a soft marshmallow.

“Careful, bro, your jealous is showing,” Nick taunts.

Jesse shakes his head. “When you’re done being an idiot, give me a hand piling wood out back for the smoker.”

Nick smirks. “Say please, and I’ll think about it.”

“Idiot,” Jesse says under his breath and walks away.

“You can’t fight our love,” Nick calls after him, his voice edged with mock-heartache.

A few people at the bar look between the two.

Jesse shakes his head as he lumbers across the scuffed hardwood floor toward the back.

I can’t see his face, but I’d bet the remaining thirty-two cents in my savings account he’s smiling.

“Peanut.”

I swing my eyes back to Nick.

“Pay attention,” he says, like none of that just happened. His gaze flicks to his wrist, demanding mine do the same. “You see that tendon?”

I swallow, peering closer to his wrist, looking past the Time is Limited tattoo over a red rose, wilted and black around the edges, to see a single tendon, amongst veins, leading from the middle of his wrist to his forearm.

“Yeah, I see it,” I say, wondering what weird turn this conversation is going to take.

He sits back. “That, my friend, is a recessive gene from the Neanderthals.” He picks up his beer, raising sharp brows. “I’m part caveman.”

Hello, weird turn.

My lips twitch. “You’re part caveman?” I repeat in a flat tone that lets him know he’s ridiculous.

He gives a caveman grunt and takes a swig of his beer, his eyes glinting with something that frees my trapped smile.

“Fine.” I play along with an exaggerated sigh. “What does being a caveman have to do with force-feeding me your steak?”

He sets down his beer, wiping his mouth and grinning, and I instantly regret asking. “Simple. My caveman instincts demand that I hunt and feed you. Protect you from saber-tooth tigers. Build fires to keep you warm while I pick lice out of your hair.” He cuts into another piece of steak like he didn’t just say all that.

I can’t help but laugh. “Pick lice out of my hair?”

“Caveman instincts, babe.” His honey eyes bore into mine, right before he holds out the piece of steak for me to eat. “Last one.” The corner of his lips twitch at my annoyed look. “Promise.”

“You already said that,” I counter.

His forehead creases. “Eat it and I won’t throw you over my shoulder and carry you back to my cave,” he says, in a rich, raspy way that tingles across my red lips, flushes my cheeks, and melts like truffle chocolate in my mouth.

The air suddenly feels humid against my neck.

His words feel like sex. The dirty kind.

Dirty caveman sex.

In front of a fire he built.

On furs from the animals he hunted.

Do. Not. Picture. It.

I exhale. “Last one.” I lean forward to take the bite, wanting this dinner to end and, at the same time, wanting it to last forever.

He gives a satisfied caveman grunt, watching me chew.

I roll my eyes.

When his gaze drops, to cut into another piece—that I will not eat—mine drops to my wrist to do the same ring-finger-thumb test: no tendon.

I look up to see Nick wearing a told-you-so smirk, his soft lips shiny from the steak he’s chewing, his scruffy chiseled jaw working each bite.

I pick up my iced tea. “It’s probably just a guy thing.” I shrug, taking a sip from the straw, like that will help wash away the hot tingles in my body.

“You think?” Nick looks over my shoulder, his eyes searching, then fixing on someone. “Hey, Mike. Got a sec?”

“What are you doing?” I rush out on a harsh whisper, not in the mood for people. “I believe you,” I tack on when his eyes do the twinkle thing.

Last time his eyes did that twinkle thing, we ended up on a boat to Alcatraz carrying a Ouija board.

Mike appears at our table with a beer in hand. He’s a little older than Nick and cute in a clean-cut-software-engineer kind of way.

His deep-set eyes flicker over my features as we exchange quick smiles. Then he turns to Nick. “What’s up?”

“Do me a favor, hold out your wrist like this.” He demonstrates, then continues off his skeptical look, “So I can prove something to my girl.”

My girl.

Mike turns to me to elaborate, so he can decide whether to hold his wrist out. Not that I blame him. It is Nick we’re talking about.

“He thinks he has caveman genes,” I say in a mockingly quiet voice.

“It’s a blessing and a curse,” Nick says with a heavy exhale, punctuated by a cocky wink.

“They went extinct, so it’s probably more of a curse,” I point out.

Nick laughs, a throaty and rich sound.

I beam, knowing I’m the one who put it there. Me.

Rigid Riley.

Let’s just say making people laugh isn’t what I’m known for.

Krista was the funny one. Elena, the dreamer. Nia, the mom. Angie, the flirt. Me? I’m the competitive overachiever that everyone told to loosen up.

“She got you there, bud,” Mike says, like he’s keeping score and hopes I win.

I like Mike.

“Yeah.” Nick’s eyes glint with mischief. “For now.”

“You agreed to go out with this guy?” Mike teases, gesturing to Nick with his thumb.

I shake my head with a chuckle. “We’re not on a date,” I say, more to remind myself of that fact than to state one.

Mike’s gaze deepens, and his lips melt into a flirty smile. “Well, in that case, maybe I can buy you a drink—”

“She’s Win’s sister,” Nick interrupts, his easy-going smile a little sharp around the edges.

“And?” I challenge, tilting my head. It’s not that I’m dying to have a drink with Software Mike, but if I want to have a beer, or five, with him, that’s my business.

“Win likes me,” Mike says, chest a little puffed, his spine a little straighter.

“You sure about that?” Nick motions his chin for us to follow his line of sight.

I look over my shoulder to see Winston grinning at our table from the open kitchen while sharpening the world’s deadliest-looking cleaver.

Win learned how to wield a cleaver spending summers in Texas working at his grandma’s cafe. Now he’s the one cooking her recipes.

Giving people a piece of his childhood. His heritage. His memories.

“Jesus.” Mike chuckles, his eyes catching mine. “For you, it might be worth it.”

I wait to feel a flutter in my belly at the way he’s looking at me. At his words. But there’s not a single flutter to be felt.

Not one.

His phone chimes from his pocket, saving me from having to say something.

He pulls it out, glancing at the screen. “Shit, I gotta go.” He looks at Nick. “See you Sunday?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“I look forward to kicking your ass.”

“Good luck with that.” Nick gives him a two-finger salute.

Mike chuckles, turning to me with a parting smile. “It was great meeting you.”

“Yeah, you too,” I say before he walks off.

Guess I’m not worth it after all. Not that I blame him. There’s a ton of women in here that don’t come with a cleaver-wielding stepbrother. And his crazy caveman friend.

My gaze catches on a few more California cowgirls near the mechanical bull, drinking beer and singing along to a song about girls shaking it. I’m sure Krista would know this song.

I’m sure she would shake it with them. Then she’d pull me from the table and make me shake it too.

A pang hits my stomach from wishing she were here.

“You’re gonna ride it tonight.”

My gaze slices to him. “What?” I ask a little too loudly, definitely not thinking that “ride it” is codeword for caveman sex.

Definitely not.

“The bull,” he says, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Oh, right,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat.

“What did you think I was talking about?”

I ignore his question. “Yeah, sorry, there’s no bull riding in my future.” I take a sip of my iced tea, wishing it was the Long Island variety.

I wipe at the red lipstick on the straw, feeling his eyes on me.

“Your knee hurting?”

I meet his gaze, searching mine like a lie detector test.

I shake my head. “No, it’s fine.” I’m surprised by the truth in my words. I haven’t even thought about my knee since we sat down.

“Good. We’ve got limited time before Daisy misses us.”

Us.

He pushes his plate forward and rests his elbows on the table, like we’re about to get down to some serious business. “Two things are going to happen before we go home, Riley.” He uses my full name to let me know he’s serious and holds up his thumb on count one. “We’re going to two-step, because I just learned how and I want to show you how awesome I am at it.”

You will not think he’s adorable.

He keeps his eyes on mine and holds up his pointer finger next. “And you’re gonna break your brother’s bull-riding record for me.” He sits back on an exhale, chest deflating. “I’ve tried for months, but I just can’t fucking do it, Peanut. Even with my lucky hat.” He motions with a disappointed hand to the black cowboy hat on the table. “If no one breaks his record by tomorrow, I have to put his name here.” He points to virgin Hemsworth skin on his neck. “I love your brother, but not that much.” He raises his brows, looking more skater boy than Viking. “You’re my only hope.”

“What makes you think I can break his record?” I scoff at the thought. “I’ve never even been on a horse.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He grabs his hat, then gives me a shrug. “You can do anything.” He stands, leaving those words floating in the air like dandelion wishes. “I’m gonna go help Jesse real quick.”

“Okay,” I say, taking another sip of my watered-down iced tea, hoping to cool my heated cheeks. I’m sure he says stuff like that to everyone.

He stops at my chair. “Try not to miss me too much, darlin’.”

“Oh, I’ll try.” I smirk, pushing down the old heartache that threatens to surface. If he only knew how much I missed him once.

Before I can take my next breath, his hat is on my head.

He gives a soft laugh at the surprise on my face, tapping the brim with his finger until it covers my eyes, hitting my nose.

I push it up, tilting my neck back. “Why am I wearing your hat?”

His teeth scrape over his bottom lip, his long-lashed eyes studying me like he’s wondering the same thing. “Instincts, babe,” he concludes before walking off.

I watch as his long legs take him across the scuffed hardwood floor.

I’m not the only one who watches him go.

Not the only one who notices how his T-shirt pulls tighter around his broad back and looser at his waist, hitting above the curve of his bite-able bubble butt.

But I’m the only one watching while wearing his hat.

With the world’s cheesiest smile on my face.

And a belly full of fluttering fireflies.

Things that should be illegal:

1) Pants with pretend pockets.

2) Free trials that require payment details.

3) Guys who make sex noises when lifting weights.

4) Mechanical. Freaking. Bulls.

“I hate you!” I seethe, past the loud music and blood rushing in my ears, to the man responsible for my current situation.

Nicolas. Fucking. MacGregor.

He gives me a thumbs-up from the other side of the inflated, bouncy-house-style bullring, where I’m going to be thrown on my ass. In front of a crowd of people.

“We’ve got this, Ry. Just slide up, squeeze your thighs, and don’t let go,” he hollers, his hand now cupped on the side of his mouth, wearing my purse across his chest like a red messenger bag.

“We?! There’s no we!” My glove-covered grip tightens on the leather loop as I scoot as close to it as I can. I swear to God I’m going to kill him. Slowly. With my bare hands.

Winston steps up through the crowd with a microphone. The kitchen closed twenty minutes ago, so he’s out of his chef’s uniform and in his other uniform of baseball caps, T-shirts, and worn Levi’s.

A T-shirt I’m going to strangle him with.

He shoots me a grin and brings the mic to his mouth while holding my glare. “Rumor is that my little sister thinks she can walk up in here and break my record.” He says it, like he’s auditioning for a job at the WWE. Then faces the crowd. “Who here thinks she’s tough enough to take on Winston ‘The Outlaw’ Night?”

No doubt he gave himself that nickname.

A group of loud California cowgirls shout and clap their support for me. I give them a shaky #girlgang smile of appreciation in return.

My attention swings to Nick as he breaks through their cheer with an ear-piercing two-finger whistle. He shoots me a wide smile. I do not smile back.

“You can do anything.”

Why’d he have to say something like that? Something that I believed once, before I knew better.

Shit. I take in a deep breath, knowing I’m going to die on this freaking bull because there’s no way in hell I’m letting go.

No way I’m letting Nick down. No way I’m going to let him see I’m not the person he thinks I am. No way I’m gonna lose to my cocky stepbrother. No way Nick’s gonna walk around with Win’s name on his neck.

So, I’m going to be the girl who can do anything for fourteen seconds, or however long this stupid record-breaking thing takes.

Win turns to the mechanical-bull operator who looks like he’s done serious carnival and/or jail time. Am I jealous his boobs are bigger than mine? Maybe. “Bill, put down your beer and pay attention. Cut it as soon as she slips. Got me?”

Bill nods, setting his beer down as instructed.

“My dad will have my hide if she gets hurt, and then I’ll have yours.” Win’s half joking.

I’m not worried that I’ll get hurt falling onto air-inflated ground. I’m worried about looking stupid while doing it.

In front of Nick and his friends.

Unlike the California cowgirls who rode the bull earlier in that slow, seductive way that teased at good sex, this will not be sexy. Or cute.

This is going to be embarrassing as all hell.

“Raise your arm when you’re ready!” Nick calls out, his cell in his hand, recording this shit like he’s in the front row of his kid’s dance recital.

This. This has to be my rock bottom.

My mind races over the info I learned from googling “How to Ride a Mechanical Bull and Not Look Dumb.”

I fill my lungs with courage, feeling my fingers pulse with my wild heartbeat, and tighten my thighs on the fake fur, calling on the thousands of muscles I’ve trained and honed for years, to line the battlefield.

I stand at their front.

My badass Viking braids blowing in the wind.

What I need: Balance. Flexibility. Strength.

My strategy: Be one with the bull.

I glance at Nick one last time. He gives me another cheesy thumbs-up.

I choose not to think about the cute brunette with a tousled bob cozying up to his side, or that her arm has snaked around his narrow waist, and instead fix my gaze on the bull’s head like Google said.

I can do anything.

I raise my Viking sword in the air with a war cry.

What happens next is a blur of awkward, jerky movements and gritted teeth. I try counting in my head, but there’s no room for thought. I’m just my body. At the mercy of Big Boob Bill, the Bull Operator.

My warrior muscles spring to life, sword fighting gravity to the death. I hold on to the leather strap as we fight and volley.

I hold on until it’s not a choice.

Feeling myself slip, knowing one more buck and I’m done for, I spot a place on the black inflated ground and dive for it.

I’m sure it’s not the least bit graceful and looks goofy as hell as I bounce face-first to an awkward stop.

But as the triumphant roar of one man’s cheer fills my ears, I don’t care that my perfect hair is totally wild and that my perfect red lipstick is probably smeared Joker-style on my face.

I lift my head to see Nick tripping on the inflated ground as he scrambles to me. The elated smile on his face frees one of my own as I push up on my knees.

“You fucking did it, Peanut!”

He hauls me up, flinging me into his powerful arms like I weigh nothing. My arms fly around his neck as his solid arm settles under my Souza butt, leaving my feet dangling in the air.

Is he jumping with me in his arms? Yes. Yes, he is.

I see Win’s wide smile over Nick’s shoulder. “Are you sure I broke it?”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure.” He plants a platonic kiss on my forehead before setting me down. I will not think about his soft lips on my skin. “You’re amazing.” He grins, his golden gaze locked on my brown one. “My neck thanks you.”

I hate that I’d spend the rest of my days as a professional bull rider if it meant Nick would keep looking at me like this.

“Stop getting handsy with my sister, bro.” Win interrupts the moment, shooting Nick a fake warning glare before turning to the crowd. “Let it be known that on this day, the record I held onto for six beautiful months just got obliterated by a ballerina from Los Angeles.” He says Los Angeles like it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to down a few shots of manly whiskey and cry like a baby. Ladies, if you’re into that, follow me.”

He shoots me a proud-brother grin that swells my chest, and saunters off to the bar. A few women who I guess are “into that” join him as he goes.

Nick hops down from the bullring first, turning to grab both my hands to steady me as I follow. I brace myself for the annoying pain in my knee when I step down, but it doesn’t come.

I’m sure to feel effects of my record-breaking ride when the adrenaline wears off. Will it be worth the old-lady hobble I’m about to sport?

Abso-freaking-lutely.

“You okay?” Nick asks over the music, still holding my hands, his gaze flicking to my knee.

“I’m great,” I practically yell, loving that I can tell him the truth for once.

He gives my hand a squeeze, and his cheek creases. Then he turns and leads me through the crowd by the hand to a quieter spot in the back, his broad Viking shoulders easily clearing our path.

A cocktail of music and adrenaline rushes through my veins as we go, transporting me to a time when this same rush of kinetic energy begged me to move.

To dance.

He lets go of my hand, stopping us at a table away from the crowd where the air feels fresh. Lifting his hat, he picks up the bottled water tucked underneath.

“Here,” he says, unscrewing the top, handing it to me like I just finished a marathon.

“Thanks.” My gaze skips around the bar as I take a sip of water and catch eyes with the brunette who sidled up to Nick earlier.

She’s fake-talking with a few of her friends while glancing at Nick. And me. But mostly Nick.

I take a few more refreshing gulps of the cold goodness while not looking at her.

She’s even prettier than I thought. And can wear a black cotton mini dress with cowboy boots in a way that puts Taylor Swift to shame.

Not that I care.

I also don’t care that she looks less than thrilled that I’ve got Nick’s attention. Well, get in line, lady.

Nick may be oblivious to all the women (and men) drooling over him in this place, but I’m not. Hungry eyes follow him wherever he goes.

There was a time when I had Nick all to myself. When he was just a lanky skater boy in baggy clothes, invisible to every girl but me.

Seeing him was my favorite superpower.

I turn my gaze from the pouting brunette and breathe in the scent of beer and men’s cologne, finishing the small bottle of water.

“Want another one?” He motions to the packed bar with Winston at the helm, pouring beers, his hat turned backward, his face animated in that way that lets me know he’s in the middle of a story.

He gets his storytelling skills from his dad.

“I’m good, thanks.”

He takes the bottle from my hand, turning to put it back on the table.

I glance at the few stragglers around us heading to the dance floor. I guess the song playing about boot scootin’ is popular amongst the Silicon Valley country folk.

My gaze snags Nick’s, who’s looking at me with a familiar glint in his eyes that has me taking a step back. “Um, Nick,” I say his name in a low warning not to do whatever he’s thinking about doing.

His cheek creases. “It’s happening, Peanut.”

“What’s happening?” I ask wide-eyed, taking another step back.

His hips start to sway to the music, followed by his colorful arm in the air making some kind of lasso motion. I take another step back, feeling laughter bubble in my chest. I flick a self-conscious gaze around the room to see a few people smiling at us.

God help me.

He follows me, his hips in full swaying gyration. “Just go with it.”

“Go with what?” I practically squeal, my eyes watering with how hard I’m trying not to laugh. “What are you doing?” My laughter breaks free.

His hand wraps around my waist, pulling me closer, our bodies almost touching but not quite. His other hand lifts mine in a basic dance position.

My posture straightens on reflex, his face blurring from my laugh tears.

A dangerous grin spreads across his face. “I’m about to ruin you for all other men, sweetheart,” he teases in a low voice dipped in smoke.

My laughter dies as his words move through my veins like dark magic.

Then his firm hand tightens on mine, and he’s smoothly leading us in a two-step on our impromptu dance floor while saying “Quick-quick, slow-slow, quick-quick” out loud. Very loud. He does this, looking down at me with humor etched in the corners of his soft lips and zero shame in his bedroom eyes.

The fact Nick belted out an impassioned Bruce Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark” at the eighth-grade talent show, not giving a shit what anyone thought, says everything you need to know about Nicolas MacGregor.

And his embarrassment threshold.

Even as a kid, watching him dance around the stage with his arms going full Springsteen and that crooked skater-boy smile on his face—like he hadn’t spent the night hiding in the closet with his mom—I knew he was going to survive his life.

Survive his dad.

That he would grow up to be one of the good people Steve talked about.

And I would grow up to be like my mom.

I also knew when the popular girls started whispering about him being cute, they’d finally realized how special my Nick was.

I knew things would change once they saw him.

And they did.

“Where’d you learn to dance?” I ask, trying to keep my mind off the fireflies buzzing through my body, lighting up every cell.

I’m pretty sure you can see my glow from Andromeda.

“YouTube,” he states, haughtily, like one would say Julliard, before he lowers me into an unexpected dip, pulling a startled laugh from my throat. Our eyes lock as his beautiful face stops inches from mine. His breath smells like beer and Nick. “Are you ruined yet?”

You ruined me years ago.

“If I say yes, will you stop?” I tease, vanquishing the need to know what beer on Nick’s tongue tastes like. What his tongue feels like. What he feels like.

He could easily close the space between our lips to show me, but I know he won’t.

When he chuckles in his dark-magic voice and lifts me from my dip, taking a step back from our embrace, I can’t help but feel the icy sting of rejection against my hot skin.

We turn toward a woman’s sharp, sugary voice as it pierces our bubble. “I didn’t know you could dance like that.” The cotton-dress brunette playfully hits his arm while sidling up to his side. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

“Hey, Sam.” He turns to give her a quick hug that hits me like jumping from a steamy sauna into one of my post-performance ice baths.

I clench my teeth to keep them from chattering.

Nick turns to me, his arm still slung over her shoulders in a familiar way that screams more than just friends. “Riley, this is Sam.”

My heart zaps the few remaining fireflies, sending their charred bodies crashing.

“It’s Samantha actually.” She smiles. “Only Nick calls me Sam.” Her arm snakes around his waist. “You were great on the bull.” Her other hand goes to Nick’s lower stomach, right above his jeans.

I’m surprised she’s not peeing on his leg to mark her territory.

“Thanks,” I say, before glancing over my shoulder, praying the hallway is a wormhole into another universe. “I’m gonna run to the bathroom.”

“You know where it is?” Nick asks, taking a step toward me.

“I’ll show her,” Samantha chirps. She looks like a bird. If the bird was gorgeous with big jewel-green eyes and nice curves.

Not that I care.

“Great,” I say as she intertwines her arm with mine.

“I’ll be here,” Nick says to me with a look I can’t place.

Ever walk down a hallway arm in arm with a bird girl you don’t know, who might be dating a guy you maybe-loved once?

I do not recommend.

I flush the toilet, having spent enough time in the stall for it to get uncomfortable. And step out, dreading the conversation I know she’s lingering at the sink to have.

I give a tight-lipped smile at her reflection in the mirror as I go to wash my hands.

“So, you and Nick are friends?” she asks, getting right to the point as she fixes the edges of her lip gloss.

I’m sure she’s one of those people who looks better without makeup. She probably wakes up all puffy lipped and dreamy eyed with sexy, mussed bedhead. Not a zit on her chin to be found.

You will not picture her in Nick’s bed.

“Yeah, we grew up together,” I say, shaking away the thought of Nick giving her morning sugar coffee and Cocoa Puffs.

Sliding my gaze back to the mirror, I run my hands under the hot water, focusing on my red lipstick, surprised it’s not as smudged as I thought it would be after my epic face-plant.

I want to reapply a fresh look-good-feel-good coat and fix my hair, but Nick’s wearing my purse, so I guess messy hair and mug-shot lipstick is the look for tonight.

I turn off the water and grab a paper towel.

“It’s hard to tell if Nick’s into someone.” She laughs. “That man acts like he’s in love with everyone.”

I toss the paper towel. “No kidding.” I chuckle, then cringe at how forced it sounds.

“If we aren’t here with someone, we usually go back to my place. But seeing you guys together, I wasn’t sure if I’d shaved my legs for nothing…” Her eyes catch mine in the mirror as she slips her gloss back into her purse.

Is it wrong that I hate her a little?

“We’re totally just friends.” I wipe away some mug-shot lipstick smudge, giving her smile number seven.

She moves in closer, grinning like I just invited her into my personal space. I didn’t. “He’s like…” Her brows raise in that way that lets me know I should run before she can get her next words out. “Let’s just say he’s the only man I’ll shave and clean my apartment for.” She gives me a secret smile like we’re friends having some raunchy girl talk. “He’s”—don’t say it, please, for the love of God—“like crazy good if you know what I mean.”

No. I don’t know what you mean.

I return her smile, though mine probably resembles more of a lock-jaw grimace, and then look to the mirror to see if my ears are bleeding.

Nope. But they should be.

An icy-blonde walks in, stealing our attention. Her eyes flash to TMI Samantha as she makes her way to us. “Do you have my phone?”

I use the blonde as an excuse to hightail it out of there, side-stepping her to the door.

“It was great meeting you,” I call over my shoulder with a wave, making my clumsy stage exit, bumping into a few ladies on the way out.

I’m thankful for the dull throb forming in my knee as I speed walk down the hall. It gives me something to focus on other than the weird hollowness in my stomach, expanding to my chest like dark matter.

I’m probably just tired… Or was force-fed too much steak. Or I’m on sensory overload since I haven’t been around this many people in months.

I’m sure I just need a little quiet, a few YouTube videos of Keanu Reeves, and I’ll be good. Would it be weird to ask Ben if I could hang out in his backyard with Daisy for a night? Probably.

My heart squeezes when I see Nick standing in front of the table where I left him, talking to Jesse. His grin falters when our eyes meet. I shoot him an Academy Award-winning smile.

“I’m gonna head out,” I say, sounding way too cheery.

Nick’s eyes narrow. Then he nods. “Okay, let me go tell Win we’re leaving,” he says, turning to reach for his hat on the table.

“No, it’s cool… Um, Samantha said you guys usually, um… So I’ll just leave you to that.”

“What?” His brows pinch together, deepening a line between them.

“I’ll take Daisy to my house, so you don’t have to worry about, uh, rushing.” It’s official: I hate my life.

“We came together,” Nick says, his chin dipped.

“It’s totally fine, Nick.” I give him a don’t-worry-about-me shake of my head, and a dimpled smile. “Can I have my purse?”

Nick glares down at me. “You want me to stay with Sam?” It’s a simple question, but it feels like more.

“Sure. Have fun.” I give him another smile, one I’ve never used before, but it settles into place like an old friend.

Nick studies me for a few heartbeats, then pulls off my purse, his gaze landing on Jesse. Something passes between them.

Jesse clears his throat. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

Nick hands me my purse. “Drive safe,” he says, with a parting grin that feels like an ice pick to my heart. Then he grabs his hat and walks off.

Maybe he’s mad I didn’t thank him for dinner?

“Thanks for dinner,” I call after him like a weirdo. He gives me a two-finger wave with his back to me.

Jesse gives me a quick nod before he engulfs my hand in his giant calloused one and leads me through the crowd, out the door to the chilled night air.

We stop near a few people talking, some on their cells, others waiting for Ubers.

He lets go of my hand. “You good?” he asks in his low, gravelly voice, looking down at me with his vivid turquoise eyes.

“Yeah, I’m fine, thanks.”

He nods. “Where’re you parked?”

“Just around the corner.” I flick my wrist down the sidewalk. “But you don’t have to walk me.”

He motions his head for me to follow and takes off down the sidewalk without a word.

We continue in a blanket of welcomed silence, his lumberjack arms occasionally bumping mine as we go. No questions. No Middle-earth looks slicing through my Vulcan steel. No infinity-loop dreams. Just quiet. Blessed quiet. Quiet that gives too much space in my head for other thoughts. Why do I already miss Nick?

Regret squeezes my stomach when I see my white car peeking out from behind a black SUV. If I’d cared less about ruining my perfect makeup with the helmet Nick offered—for the rusty motorcycle he seemed way too excited to take me on—then maybe tonight would’ve ended differently.

Maybe instead of staying with Samantha, he would’ve insisted on taking me home because he was my ride. And we would’ve greeted Daisy together when we got back.

I pull my keys from my purse. “That’s me.”

I press the fob, unlocking the doors.

Jesse takes a few long strides to open the door for me.

“Thanks.” I slide into the driver’s seat.

He bends at the waist, his hand on top of the car door, his other on the roof. “Nick wanted to take you home.”

I give him a mirthless laugh. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

He doesn’t laugh.

“If you say so.” He gives me a chin lift. “Good seeing you, Ry. It’s gonna be fun as shit watching Win try to break your record. Thanks for that.” He taps the roof of the car with a barely there Jesse smile, shutting the door.

I start my car, watching him lumber down the sidewalk, wondering why his words about Nick are bothering me so much.

I bite my lip and pull away from the parking spot and drive home with an uncomfortable heaviness in my stomach. A heaviness that has everything to do with the three hundred pounds of Tomahawk steak sitting in it.

And nothing to do with the two-stepping caveman who force-fed it to me.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

I snuggle closer to Daisy, listening to her soft snores, feeling the tension in my body finally leave this crappy night behind. It didn’t start crappy, but it sure ended that way.

My nose brushes the back of Daisy’s head. Who would’ve thought a hellhound could be so cuddly? Not gonna lie, it felt a little weird when she jumped on the bed and plopped down beside me like this has always been her spot.

My tired eyes follow the shadows dancing on the ceiling from the moonlight, then turn to the old digital clock on my nightstand, keeping track of the minutes that’ve passed since my head hit the pillow. Minute number forty-six ticks past.

My heart skips a beat when my phone lights up with a text.

I reach over Daisy’s snoring body, trying not to wake her as I grab it from the nightstand.

Nick: I’m home. You want me to get Daisy?

I batten down the hatch on the relief flooding my body, knowing he’s at home and not with TMI Samantha.

Or maybe she’s at his house?

I push down the covers, suddenly feeling suffocated by them.

I shouldn’t care what Nick does, but I do. I shouldn’t be jealous at the thought of Nick blowing her mind with crazy good sex, but I am.

It’s probably just a by-product of being lonely. Because I’m that too. A product of being so close to my old life that old feelings feel new again. But it’s not real. They’re just an echo. Right?

Me: She’s asleep.

Nick: What happened tonight?

Me: What do you mean?

Nick: You left me.

Me: With Samantha.

Nick: I don’t need your help getting laid.

My nostrils flare. What a dick.

Me: Noted.

I watch the three ellipses move as he types, then stop.

Then move again.

Then stop.

Nick: I’m coming over.

Me: I’m in bed.

Nick: I have a key.

I jolt upright at his text, adjusting the messy bun of hair on my head and taking a few deep diaphragm breaths, trying to get my racing heart under control.

Why is he coming over?

To tell me in person how awesome his sex life is?

To elaborate on how he can “hook up” anytime he wants?

Hard pass on that conversation.

My gaze drops to the shirt I’m wearing. His shirt. Lionel Richie looks up at me. Great. I washed it to give it back. But then decided it would be a good idea to wear it to bed. My eyes jump to the suitcase explosion in the corner. I bite my cheek, wondering if I have time to change before he gets here.

Daisy lifts her head off the pillow when the kitchen door opens but doesn’t budge from her cozy spot by my side. I don’t budge either. Either she can sense it’s Nick, or she’d make a terrible guard dog.

My hand lands on her head as Nick fills the moonlit doorway.

Daisy’s tail hits the mattress with wagging thumps.

My gaze locks with his, his expression unreadable. He looks different in moonlight. Like the moon washed away the boy I knew, leaving only the man behind.

A man who takes my breath away.

Even if I don’t want him to.

“Hi,” I whisper, not knowing what else to say.

He takes a few steps in, like my voice was the invitation he was waiting for.

“Hey.” His voice sounds rougher than I’m used to. “I’m shit at texting.” He runs his hand through his hair. “What I meant to say was if I wanted to spend the night with Sam, I wouldn’t have brought you with me. I can hook up anytime…” He scrubs a hand on the back of his neck as he takes in a deep breath. “I wanted to hang out with you, Riley, a friend I haven’t kicked it with in years.” He drops his hand, his heavy voice fills the room, and his eyes drill into mine. “Next time we go somewhere together, we leave together. Okay?” There’s an edge of anger and hurt in his voice.

“Okay,” I say, feeling like the biggest pile of shit on the planet.

“Good.” He gives me a curt nod. “See you in the morning.” He disappears out of the room before I can respond.

Hearing the kitchen door shut, I lean back on my pillow, looking at the ceiling, wondering how I ended up here, back at my grandpa’s with a giant pit bull snoring at my side and my first maybe-love as my neighbor.

Life is so fucking weird.

After a handful of minutes tick past, my phone chimes with another text.

I look at the screen to see a picture of me sitting on the bull, my fist raised in the air, a fierce warrior expression I didn’t even think was possible on my face.

I look like… a girl who can do anything.

Nick: Win’s so pissed. Thanks again.

Me: I’m here for all your bull-riding needs.

I cringe, wide eyes staring at what is likely the most ridiculous handful of words ever written by a human being.

Bull-riding needs? Seriously? I close my eyes with a groan.

Nick: I’m going to forget you said that.

Me: Thanks.

Nick: Night, Peanut.

Me: Goodnight.

Relief he’s not mad at me loosens my chest.

I may fall asleep with an unknown smile on my face.

While spooning Daisy.

With my phone tucked in my hand.

9

MUTINY ON THE BOUNTY

I’ve seen some strange shit living in LA: A guy belting out a spot-on Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” in a bloody hospital gown at the bus stop. A naked guy riding a motorcycle in West Hollywood with his junk waving in the wind. Santa Claus sporting a Borat-style bikini at Trader Joe’s.

So you’d think I wouldn’t be phased by the Norseman with a parrot perched on his shoulder buying breakfast burritos in a Target parking lot from some old lady’s trunk.

But there it is: trunk burritos.

To say I was nervous to show up at Nick’s this morning after the weirdness of last night would be an understatement. I’m still not sure if the fact he acted like none of it happened makes me feel better or worse. Probably better. I think.

Did I mention Nick dressed Presley in a ski vest before we left because it’s chilly outside? Yeah. Bird clothes are a thing.

So are ferret clothes.

And cat clothes.

There’s also a TV channel for dogs, in case you were wondering.

A smile creeps across my face as the older woman reaches up and pats Nick’s scruffy cheek in that tender way that lets me know she’s under his spell. I’m pretty sure all of Northern California is.

My gaze slices to the phone in my hand as it chimes with a text.

Win: You around Sunday?

“Great,” I grumble to the phone. I want to say no, but I can’t hide from my family forever.

Me: I think so. Why?

Win: Good. I’ll pick you up in the morning.

Me: For what?

Win: Fishing.

He knows I hate fishing when you can catch actual fish. Which is why I loved where my grandpa used to take us.

I blame Steve for taking me to see Finding Nemo when I was nine.

Me: Is this payback for breaking your record?

Win: What record? I’ll pick you up at 4:30. Bring coffee. It’s gonna be a looooong day.

Yep. Payback.

Me: Can’t wait…

My shoulders slump as I turn my gaze to Nick, watching him blindly scratch Presley as he talks to the burrito lady. My fingers itch to sneak a picture to send to my ballet girls who think nothing exciting happens in Northern California.

We may not have movie studios, celebrity sightings, or Disneyland.

But we’ve got Nicolas MacGregor.

And I’m pretty sure he’s the Eighth World Wonder, so…

I drop my gaze to my phone with a smile, but instead of taking a picture of Nick, I pull up the picture he texted me last night.

It’s borderline weird how many times I’ve looked at it.

Maybe I need to prove to myself that it happened. That I actually rode a bull. Like a freaking boss. Turns out Rigid Riley ain’t so rigid after all, folks.

Before I can stop my traitor fingers, they’re flying over the screen and posting the picture to my Instagram with the caption, “Well, this happened…”

Panic races up my spine when the deed is done.

It’s the first picture I’ve ever posted I didn’t pose for. The first picture I didn’t run through my mental “perfect” filter before posting.

I close my eyes as my mom’s acidic voice fills my head. All the ways people will see I’m not perfect, all the ways they’ll know “I’ve let myself go” corrode my mind.

She orders me to delete it before it gets back to my old life.

I flip her off and kick the door shut in her perfect face, and set my phone down, so I don’t change my mind.

Then run a hand over my stiff knee, feeling a dull ache that has nothing to do with last night’s bull-riding debut. And everything to do with an overzealous performance for Daisy while we waited in the kitchen for mud coffee.

With Lionel Richie’s face on my chest, and Daisy staring at me like I’d lost my mind, I bent and pulled myself into familiar positions with unfamiliar effort.

Once my muscles were warm, I filled my lungs, softened my neck, and lengthened my body. Releasing my breath, I elongated my arms, opened my fingers with a touch of romance at the tips like I’d done a million times, and forced my stuck shoulders down.

Willing my rusted knee to bend to my will.

The music in my head guided my movements like invisible strings as blood rushed like liquid fire through my veins, heating my broken wings until they glowed.

I danced like time had stilled. Like there was only me, Tchaikovsky in my head, and an audience of one hellhound watching my every move.

I finished on a shaky second arabesque with Daisy spinning a few excited pirouettes to show me her moves.

Did I give her a hug because she’s so freaking cute?

Maybe.

Then I drank mud coffee, leaning against the counter while Daisy inhaled her t-r-e-a-t-s from the kitchen floor, trying to remember the last time I just danced to dance. No technique critique. No obsessive run-throughs to get as close to perfect as possible.

I rinsed my coffee cup, realizing it was the first time I’ve danced while knowing my body was too broken and rusty to perform properly.

And for the first time, I was okay with that. I think.

Nick’s broad, white-toothed smile jolts me from my thoughts as he struts back to the car, holding the plastic bag up to me like he’d just struck gold.

I give him a thumbs-up because why not.

He slides into the driver’s seat and hands me the plastic bag full of spicy goodness that makes my mouth water. “Ana wants to meet you next time.”

Next time. Like this is going to be our thing.

Turns out my destiny is food in parking lots.

My gaze catches the old woman, now sitting down on her fold-out chair in front of her trunk, I guess waiting for her next customer. She waves at me with a bright smile on her weathered face.

I return her smile with a tentative wave back. “I take it you eat here a lot?”

He starts the car. “Since I was a kid.” He catches my eyes before looking over his shoulder to back up. “She used to give me the tamales that didn’t sell.”

“That was nice of her,” I say lamely, hugging the warm plastic bag a little closer, wondering if her tamales were his only dinner.

“Yeah, she’s hella cool.”

Daisy pokes her head from the backseat, resting it on my shoulder, her eyes fixed on the plastic bag.

“I don’t have to tell you not to feed her burritos, right?” He smirks.

“You’re gonna keep bringing that up, aren’t you.?”

“Yes,” he says while flicking his gaze between the road and the console, his fingers most likely selecting another annoyingly upbeat song.

Nick’s a morning person who likes morning-people songs.

I’m not that.

Whitney Houston’s “How Will I Know” throbs behind my left eye. The fact Nick’s singing along, forcing his deep, raspy voice into an enthusiastic cracking soprano, doesn’t help.

Does he know every freaking word? Yes.

If there’s an elevator down to hell, this is what’s playing.

If Presley joins in, I’m walking.

After a few minutes of Nick’s brand of torture, he abruptly turns down the music, then grabs his vibrating cell from his jacket pocket. And holds it out for me to take, his eyes scanning the road as he changes lanes.

“Can you get that?” he says, merging with traffic to exit the freeway.

My pulse shoots to my fingertips as I take the phone from his outstretched hand. “Nick’s phone,” I answer in a calm and measured voice, hoping I sound professional. I probably should’ve said his full name, or maybe the name of his shop, or…

“Who’s this?” The woman’s alarm-clock voice snaps my already perfect posture into a pencil-straight line.

“Um, I’m Riley… Nick’s, um, assistant,” I tack on, in case this sharp voice belongs to one of his can-hook-up-anytime girls.

I shoot Nick a side glance, feeling weird I still know nothing about his new life, except that he’s a tattoo artist with a shop in Redwood City. Has Neanderthal DNA. A jewel-beetle obsession. Learns how to dance off YouTube. Rents his place from my grandpa. And has a complete wardrobe for his pets. Except Daisy, because she doesn’t like clothes.

I kick myself for not googling him.

“His assistant?” she repeats after a pregnant pause, the sharpness in her voice softening into something husky and pleasant.

“Yes, can I help you?”

“Thank fuck,” she says on an exhale. And calls out, “MacGregor got an assistant.” Then back to me. “I don’t know you, but I freaking love you, girl. I’m crap at this shit. Anyway, tell him that Wilkinson’s flight’s canceled, and ask if he wants me to hit up the waitlist.”

Nick has a waitlist?

“Okay. Uh, hold on.” I turn to Nick. “Wilkinson’s flight’s been canceled. Do you want her to hit up the waitlist?” My heart’s pounding in my chest. I’m doing it. I’m officially personal-assisting the hell out of this call.

“No, that’s cool. I’ll handle it when I get in.” He hits the blinker and cruises around a slow driver.

“He’ll handle it when he gets in,” I repeat, feeling bubbles of pride in my chest at the professional tone in my voice, which speaks volumes to the state of my work life right now.

But I’ll take what I can get.

“Alright…” A deep, muffled voice fills the background. “Carlos wants to know if he’s bringing the heat.”

I turn to Nick. “Carlos wants… the heat?” I repeat, hoping I got that right.

“Yeah, I got it.”

“He’s got it,” I say, though I’m pretty sure she can hear everything.

“Dude, stop foaming at the mouth. He’s bringing it,” she barks to the owner of the deep voice in the background. Then says a quick, “Love you, girl. Bye.” And ends the call without waiting for a response.

I stare at the phone for a few bewildered heartbeats, then hand it back to Nick. “Who was that?” I ask, curious about the woman who just declared her love for me.

A woman who sounds perfect for Nick.

Not that I care.

“That’s Luna.” He gives a soft laugh and sets his phone on his lap. “She’s a genius with ornamental color,” he adds, with a glance my way like I know what that means.

I trace the vibrant turquoise-blue star on the side of his neck, peeking up from his jacket collar, wondering if that’s considered ornamental color. And if she put it there. Then I wonder about the rest of the rich colors marking his lean-muscled body. And who put those there.

I clear my throat. “She works for you?” I maneuver the bag on my lap to reach down and grab my purse for something to do. My fingers itch to touch up my lip gloss, but I resist the urge and slip my cell inside, setting the purse back on the floor.

He shakes his head. “Not really.” He shrugs. “I mean technically she’s my apprentice and still helps out when I need it, but she’s built a solid reputation and is doing her own thing now.”

The respect in his voice lays heavy on my skin. Like wet wool. Itchy and irritating.

“That’s nice,” I say, taking in a deep breath against the sudden stiffness of my lungs, and glance at last night’s manicure. From afar, they look nice. Red and glossy. Up close, they look like shit.

“I should warn you, she can read minds.” He flicks his gaze from me to the side mirror before changing lanes. “It’s freaky at first, but you get used to it.”

Presley squawks his agreement with a few bobs of his bright green head.

“A genius and a mind-reader. Wow,” I deadpan. “Can she also leap tall buildings in a single bound?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” he says, with a tinge of awe in his voice that grates on my nerves. His gaze flicks to mine. “You’ll like her.”

Then the music is back on, and he’s back to singing, and I’m back to wishing for an Advil. And an ejector seat.

I rest my head back on the soft leather, then scoot it out of Daisy’s slobber reach when her smelly breath hits my cheek, not wanting her kisses to mess up my perfect makeup.

Look good, feel good.

I turn my head to the window when we stop at a red light, and see a couple enthusiastically making out at a bus stop. Like the would-get-a-ticket-for-public-lewdness kind of enthusiasm.

I want to roll down the window and yell “Get a room!” like a bitter woman who hasn’t gotten any in months. Or has it been a year now?

It’s not that sex with Dylan was so off-the-charts hot I miss it, but at least it was something. I do miss having something.

And thanks to a lethal army of horny hormones that always seem to attack before my period, I miss having something a lot today.

For the last couple of years, sex with Dylan consisted of tepid two-minute thrusting in one position: the dreaded spoon. And only in the mornings, before we rolled out of bed.

I thought it was enough. Believed our chemistry on stage was enough.

Maybe he believed it too. And maybe in our ballet bubble, it was. But then I couldn’t perform with him anymore.

And that was the end of us.

After nearly five years, I couldn’t even muster up a single emotion when we broke up. He cried, though. When he told me about his mistake turned baby-mama. When he asked me to move out because they were going to try and be a family.

When I packed my shit without a word.

The only time he didn’t cry was when Krista told him to fuck off after he offered to help us load the stuff that wouldn’t fit in my car into hers.

That night, after cracking open our third bottle of wine, Krista declared that the cure for a bad breakup was a voodoo doll and good sex. I rolled my eyes and finished my glass of red, readying it for another pour.

When she tried to set me up with her boyfriend’s roommate to help “end my dry spell,” I laughed and put my AirPods back in, doing another set of stomach crunches.

But after being forced to listen to her and Noah have hot jungle sex through the world’s thinnest walls from the world’s most uncomfortable Ikea couch, I want to experience something like that. Something more.

One-night-stand, jungle-sex kind of more.

With a firefighter, or a bartender with an Australian accent, or a fishing boat captain who looks like Chris Pine, or an engineer who looks like Sexy Spock.

As long as they don’t have tattoos or wear glasses…

My gaze lands on Nick’s hands as he breaks out in Phil Collins’s drum solo on the steering wheel.

There’s raw power in those sexy-vein hands.

Raw power in his chiseled-granite body.

An image of his hands gripping my hips as he…

I clear my throat, kicking the unwanted image out of my head, dropping my gaze back to my phone.

This is going to be a long day.

Note to self: Download Tinder.

When I pictured Nick’s tattoo shop, I imagined a rundown place on the east side, near the mechanic shops where he grew up. Not this storybook brick building, in the heart of downtown, painted jet black with a glossy red door and marked by whimsical green ivy growing wild on its front.

Right next to the historic Fox Theater, where I saw my first Nutcracker.

“This is your shop?” I ask, even though my eyes are glued to the brushed metal MacGregor Ink sign over the door. The rent in this part of town costs a fortune. No wonder he has to rent a small guest house from my grandpa even though he needs a farm.

He cuts the engine. “You like it?”

I turn at the softness in his voice.

There’s a boyish vulnerability in the way he studies me from behind his glasses that pangs my heart.

“Are you kidding?” I say to the lanky boy who shared his childhood dreams with me over ice cream sundaes with chocolate fudge on his lips. “I love it, Nick.”

“I’m glad.” He holds my gaze, eyes steady like my opinion matters to him. Like I matter to him.

The way he looked at me last night in my moonlit bedroom takes root in my chest. I crush the thought before it blooms. And remind myself that this is just how Nick is with everyone. Remind myself that’s he’s the guy who makes everyone feel like they’re the only person on the planet who matters to him.

I forgot that once, but I’m older now. And somewhat wiser. So I’ll be damned if it’s gonna happen a second time.

Still, I add an extra layer of chains to the wooden chest with his name on it. And a double padlock. And one of those heat-detecting laser things, just in case.

Daisy jostles the back seat, causing Nick to turn his gaze to the rearview mirror, effectively snapping us from the moment.

I take in a deep breath, thankful to be free from it.

He grins through the mirror at Daisy. “Calm down. We’re going.” Then his gaze slides back to mine with a teasing glint. “You ready for your first day?” he asks like it’s my first day of school.

I let out a shaky breath-laugh. A shaky breath-laugh that has nothing to do with first-day nerves and everything to do with the fact Nick’s grabbed my hand. And his thumb is brushing along mine, sending little tingles from my fingers to my toes.

Why. Does. He. Have. To. Touch. Me.

Note to self: Invest in gloves. A lot of gloves.

“Sure,” I say, injecting a level of coolness into my voice that I’m not even close to feeling.

And they say ballet dancers aren’t good actors...

He squeezes my hand before letting go, then gives the car a few clicks of his tongue, prompting an earthquake in the backseat.

I turn, watching Daisy shuffle her bulky body to the driver’s side door with her pink leash hanging from her mouth.

Her tail hits a three-quarter beat against the huge nylon bag that reminds me of the heavy ballet bag I carried over my shoulder for years. Except her bag is full of “special toys.”

The special toys she needs to cuddle during nap time.

When her eager blue eyes look over to meet mine in a what-are-you-waiting-for look, my heart swells in my chest, pushing out a laugh from my lips. “Goofy hellhound.”

Nick’s brows pinch. “Did you just call my girl a goofy hellhound?”

“What? She is goofy,” I defend, grabbing the keys from his hand, then click off my seatbelt, letting him know I’m done.

“She sure is,” he says in a tone that lets me know he’s talking about me. Then grabs the door handle. “If you feel Luna poking around in your head, just think of a James Blunt song and she’ll leave you alone.”

I grab my purse from the floor. “I take it she’s not a fan of James Blunt?”

“Hates him, in an unhealthy needs-Dr. Phil sort of way.”

“Hates James Blunt. Needs Dr. Phil,” I repeat with zero enthusiasm.

He rests his fingers on the handle. “You ever play pinball?”

“Yeah, why?” I ask cautiously, not liking the look in his eyes.

“I have a record I need you to break.”

“I said I’ve played, not that I’m any good.”

“I’ll let Carlos know it’s game on.” His full lips melt into a crooked smile as he opens the car door. “This is going to be fun,” he declares before shutting it.

“Breaking records for you isn’t in my job description, Nick,” I bark through the closed door. Then mumble to myself about this being a mistake as I get out of the car.

My gaze lands on Nick as I step onto the sidewalk. He’s too busy lecturing Daisy about the perils of eating the plastic eyes from her toys, while freeing Presley’s ski vest from the harness-thing caught underneath, to notice he’s captured the attention of every person moving past.

“You look like a pirate,” I say with a growing smile.

He adjusts Daisy’s bag onto his shoulder. Then gives me a pirate smile, crooked and full of mischief, while walking toward me with a fluid masculine grace that flutters my stomach.

I focus on Daisy, so I don’t notice how his jeans fit in all the right places. So I don’t imagine how his muscled thighs would move in a pair of flesh-colored ballet tights.

I raise my sword, ordering my horny hormones to back the hell off.

“Technically, I’m the captain of this here magnificent ship, wench,” he says in a terrible pirate accent. His eyes spark with wicked humor as he stops at my front, gazing down at me.

I tilt my head back. “Careful. This wench is feeling a bit mutinous,” I say with a playfulness I don’t remember ever using with Dylan.

Or with anyone, really.

The thought expands in my chest for a moment before it disappears.

“Is that right?” he challenges. His sunlight-and-honey gaze drops to my mouth for a single breath.

I can’t help but scrape my teeth over my bottom lip, feeling the heat in his eyes linger there.

“You know what I do to mutinous wenches?” His voice is a low rasp that shoots a shot of anticipation through my veins, spiking my pulse.

Is he flirting with me?

Are you seriously asking that?

But he’s looking at me like… And last night, it seemed like maybe he—

He’s not flirting with you, Riley.

“Make them walk your itty-bitty plank?” I tease coolly with an arched brow. I may be giving him flirty smile number ten.

He laughs. “Are you plank-shaming me, wench?”

I shrug, swallowing back the giddiness bubbling up my throat. “Well, you know what they say about pirates who brag about their ‘magnificent’ ships.”

He raises his sharp brows with a dark glint in his eyes that lets me know his plank is the thing of legends. Thanks to TMI Samantha, I’ve already heard.

Then he takes my chin between his thumb and pointer finger, causing my lips to part and my breath to catch, before he gives it a pinch like my grandpa always does and says, “You’re pretty cute. You know that?”

A best friend’s little sister kind of cute.

A baby panda kind of cute.

My chest suddenly feels heavy.

Told you he wasn’t flirting…

Whatever.

For the record, there’s not a single baby-panda bone in my body. Machine bones? Yes. Competitive bones? Yes. A few shit-comet bones thrown in for good measure. Yep.

Cute bones? Nope. Not a one.

He pushes up the bridge of his glasses with his long finger, then turns and motions for me to walk the plank to his shop. “After ye, wench.”

The way wench rolls off his tongue sends an unwanted shiver along the skin on my lower back. I mentally raise my hand, cutting off my inner voice before she can start.

I know, I know. He’s not flirting.

Forcing an exasperated you’re-an-idiot scoff, so he knows how not affected by him I am, I turn and walk the plank to his shop with the butterflies in my stomach turning to gunpowder cannonballs.

I pull my dusty Magic 8-Ball from my wench’s treasure trove as I step toward the red door, and ask it if today will be a good day. The little triangle emerges from the blue water and presses against the glass: Outlook Not Good.

Figures.

10

BONFIRE HEART

You can do this.

Open your mouth and say something.

Anything.

Form. Words. With. Your. Lips.

I give Luna, the curly-haired goddess—who could teach a masterclass on how to wear a matte berry lip—another one of my dimpled smiles. It’s my third one in under five minutes.

I’m pretty sure she thinks it’s a nervous twitch.

She’s not wrong.

Sitting next to her is a rugged, thickly built man. With close-cut brown hair, big brown eyes, and a jagged scar running from his temple down his cheek. That I’m pretty sure he got single handedly fighting his way out of a maximum-security prison.

And they’re digging into their trunk burritos, AKA “The Heat,” while staring-not-staring at me as Nick talks on the phone to someone about color-correcting pigment on scar tissue.

This is his fourth call. The first one was right after he introduced Carlos and Luna as his “beloved clan” and introduced me as… wait for it… Win’s little sister, Riley, who’s helping him out with shit.

That’s me: Riley, who’s helping him out with shit.

It’s safe to say the next time he says we’re friends or family or spews other bullshit, I’m going to kick him in the balls. Wearing my grandpa’s “lucky” steel-toe work boots. Hard.

It turns out Nick’s beloved clan is also friends with Win, who never talked about me, so I’m apparently some kind of enigma. As much as I’d like to say that doesn’t sting a little, it does.

My ballet girls all knew about Winston. Krista even followed him on Instagram, claiming it was her duty, as a fellow Texan, to admire the male sexiness produced by her state.

You’d think I’d be used to my friends lusting over my stepbrother. Nope. It’s still cringe inducing. Especially when they ask if I’ve ever walked in on him naked, like that’s something I’d ever want to experience.

I force another bite of the chorizo-and-egg-filled tortilla Nick insisted I eat and shift on the low leather stool he also insisted I sit on, sliding my gaze around his shop for something to do.

He wasn’t lying. His ship is magnificent.

Polished concrete floors. Black walls decorated with pops of colorful artwork. Leather tattoo chairs and tables situated in workstations—a cozy waiting area with plush furniture. Daisy snoring on a giant doggy bed, a pile of her special toys peeking out from under her chin. Presley sitting on his perch in front of a storefront window, serenading the sidewalk and parked cars.

Nick’s work smells like a clean doctor’s office mixed with leather, cologne, and breakfast burritos. Mine smelled like clean sweat and sharp, piney rosin.

I guess, for now, this is my work smell too.

I swallow my burrito bite, feeling the goddess still staring-not-staring, and turn to her with another smile. I’m pretty sure I have cilantro stuck in my teeth, so I keep my lips pressed.

If there was ever a time for an Atlantis-flood repeat, this would be it.

When she turns back to her trunk burrito, I let my gaze travel down her arm covered in shades of grays and blacks with pops of red. Then to the delicate mandala design near her throat that emphasizes her graceful neck.

I wonder how many women have tried to duplicate her look, not knowing that only one-tenth of one percent can actually pull it off, if that.

She’s not baby-panda cute. She’s not some pretentious modern-art piece that everyone pretends to ponder over cave-aged wine.

She’s a masterpiece.

And one hundred percent Nick’s type.

Not that I care.

“Are you sure we haven’t met before?” she asks in her husky voice, around a burrito bite—for what feels like the hundredth time—while studying me with narrowed almond-shaped eyes. “You look hella familiar.”

Just as I open my mouth to repeat the “Um, I don’t think so…” gem I’ve been tossing her way, Nick’s deep voice cuts me off.

“You’ve never met her,” he clips out, his voice edged with annoyance, his cell pulled down from his mouth. He slides the phone back up, his eyes locked on Luna. “Let me call you back. Yeah, no problem.” He ends the call, crossing his arms over his solid chest and rests his ankle on his knee the way guys do. “Let’s figure the Vegas shit out so I can get to work.”

“You don’t have to get all pissy,” Luna pouts. “You know I never forget a face.” She motions to me with her burrito. “It’s going to drive me nuts if I don’t figure out where I’ve seen her before.”

“You do look familiar,” Carlos says before wiping his mouth with a napkin while inspecting my features with curious brown eyes.

“Thank you,” Luna exclaims to Carlos, with a wave of her hand like he just proved her point.

“Jesus,” Nick says on a heavy exhale.

I cross my ankles to keep my feet from tapping a jazzy tempo on the concrete floor, and clear my throat, forcing a complete sentence from my lips. “I look a lot like my mom, who lives around here, so maybe you’re thinking of her?” I shift in my seat, feeling Nick’s fiery gaze pinprick my cheeks.

“Maybe,” Luna says, drawing out the word with a tilt of her head, blindly handing the last few bites of her burrito to Carlos, who takes it with a grunt of gratitude.

She could also teach a master class on how to eat a burrito without messing up your lipstick. I drop my gaze to the napkin on my lap, seeing streaks of pink gloss mixed with orange chorizo grease. That’s my life in a nutshell—lip gloss and grease. I wipe my fingers on the napkin, tempted to grab my purse from the floor to discretely fix my lips.

Look good, feel good.

“Where did you work before?” Luna continues.

I lift my eyes to her at the simple question and open my mouth, but the complicated answer gets lodged in my throat, trapping my voice.

“You’ve never met her,” Nick interjects, his hand falling to the ankle crossed over his bouncing knee.

Is he nervous? Why would Nick be nervous? He’s never nervous. Plus, I’m the one being grilled by his beloved clan.

“Why are you acting so weird?” Luna asks, dropping her questioning gaze to his bouncing knee, then swings it to me like I’m the fountainhead of Nick’s weirdness.

“Why are you interrogating her?” Nick asks, dropping his ankle from his knee, slouching back to let his long legs fall open.

It’s safe to say my first day at the shop sucks. And I’m pretty sure it’s downhill from here, so…

“It’s called trying to get to know my new friend.” She dismisses Nick and gives me a playful wink.

Good Lord. She’s a winker, too.

“You were saying where you worked?” She shoots Nick a hard glare, letting him know not to interrupt me this time, then gives me a small encouraging smile to continue.

I clear my throat and swallow back the tangled emotions tied to my next sentence. “I was a principal dancer with the Los Angeles Ballet.”

It’s the first time I’ve said was.

Not am. But was.

And one of only a handful of times I’ve said principal, not soloist, but principal.

Before I can figure out if the sharp pain under my breastbone is heartbreak or chorizo indigestion, Luna’s pillowy matte lips part and her eyes brighten like someone just flipped on a switch.

“Luna,” Nick says, the grainy layers of his deep voice merging into a single warning.

Her smile beams. “Nick.”

Carlos clears his throat, drawing my attention. “Want some?” he asks, holding out a small carton of chocolate milk for me to take, like it will wash away the weird tension filling up the room. “It’ll help cut the habanero,” he explains when I don’t move to take it.

He probably thinks my flushed cheeks are spice induced. Wrong. “I’m good, thanks,” I say with a polite smile, wondering if all the wasabi and sriracha I’ve consumed have somehow conditioned my tongue.

He nods, bringing the carton to his lips, swinging his gaze back to the Nick and Luna show as he takes a gulp.

Nick dips his chin. “Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”

“I know what I know,” she says in a voice dripping with confidence.

Thinking that everything is about me is a genetic mutation handed down from my mom. Still, this time I’m positive that whatever she thinks she knows, that he thinks she doesn’t, is about me. But what? I have no idea.

If Win never talked about me, I highly doubt Nick did, so maybe she has me confused with someone else? Yeah, probably that.

Nick’s jaw ticks. “Not this time, Teacup.” Teacup?

My stomach sinks. That’s her nickname? Teacup? Something delicate and handled with care. Something people bring to their lips to start their morning and to soothe away a long winter’s day.

I’m Peanut.

Something that gives him hives.

Something banned in schools and most commercial flights.

Chin up, shoulders back, Ms. Souza.

I draw in a deep breath, pushing my shoulders back, and look to Nick, who’s busy glaring at his phone, jaw ticking as his fingers mess with the screen.

“Don’t you dare,” Luna warns, crossing her arms under her full boobs.

The other half of the Souza curse is a lifetime membership in the Itty-Bitty Titty Committee. All Souza ass and no boob sass, which was fine for a ballet dancer. Now, I wouldn’t mind a little more sass. Luna’s got ass and sass in spades. Lucky girl.

I catch eyes with Carlos, who gives me a crooked smile and shoulder shrug. “You’ll get used to it.” He means get used to them.

Nick and Luna. Joker and Harley freaking Quinn.

A match made in colorful-tattoo comic-book hell.

A punch of pure annoyance—and definitely not jealousy—slams into my gut, knocking the chorizo dangerously close to my throat.

I swallow, then bite the inside of my cheek and flick my gaze to the red front door, stuck between the volcanic urge to pas de chat my ass the hell out of here and the need to prove to myself that I can rock this new job. Prove to myself that I can survive the world outside my ballet bubble. That I don’t need choreographed steps to live.

That I can do anything. Not just ride a bull for a handful of seconds. But be a productive twenty-six-year-old with a job. I may not have a fire pit, or a house of my own, but for the love of God, I’m going to have a freaking job.

Even if that job is working for Nick.

Because I have one month until my grandpa’s back in “The Good Chair.”

One month to find my own place.

My gaze catches Daisy’s. She lifts her head, reacting to whatever look is written on my face. I give her a tight smile, letting her know I’m good.

She tilts her head.

I deepen my dimple.

She waits for a beat, then lays her head back down, her unconvinced gaze still fixed on me.

Yep. Dog T-shirts are definitely in my future.

My spine jolts as James Blunt singing about bonfire hearts suddenly fills the room.

I swing my gaze back to see Nick and Luna in some kind of weird James Blunt death stare, Presley squawking along with the chorus in the background.

I’m pretty sure this is how every Deadpool fight scene starts.

“Let it go, Lu,” Carlos orders, his rich voice easily dominating the music. He shoots her the same look Steve would give Nick and Win when they’d get into one of their battles of *insert teenage, testosterone stupidity here.*

After a tense beat, Luna exhales. “Fine.” When the music doesn’t stop, she continues to Nick with a waved hand of surrender. “I don’t know what I know. Okay?”

The music cuts off, and Nick slips his phone back into his pocket and stands, rolling his tense shoulders.

Is he leaving? Do I follow him?

“You gonna finish that?” I turn to see Carlos eyeing the half-eaten burrito in my hand like Daisy eyed the cookie jar.

“Dude, you’re like a fucking garbage disposal,” Nick says, tossing him his untouched burrito. “You should get that shit checked out.”

“I’m a growing boy,” Carlos says, catching it single-handed, with the corner of his lip tipped up into a smile that softens the scar running down his rugged face.

My gaze travels along his solid arms—that seem like they should be covered in tattoos but aren’t—stacked with swollen undefined muscle that one might mistake for fat. But I’d been around enough football linemen in my life to know the difference.

Nick pinches his brows together. “You’re thirty-five.”

“I’m a late bloomer,” Carlos says with a shrug as he unwraps Nick’s burrito.

Nick shakes his head, sliding his gaze to mine, and scrubs a hand across the back of his neck. “Come see me when you’re done, and we’ll get you situated.”

“What about Vegas?” Luna asks, her brows raised.

“We’ll figure it out later.”

Luna turns to me. “You’re coming to Vegas, right? Please, say yes.” She motions to Nick and Carlos. “These assholes never want to do any of the stuff I want.”

“Why the hell would we want to go see the Thunder Down Under?” Carlos asks, his brows pinched in distaste.

Note to self: Google Thunder Down Under.

“Because that’s what friends do, Carlos.” She cocks her head to the side. “Like the time I went to that freaky-ass club because you guys wanted to see—”

“Alright. I get it,” Carlos says with a raised hand, cutting her off.

“Vegas isn’t her scene,” Nick interjects like he’s an expert on all the things me.

I narrow my eyes. “Yes, it is,” I say, like Vegas is my favorite place in the world. Have I ever been there? No. I turn back to Luna. “Why, what’s happening there?”

Excitement glints in her dark eyes. “Just the biggest tattoo convention in the fucking world. You have to go.”

That does sound pretty cool… And I’ve always wanted to go to Vegas.

Luna turns to Nick. “She wants to go.” Then cuts Nick off with her hand before he can get a word in. “She can room with Bean and me, and we have plenty of miles for her ticket.”

Nick exhales with a shrug. “If she wants to go, she can go.” And with that, he saunters off, disappearing through a black door with a metal “We Should Hang Something Cool Here” sign over it.

Leaving me alone with the goddess and garbage disposal.

Her eyes widen. “I’m going to get your ticket now.” She drops her eyes to her phone. “They better not be booked.”

“When’s the convention?” I glance to the door Nick disappeared through, feeling suddenly uncomfortable about going.

I mean, I don’t know Luna. Like at all. And rooming with her and some stranger named Bean could turn out to be a nightmare. Plus, I’m pretty sure Nick doesn’t want me tagging along with them. Not to mention I’m flat broke.

“Next weekend.” She glances up from her phone. “Middle seat cool?”

“Um. Sure.” My pulse kicks up a notch, flushing my neck. I know once she buys the tickets, there’s no backing out. Even with a free ticket there’s no way I can afford a trip to Vegas. I reach for the only excuse that comes to mind. “Who watches Nick’s babies when he’s gone?” Yes, I said babies. Not pets. Babies.

“His sister and Milly stay at his place,” she says, her eyes still on the phone.

“Nick might want me to stay with them, since I’m already next door.”

She continues to type. “They Airbnb their place for extra cash. Win-win.”

“Oh,” Well, there goes that.

Here’s hoping Nick’s caveman instincts kick in so I can eat.

Carlos clears his throat. “Maybe see if they have a room for her, too.”

“They’ve been sold out for months,” Luna says, her fingers flying over the screen like a woman on a mission.

Carlos gives me a thin, sucks-to-be-you smile, confirming my suspicions about the possible suckiness of rooming with Luna and someone named Bean.

I want to tell her I forgot I have plans next weekend or make up some other excuse, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure she can read minds, so I just return Carlos’s smile. Noticing that he isn’t a bad-looking guy at all. Maybe even handsome, in a rugged, could-wrestle-a-bear-and-win sort of way.

My breath startles when Daisy suddenly appears at my side with bits of pink from one of her toys hanging from her mouth. Thanks to this low stool, her ice-blue eyes are nearly level with mine, and even though I know she’s more Scooby than Cujo, I can’t help but lean back a little.

She moves to my front and releases the slobber-matted pink piglet onto my lap like I need it more than her. She’s not wrong. And smacks a slobber kiss on my mouth before I can move away, like I need that too. I’m still on the fence about her smelly kisses, but my lips twitch into a smile as I wipe my mouth.

If dogs can smile, then she’s giving me the biggest one ever. I ignore her hot breath hitting my face and pat her square head, not knowing what else to do. Satisfied with my gesture, she plops down on the floor, resting her heavy head on my feet like she did at Ben’s.

I look down at the piglet on my lap to see strands of thread where its eyes should be.

She ate them.

My heart fills with warm fuzzies as I think about the perils-of-eye-eating lecture Nick gave her outside. I reach down and gently pat her head again, feeling my feet vibrate with her heavy snore.

She really is a sweet girl.

“Just put your info in.” Luna gives me a megawatt smile, handing me her phone. “We’re going to have so much fun!” Her eyes flare with a sharp intake of breath. “We totally need to go Vegas shopping,” she says, like that’s a specific kind of shopping. “And get mani-pedis.” Her brows shoot up. “I’ll see if my wax lady can fit us in. She’s the best.”

I wonder if her wax lady will take a freezer full of Portuguese codfish balls as payment.

“Cool.” I take her phone, feeling like I’m about to make a deal with the devil, and enter my name and birthdate in digital blood.

“Wax lady?” Carlos asks around a burrito bite, his brows pinched in question.

I hand her back her phone. She meets his gaze. “For our lady parts.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat, looking sheepish. “That kind of wax.”

“What other kind of wax is there?” she challenges, moving back to her seat to pick up her to-go coffee cup from the floor.

He cocks his head and raises his thumb in first count. “Car wax. Board wax. Ski wax. Beeswax. Palm wax.” He flicks his wrist. “There’s a world of wax, woman.”

She arches a teasing brow. “World of wax?”

“Yep. World of wax.”

She gives him a wistful smile. “I’m going to marry you someday, Cookie.”

If he’s surprised by her proclamation, and the fact she called him Cookie, it doesn’t show.

He studies her for a breath, then shakes his head with a lazy grin. “Sorry, babe. Been there, done that.”

“Not with me, you haven’t.” She winks before finishing the rest of her coffee.

Carlos chuckles, the sound deep and smooth as his big brown eyes take her in. “God help the man who marries you, Lu.”

I can’t believe I didn’t notice the sparks flying between these two.

Luna’s phone chimes with a text, stealing her attention.

Her face changes from playfully seductive to straight-up pissed. “Shit,” she hisses under her breath and puts down her empty cup to mess with her phone. “My roommate’s a fucking idiot.” She turns her gaze to us. “I’ve gotta run.”

“What’s up?” Carlos asks, straightening from his lounged position.

She huffs out, “Jenna locked herself out again.” I watch her march over to her tattoo station, grabbing her purse and another cell next to it. “I don’t even know how she does it.”

“Want me to handle it?” Carlos asks.

She seems to weigh the offer, then shakes her head. “My first client’s not for an hour, but thanks.” She catches my gaze as she slips her phone in her purse and keeps the other one in her hand. Who needs two phones? “Maybe you can convince Nick to stop renting out his bedrooms to people on Craigslist, girl. They suck.”

Renting out his bedrooms? What bedrooms?

“Okay,” I say, not really knowing how else to respond to that.

She stops at my front and hands me the cell. “Here’s the shop phone. It’s all yours.” She looks entirely too happy about handing over the reins.

“Thanks.” I take the phone like it’s a grenade and she just pulled the pin.

She moves in closer, careful not to wake Daisy, giving me a whiff of her warm vanilla perfume, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You might want to check out the loft.” I follow her line of sight to a library ladder leading up to an open area closed off by metal and mesh railings. How did I not notice that? “You might find it interesting.”

“Why? What’s in the loft?” I ask, feeling like I’m trying to put a puzzle together without knowing the picture on the box.

It’s a puzzle that will remain unfinished, because there’s no way I can make it up that ladder with my knee.

“Let it be, Lu,” Carlos warns.

She puts her hands up in surrender. “I know. That’s it. I’m done.” She blows him a kiss and saunters toward the door, calling over her shoulder before she storms out, “Love you guys.”

Daisy’s head swings to her at the word love.

My gaze follows Luna onto the sidewalk, half expecting her to raise her fist and take off into the sky like Captain Marvel.

When she crosses the street like a regular human, I turn back to Carlos. “What’s in the loft?”

He clears his throat. “Nothing really.” He shrugs. “Just crap from Nick’s old shop.”

“Oh.” I want to ask him why Luna thinks I’d be interested in Nick’s junk, but I don’t.

He bends down, gathering some foil wrapper bits that fell. “I ate too fucking much,” he says with a groan as he stands to his full height and stretches. His T-shirt pulls tight around his arms and barrel chest. “I’ve got to get ready for a client. You good?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

He pauses, his deep brown eyes warming with a smile. “We’re a little fucked up here, but we mean well.”

I want to tell him that I’m a little messed up too, but instead, I just give him a smile.

To say my communication skills are lacking is an understatement.

Carlos returns my smile with a nod, then lumbers his football-player body toward a door under the loft—that I also didn’t see—disappearing through it.

It’s safe to say, I’d make a terrible eyewitness. And probably shouldn’t be driving.

The fact I made it here from LA without getting in an accident is a small miracle.

Hearing my phone chime with a text, I grab my purse from the floor, careful not to wake the narcoleptic gorilla on my feet, since she’s buying me time to pull my thoughts together.

I pull out my cell, praying it’s not my mom.

Now that she knows I left my old life, she’s going to text me new-life suggestions I didn’t ask for. New workouts I’m not interested in. New miracle creams I don’t want. And a new slew of potential perfect boyfriends I’m not ready to meet.

I hold my breath and look at my cell. Surprise deflates my lungs when I see an alert from Venmo letting me know I’ve received a payment from MacGregor Ink.

I stare at the screen as my pulse shoots to my fingertips. I told him I didn’t want an advance. But maybe my first paycheck isn’t for a few weeks? And now with the Vegas trip…

I just had to open my big mouth.

The thought sits heavy in my stomach. I have to accept it, right? I take in a deep and steady breath through my nose, feeling conflicting emotions battle for space in my chest.

Relief at the possibility of not being a total loser in Vegas runs a sharp sword through my pride. I need this money. I don’t have a choice; I have to accept it.

I send a quick prayer to the Saint of Overdraft Bank Accounts that I’ll have enough left after bank fees to afford the basics, or at least my cell phone bill…

Feeling a little lightheaded, I tap on the screen to open the text.

My heart stutters, my vision swims. I blink. There’s no way I’m seeing this right. I blink again. Then count the zeros. Three. Not two like I’d expected, but three.

Five thousand dollars.

Nick sent me five thousand freaking dollars.

In what world is five thousand dollars an advance for an assistant job?!

It’s not an advance, Riley. It’s charity. A handout.

He probably doesn’t even need an assistant.

My eyes shoot to the door he disappeared through. An angry swarm of zig-zagging gnats passes through my mind, each one carrying a fragment of a thought.

My gaze lands on the loft ladder mocking me with its steep steps.

Asshole ladder.

My gaze slices to Daisy when she moves from my feet to stand. Her puppy eyes lock with mine, her smelly breath hitting my face in quick bursts.

“What?” I ask, moving back when she gets that twinkle in her eyes. “No stinky kisses.”

Does she listen? Of course not.

She’s just like her dad.

11

TYPHOID COUCH CHEETOS

“It’s not a big deal,” Nick mutters under his breath, his thick-lashed gaze focused intently on the large digital screen he’s sketching on. It’s tilted up and backlit, so I can see how each stroke of the electronic pen breathes life into the pixels.

He’s working on a seeing-eye trapped in a lotus flower trapped in a world of interwoven geometrical shapes, or maybe the shapes are trapped by the flower—it’s hard to tell.

What I can tell from this drawing is that the raw chaos that infused his teenage artwork seems to have been harnessed by age and refined by experience.

“It’s a big deal to me,” I say, watching in fascination as he injects fragments of a soul into the eye he’s working on, until it comes to life like magic.

I don’t want to be fascinated by him right now. I want him to face me so I can tell him I don’t want his charity. That I just want to help him out with assistant stuff, like he offered. Make a little money to pay for necessities while gaining some real-work experience.

That’s it.

Nothing more.

When he doesn’t respond, I blow out a frustrated breath, letting him know my plans for the day don’t include staring at him while he sketches. Been there, done that.

“Almost finished,” he says in a low, distracted voice.

I drop my hand from my hip, turning my gaze to the large open space. It’s bigger than the magnificent ship on the other side of the wall. But this ship has exposed brick walls, unfinished concrete floors, and a décor that would be described best in an article titled “Things You’d Find in a Man Cave.”

A pool table featuring an abandoned game. A few scattered beer bottles. A dartboard next to an Indiana Jones pinball machine Nick probably expects me to break a record on. An indoor plywood skateboard ramp running along the far wall. An old coffee table with some weird sculpture of a tattooed cow on display. A grimy yellowish-brown couch with a torn cushion featuring an open party-size Cheetos bag strewn on it.

Hanging on the wall above it all is a colossal unlit neon sign with the phrase Fuck What They Think.

That should be Nick’s life mantra.

I’m still working on mine.

I draw in a deep breath of stale beer and lingering cologne through flared nostrils, trying to cool the irritation building pressure in my chest like a volcano. While waiting for his Viking-pirate ass to stop what he’s doing for five freaking seconds so I can tell him the amount of money he sent me is ridiculous. So I can get his info to send it back to him.

Well, most of it back.

I always left Nick alone when he had his sketchbook out, partly because he wouldn’t notice me anyway and partly because I liked watching him work. Liked the way he bit his lip in concentration. The way his brows pulled together and his eyes gleamed.

That was before.

“Hello,” I say, bending at the waist to wave an irritated hand at his profile.

After a beat, Nick sets down the pen with a heavy sigh, leans back, and swivels his chair to face me. I take a step back so our knees don’t bump, not noticing the way the thin material of his T-shirt hugs his impressive biceps and falls against his washboard abs.

My fingers itch to grab his jacket from the table and throw it over him so I can concentrate, but instead, I curl my fingers into my palm, feeling my nails bite into skin.

His gaze bores into mine from under his lashes. He rubs a hand down the scruff on his jaw, then rests his elbows on the arms of the chair with his long legs sprawled open and relaxed.

He steeples his artist fingers to let me know he’s waiting, the regal action turning his black leather chair into a golden throne.

I clear my throat, feeling like a peasant girl under his otherworldly gaze, and sweep my low ponytail to the side, shifting my feet. “Like I said, it’s too much money. I’d like to give it back…” I flick my gaze to my turned-out feet. “Well, most of it.”

After putting Daisy to bed with her eye-less toys tucked safely under her chin, I checked my bank account. Seeing overdraft fees have ballooned like the zombie zit on my chin (that will not freaking die), I patted her head until she snored, deciding to keep one thousand total.

Which is enough to take care of a past-due car payment—buying me some time to try and sell it—my credit card and cell phone bills, and a Trader Joe’s run. Vowing that until I claw my way out of debt, there’ll be no manicures. Or Vegas shopping sprees. Or Sephora splurges. Just the basics.

Nick’s brows furrow. “No.”

I squint in confusion. “No?”

He fills his lungs and releases a slow breath, like I’m the one trying his patience. “When I said I needed an assistant, I meant it. I need help. Like I said yesterday, this isn’t some kind of handout, or whatever it is you’re thinking.” His tone is edged with something that rubs against my skin like sandpaper.

“It’s a stupid amount of money, Nick.”

“It’s a stupid amount of work, Riley.”

“Unless my job description includes hiding dead bodies, it’s too much,” I say, pointing behind me to an imaginary mafia crime scene.

His brow arches, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “Now there’s a thought.”

“I’m serious.” My shoulders push back. “I can’t accept it.”

“Too bad.”

“Excuse me?”

“You took the job,” he says with a shrug, like that settles things.

“What job?” My voice drips with sarcasm as I slip my phone in my back pocket, in case I need both hands to wring his neck. “I’ve been here for over an hour, and all I’ve done is eat a burrito, make weird girl plans with Luna, and put Daisy in bed for her nap.” I motion my hands around in the air. “So, if there’s all this work to do”—my hand falls to my wench’s hip— “where is it?”

The corner of his lip pulls up. “You put Daisy to bed?” The teasing glint in his eyes knocks the wind from my Black Pearl sails.

I study the tiny craters in the concrete at my feet. Then pick an invisible piece of lint from my sweater. “I just gave her the special toys and patted her head until she fell asleep.” I shrug, reluctantly meeting his jerk gaze.

His near dimple creases his cheek. “I think you might love my goofy hellhound, Peanut.”

Love. I ignore the stutter of my mechanical heart at the word love spoken in his deep voice from his pirate lips.

I wonder how many women he’s said that word to? How many have said it to him?

I also wonder if I’m allergic to chorizo because my throat feels suddenly tight.

I swallow. “She’s a good dog, I guess,” I say with a non-committal shrug, changing the subject by turning my nose to the man cave. “I can start by straightening up a bit.” My gaze lands on the open bag of Cheetos on the grimy couch.

He moves his arm in a sweeping motion. “This is my muse room.”

“Your muse room,” I deadpan. “Old Cheetos inspires you?”

“Yep,” he states without missing a beat. Then swivels his chair back to the table, grabs a laptop near a bag of red jelly beans, and holds it out for me to take. “You can start by catching me up on my emails. Keep the ones that look legit and just toss the rest.”

I take the laptop from his hand. “How will I know which ones are legit?” The slight tremble in my voice betrays the disproportionate amount of nerves fluttering my belly at the simple task.

He scrubs his hand over his mouth, looking up at me from under thick lashes, a line creasing his forehead. “Some idiot posted my personal email under my profile for the convention, so I’ve been flooded with…” His lips slide into a shy smile that melts away some of the anger I’m holding onto. “Let’s call them invitations. You can go ahead and toss those.”

My eyes widen. “You mean, like, for sex?” I say before I can stop myself, watching my stupidity dance in the air like one of those inflatable stickmen at car dealerships.

He chuckles. “Yeah, something like that. Just trash those.”

I don’t know why my chest feels lighter at the thought of hitting delete on those emails, but it does. “Trash booty calls. Got it, boss.”

I know my mistake when he grins.

“Boss,” he says, like he’s testing the word out to see if it fits. “I like that.” He holds my gaze for a teasing beat, then continues, “On my work email, keep the session requests marked as new. Same with appearance requests.”

“You have appearance requests?” I can’t hide the surprise in my voice. What kind of appearances does a tattoo artist make?

Note to self: Google Nicolas MacGregor tattoo artist.

He takes off his glasses. His voice drops an octave. “I don’t know how to put this.” The smirk he gives is top-shelf arrogance. “But I’m kind of a big deal.”

You will not think he’s cute.

I give him a patronizing smile. “I’m sure you are,” I say in a verbal pat on the head.

He grins, slipping his glasses back on. “It’s from Anchorman.” He continues off my blank stare, “You know, Ron Burgundy… Will Ferrell?”

I shrug. “I’ve never seen it.”

His eyes flare. “What?” His shock morphs into a disappointed tsk-tsk as he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but that’s just unacceptable, Peanut. This weekend. You. Me. And Ron Burgundy. At my place. Deal?” For whatever reason, the fact he still ends his propositions with the word “deal” melts my anger like Central Park snow in my hand.

It takes every single ounce of muscle control in my cheeks to keep from smiling.

“If I say deal, can we get back to work?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Deal,” I say, like my heart isn’t pounding out of my chest at the idea of watching a movie with him. Like old times.

“It’s a date.” He winks, then says, “Did I tell you to flag anything from Hope After yet?”

Hope After?

I shake my head, not sure if he did or not.

I’m too distracted by the word date to remember anything he’s said.

I can’t believe I have to say this, but it’s not that kind of date.

Yeah, I know…

Do you?

“Flag those, and we’ll try to fit them in somewhere. I think that’s enough to get you started. We’ll go over scheduling shit and social media later.” He grabs his cell from the table. “I’ll text you my passwords.”

“Okay.” I look around, wondering if I should return to the stool in the other room, leaving him to his work alone, or maybe work from one of the white plastic garden chairs along the wall.

“The couch is comfortable,” he says, like he’s reading my mind.

I glance at the grubby couch. “I feel like I should have a tetanus shot first,” I say, holding the laptop flat against my stomach like that will protect me from whatever killer germs lurk there.

“You’ve sat on it before and lived, so I think you’re good.”

My brows shoot up. “What?” My gaze jumps back to the typhoid couch flanked by two battered end tables covered with weird knickknacks. “No, I haven’t...”

“It’s from Bay Gardens.”

Nick’s rusty double-wide trailer flashes in my mind.

My eyes flare as memories of us eating instant ramen and playing God of War on that ugly couch slam into my chest like Thor’s hammer. “Oh my God, you’re right.”

“Of course, I’m right,” I hear him say in his typical, arrogant Nick fashion.

How could I forget the few times I could hang out at his house? Not just his room, but his entire house. My gaze jumps from one raggedy old furniture piece to the next, none of it fitting in with the trendy décor in the rest of the shop.

I turn back to him. “Why would you keep this stuff?”

Something slides across his eyes at the question, too fast to grab hold of before it’s replaced with the usual teasing light.

His voice drops. “Are you implying that my beloved childhood furniture is shitty, Ry?”

I press my lips together, knowing he’s joking but feeling like an asshole anyway. “I wasn’t, um, saying that,” I stammer, remembering how the privileged-as-hell older kids at our school teased him for living in a trailer park. For his mom being our lunch lady. For always wearing long sleeve shirts, even in the summer.

Nick shrugged it off like he did everything. Win didn’t shrug. Neither did Ben. Jesse wasn’t around yet, but I know he wouldn’t have shrugged either.

Me? I did what any third grader would do: I told them they were mean jerks, followed by a phrase in Portuguese I’d heard my grandpa bark whenever he got mad.

I also might have kicked one. Or two.

Magically on those days, Steve would make us sit at the table for dinner and would work in a story or two about growing up in a trailer park, his gaze flicking to Nick. About how his neighbors pulled together what little they had to help when his dad got sick. How often it’s people that have the least that give the most.

Nick didn’t have a lot of good in his life. Which was why his sister lived with their grandma. And why he was always at our house. And why he never had anyone over at his place.

Except me. And only when his dad wasn’t home.

That was our deal.

A deal I broke only once.

His lips slide into an easy smile that helps loosen the knot of guilt in my stomach. “I’m just messing with you, Peanut.” He shakes his head with a soft laugh. “I know it’s crap, but it reminds me…” He shakes away his next words. The light in his eyes dims a little, even as his smile grows. “Guess I have a hard time getting rid of stuff.”

“You mean like a hoarder?” I tease, seeing in his eyes he needs that from me.

I may not understand why he’d want to keep crappy furniture from a hellish childhood, but I know we all cope with stuff differently.

His laugh deepens. “I’m not a hoarder.”

I give him a knowing look. “That’s something a hoarder would say.”

“Do you see stacks of shit everywhere?” He motions to the room in fake outrage.

I purse my lips, tilting my head. “Sometimes it starts with a couch, and before you know it, you have to make a path to the bathroom.” I want to bring up the mysterious loft full of junk from his old shop, but I don’t.

His eyes narrow into playful slits, and his head tilts like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to put together. “When did you become so—”

“If you say twitchy, I’m going to chuck this laptop at your head.” My fingers tighten on the laptop, either to keep me from throwing it or to give me the grip needed for the greatest impact. We’ll see.

“I was going to say sarcastic.” He taps his bottom lip with his index finger, studying me from behind his glasses. “But maybe violent is a better word.”

His cell rings, stealing his attention, before I can say something awesome in return.

He grabs it from the table and eyes the screen. “I gotta get this.” And in the next heartbeat, I’m looking at his profile. Again. “Hey, asshole…” he answers, his voice a teasing rasp. “I was this close to cheating on you with Randy at Pep Boys.”

And just like that, I’m forgotten. Surprise, surprise.

Taking my cue to exit stage left, I make my way to the couch, pulling my cell from my back pocket. And sink into the soft cushion, trying not to listen in on his conversation.

The fact he’s talking about ordering a part for his car makes it easy to tune him out.

My body relaxes into the couch as I open his laptop. Smiling at the screensaver of Daisy with her tongue lopped to the side and Presley perched on her head. With Peaches and Finn standing guard at her front.

I don’t even try to pop the warm bubbles that move through my chest at the playful spark in Daisy’s blue eyes or the way Presley’s beak is wide open, likely in the middle of a heartfelt Elvis song.

Like Nick’s tattoos, Nick’s whole life is saturated in vibrant colors.

When I pull the broken pieces of my life together and set my boring beige wench’s sails toward some kind of colorful destination, I might get a pet too.

Krista’s cat was part evil, part alarm clock, part cutest thing on the freaking planet, so maybe I’ll adopt a cat. Cats are cool. Except for ones named Peaches. I could try being a cat mom. I shiver at the thought of a bunch of cats chasing me with decapitated mouse-rat hybrids.

I bite the inside of my cheek, never having been a mom to anything in my life.

And there was the ice cream incident…

I should probably start with a goldfish and see how it goes.

Or a houseplant.

The sound of Daisy trudging through the doggy door with the matted blue fur of her latest victim peeking out of her mouth breaks through my thoughts.

I watch from over the laptop with a smile creeping across my face as she lumbers a straight line to me. Not to Nick, but to me.

She also wasn’t in a rush to leave my house this morning.

Daisy plops her muscular body on the floor and curls up against my leg like we’re lifelong best friends. Has it really been just a few days?

It seems like eons have passed, not just two measly weeks, since I hugged a sleepy Krista goodbye and drove to my grandpa’s with the Grim Reaper sitting shotgun, praying his spare key was still under the pot.

Even my debut as the Keeper of the Hallway, blocking the granny gremlin from my new insta-friend, seems like a lifetime ago.

I take in a deep breath, wondering how Emmy and Baby Rose were doing when Nick visited yesterday. I want to ask him for her number to see if she needs anything, but that would probably be weird because I only met her once, right?

“Are you trying to steal my girl?” I swing my attention to see Nick staring at me with such tenderness woven into his smile it loosens the rusted bolts of my mechanical heart.

For a brief second, I think he’s talking about Emmy, but then his gaze drops to Daisy curled by my feet.

I give him a one-shoulder shrug. “It’s not my fault she has good taste.”

He leans back in his chair, studying me for a suspended breath. “Can’t argue with that,” he says in a soft voice that brushes against the hollow of my neck before he swivels his chair around, giving me his broad back.

I slide my gaze to the laptop, when three things happen in sequence:

“Uptown Girl” by Billy Joel sounds from somewhere in the room.

Daisy lifts her head and starts bobbing it to the beat.

And my phone chimes with a text.

I smile at the cheesy song. Remembering how he always blasted it from his paint-splattered boombox, while he painted his skateboard decks on stacked cardboard boxes in front of the window. And I sewed my pointe shoes for the upcoming week on his bed.

Shaking away the memory, I grab my phone from the couch and open the text.

Nick: Password for social media is lovebabies. Work and personal email is oldgirlpearl64. Now get to work, wench. ;)

I reread the last sentence. And then again. My pulse flutters a quick bourrée.

I’d be lying if I said the word wench doesn’t cause something deep in my lower belly to tighten with something I don’t want to feel for Nick.

Maybe I have some kind of weird pirate fetish?

Is a pirate fetish even a thing?

I add pirates to my list of possible fetishes to explore. A list that includes cavemen, Vikings, and Doctor Dolittle. But not two-stepping tattooed guys who like cheesy 80s music.

Definitely not.

I slide my gaze to Nick, now slouched in the sketch position as he works, filing the thought away under stuff to ponder later.

Setting my cell down next to a stale Cheeto, I allow myself a few moments to marinate in the knowledge that Nicolas MacGregor may hold my secrets, but I hold the passwords to his life. I run a hand down my thigh, my palm tingling.

You will not snoop through his emails, Riley.

I wouldn’t dream of it—

Or his DMs.

Me? Violate his privacy? Never…

Riley.

Okay, okay. No snooping…

I decide to start with Nick’s personal email, not because I’m eager to peek into his life— absolutely not—but because I’ve already forgotten what he wants me to flag.

I bite my lip as I enter his password (of course his password would be his beloved car), thinking back to the day he pulled that clunking rust bucket up our driveway like he was starring in The Fast and the Furious. And the sullen look on his face when Steve confiscated his keys, making him park it in our garage until he got his license.

The memory bubble pops as his email comes up.

My eyes widen. This can’t be right.

Six thousand and ninety-two unread emails.

Who has six thousand unread freaking emails?

I should have known Nick wasn’t lying about needing help. Nick never lies.

Yes, my shoulders relax knowing there’s actual work to do. But does that mean I’m excited about checking six thousand emails? No.

My eyes flash to Nick’s back. He straightens from his slouch, as if feeling the tip of my cold dagger resting between his wide shoulder blades, and swings his gaze over his shoulder at me, sending a gentle spark through my chest to my toes.

I raise my brows. “Are you allergic to checking your email?”

His lips pull into a slow smile. “I’m only allergic to peanuts, Peanut.” He shoots me a have-fun wink, then turns back to retake his work position.

Now I know why pirates wear eye patches: they winked at the wrong freaking wench.

I roll my stiff neck, stretch my elegant fingers that once held romance at the tips and now hold murderous tendencies.

Taking in a steady breath, I click on the first email, from Trisha Newton with the subject header Drinks and...

The “and” comes with a visual aid in the form of a nearly naked selfie of her holding a martini, her tattooed arm covering her overflowing boobs. If anyone can pull off a nearly naked martini selfie, it’s Trisha freaking Newton.

Would I ever send a martini selfie to a stranger? But is she a stranger? Maybe she’s one of Nick’s hookups. I look down to Daisy who meets my gaze. We decide that she’s a stranger sending unsolicited selfies and must be deleted.

And the answer is no, I wouldn’t send a martini selfie. At least not sober. But I’d be lying if I didn’t feel a little envious of Martini Trisha, who unabashedly just goes for what she wants.

Even if what she wants is Nick.

I feel like I’ve spent my life driving in the slow lane on the Autobahn. My hands firmly at ten and two on the wheel while life zoomed past me.

Staying comfortable in my classical ballet bubble with rigid rules. Stayed comfortable with a slow-lane boyfriend, who my mom said was perfect for me even though I knew deep down he wasn’t.

Because comfortable was safe.

Safe meant I could stay the perfect music-box ballerina, always turning the perfect pirouette when you open the lid.

I bet Martini Trisha wouldn’t settle for a slow-lane boyfriend with one-position sex. Or a safe music-box life.

I bet she’s doing something totally badass right now, like changing a tire in red stiletto heels while smoking a cigar.

I raise a mental martini glass to her before I delete her message, then reach into the open bag of Cheetos while I click on the next email.

Yes. I’m fully aware I’m about to eat a typhoid-couch Cheeto.

I feel Nick’s gaze land on me as I pop the stale cheesiness into my mouth.

Do I care?

Nope.

12

VOODOO WATER EMERGENCY

Turns out working at Nick’s is a time warp, making the last few days feel like an eternity and at the same time gone in a nanosecond.

It also turns out playing tissue-box fetch with Daisy while peeing is not the weirdest thing that can happen in a bathroom. Having a staring contest with a growling Peaches in the doorway while taking a bath is.

Did I unlock the doggy door, hoping Daisy would sneak in so we could celebrate Friday and my successful almost-finished first week at work by watching Ben Barnes summon shadows in his sexy black cape-thing? Yes, I did.

But instead of a goofy hellhound, who gives smelly kisses and sweet cuddles, I got a mewl-growling Peaches who may or may not be plotting my death.

At least she’s not trying to “feed” me this time, so that’s a plus.

I sigh, slipping my shoulders under the hot water, feeling my tight muscles relax in the heat. Who would’ve thought spending all day on a computer could be this hard on the body?

“You might as well come in.” After a few non-blinking moments, she takes a few hesitant steps inside from the doorway, like a vampire who’s received an invitation. Then sits. And stares. “So, how was your day?” I ask, because in my new life I talk to animals. “Kill anything interesting?”

Her tail springs up at the question, like this is a conversation she can get behind. She answers in a scratchy meow as she struts to the sink. A graceful strut despite her mangy body.

I can’t help but smile when the tip of her pink tongue pokes out of her tiny (but deadly) mouth when she sits.

She’s a little murderous but kinda cute.

She gives me another scratchy meow with a tail swing.

“My day’s going surprisingly well. Thanks for asking.” I pop the happy bubbles in my chest, keeping my voice in a neutral tone—not wanting to invoke the demon who gets off on ruining days you think are going well.

Athletes are notoriously superstitious, and dancers are no different.

Especially if the dancer has a grandpa who taught her to knock on wood (or anything that looks like wood). Taught her bad news comes in threes. To never open an umbrella inside a house. And to always throw salt over your left shoulder—never the right—if you spill any, sending the Spilled-Salt-Bad-Luck Demons shrieking back to the underworld.

If you ever see a girl hurdling over cracks in the sidewalk with a good-luck rooster tucked under her arm like a football, it’s me.

I close my eyes, resting my head against the tile, thinking about the files I created to organize Nick’s emails. The texts I’d answered on his work cell. The totally professional messages I left for his clients. The supply form I created for the storeroom, so they can see when they’re low on something before they run out.

So far, the Hope After calls are my favorite part of the job.

Nick volunteers for a non-profit that covers gang tattoos with fresh ink. Turns out tattoos are freaking expensive, so not everyone can afford to cover their old-life mistakes.

I love that Nick turns that ugliness into something beautiful.

I’m sure these work things would seem trivial to most, just an average day. But to me, they’re the first steps of my original choreography, a contemporary piece that may be awesome or may totally suck. Guess we’ll find out.

By far, my most impressive move was not noticing how cute Nick looks when he talks with his friends in that animated way that sends his hands flying in exclamation points.

The way he holds his chest and tilts his head back when he laughs.

The confident way he works on his clients.

The way his eyes glittered gold when he handed me a water and a Kit Kat, letting me know he remembered they’re my favorite.

Nope, I didn’t notice any of that.

I also didn’t notice how my heart melted when Luna told me she lives in Nick’s awesome three-bedroom townhouse, in the heart of downtown. I guess if an HOA asks Nick to get rid of Daisy—who violates the dangerous-breed bylaws—or move, he’ll move. And sleep on the Typhoid couch with his babies because no one will rent to someone with a pit bull.

Until my grandpa found out.

I turn toward a purring Peaches as she plops down on her side and starts cleaning her paw. I’m pretty sure this means we’re friends.

“Do you like Ben Barnes?” I ask, wondering if she wants to fill in for Daisy as my Shadow and Bone date.

My phone chimes with a text.

I close my eyes, blowing out a trail of leave-me-alone air, knowing who it is.

Besides being a superhero and a mind-reader, Luna’s also a compulsive texter of random shit. Including a picture of her crooked big toe, a video of a raccoon eating Doritos, and a selfie of her and Bean laughing with a pissed-off looking Carlos glaring at them in the background.

If they broke the mold when they made Nick, some idiot picked up the pieces—threw in a little rock star, Machine Gun Kelly-style—and glued them together to make Bean. A lanky platinum blond in his early twenties with an angel’s face and sinister black roses covering his alabaster skin. He’s a skateboarder like Nick. A tattoo artist, jokester, and world-class flirt, also like Nick. With an addiction to lollipops that changes his lips different colors throughout the day.

He also has a pet rat named Harvey who hangs out on his shoulder while he works.

Yep. A pet freaking rat. Named Harvey.

If I somehow survive working at Nick’s, I want a medal.

Or at least a T-shirt.

Carlos doesn’t know it yet, but I’m rooming with him in Vegas since he seems to be the only normal one in the group.

I sit up and wipe my fingers on the folded towel on the floor and grab my phone from atop it, wondering what other random shit awaits me.

My muscles tense as I read the text.

Nick: Blue needs us. Meet me out front in five.

My pulse spikes. I hold my breath as my fingers fly over the screen.

Me: Is she okay?

I watch the three ellipses move as he types, then stop.

Then move again.

Then stop.

Nick: I’ll explain on the way.

I scramble out of the bathtub at his cryptic answer. The sound of sloshing water sends Peaches bolting through the door with a loud hiss, letting me know our friendship is over.

“Sorry,” I call after her as I quickly wrap the towel around my dripping body.

Leaving a trail of wet footprints on the hardwood, I fly to my bedroom with my mom’s voice yelling at me to go back into the bathroom and fix my hair because it looks like a blonde frizz bomb went off on the top of my head.

And to retouch my makeup because it looks like shit too.

And to find something cute to cover my new layer of hibernation-rotation pudge.

I can’t help that my feet falter at her voice. And my stomach dips at the words I’ve heard a million times.

The old me would’ve rushed through some look good, feel good makeup and fixed my hair until my mom’s voice settled into a faint whisper.

But this is the new me. And the new me talks to animals, eats typhoid-couch Cheetos with zero shame, and rides freaking bulls.

I flip her off.

And turn up Blondie’s Maria in my mind, drowning her voice.

Emmy needs me.

A hideous neon-pink sweatshirt and matching leggings, with weirdly placed black mesh cutouts, is what happens when you grab the last clean clothes in the suitcase and throw them on.

Which would be fine if I were at home, or needed to be spotted in a blizzard, but I’m not—I’m sitting shotgun in my car, listening to Nick sing to Bob Marley as we drive to Ben’s. My mood darkening with each upbeat “Is This Love?” verse.

It’s definitely not love I’m feeling.

It’s annoyance.

The kind of annoyance that seeps into your bones, expanding them until it feels like they’ll burst into a million pieces.

Why am I annoyed?

Three words: Voodoo. Freaking. Water.

With my heart hitting my chest wall like a racquetball, and a thousand questions about Emmy on my lips, Nick took my hand with a quick smile and guided me down the porch stairs— with Daisy leading the way—while spouting something about his Blue having a hard time breastfeeding.

And that we needed to get rid of Mrs. B (AKA Granny Gremlin) and her voodoo water because it’s stressing Blue out and making it worse.

Yep. He pulled me from my cozy bath, nearly giving me a freaking heart attack for a voodoo-water emergency. Apparently, I’m the only one who’s ever faced down the Granny Gremlin and lived to tell the tale. Does Nick seem oddly upbeat about my upcoming repeat showdown? The fact he’s been performing a Bob Marley concert (that no one asked for) since we got on the freeway points to yes.

My head jerks back as he shoves an invisible microphone in my face, urging me to join in as he belts out the chorus. Like singing in a terrible Jamaican accent with an imaginary microphone is his life’s calling.

I press my traitor lips together as they start to twitch, ordering them into compliance.

You will not smile, Riley.

When it becomes clear he’s not going to move his hand until I sing along, I take in a deep breath with narrowed eyes, and fill the car with my dying-goat voice—a war cry heard in the hearts of goats around the world—to teach him a lesson.

His howling laughter lets me know I’ve failed. Miserably.

I scorch him with some fiery side-eye as he gives the back of my neck a playful squeeze, sending a zing of charged ions through my body. Then he pulls me to him, planting a quick laugh-kiss on the side of my head, stealing my breath before he lets go.

“You’re so annoying,” I grumble with a shake of my head, turning my flushed cheeks to the towering oak trees lining Ben’s driveway, rubbing a hand down my thigh.

Note to self: Google how to build a tree house and become a tree dweller… and find out if Daisy’s afraid of heights.

I exhale the thought against the chilled window, watching the condensation shrink until it disappears, wishing this night would do the same.

Fluttering excitement at seeing Emmy and her baby battles with inky-black dread at the voodoo-water possibilities that lie ahead. Is there ever a normal night with Nick?

Nick parks in front of the garage, next to a row of covered motorcycles, and cuts the engine, turning to me. “You ready?”

The inky Sword of Dread runs through my fluttering excitement in a killing blow.

“Yep,” I say, with the amount of enthusiasm reserved for root canals and crack-of-dawn rehearsals, grabbing my purse from the floor. At least I remembered to bring it this time.

His hand covers my upper thigh, giving it what I’m sure he thinks is another reassuring squeeze, but his electric touch tingles me in places I don’t want to tingle.

Then the car fills with a burst of chilled air, and he’s gone to open the back door for Daisy to jump out.

I take in a steady breath, letting the silence calm my pounding heart and relax my wired body. This is what I get for telling Peaches I was having a good day.

The Demon of Good Days Gone Wrong chuckles softly in my ear, letting me know he’s just getting started.

Demon bastard.

Cold air slaps my cheeks pink as I step out of the car, sending a quiet shiver through my tense muscles. I fix my frizz bun and glance to the stars, cleansing my lungs with the fresh mountain air, hoping Daisy and I can sneak away for some backyard Zen time.

The twinge behind my left eye says I can already use some.

Nick’s low voice prompts Daisy to take off for the house like a lightning bolt.

I’m sure her tongue’s flapping in the wind.

My smile dies as I walk around the car to see Nick’s lean-muscled body softly lit by the garage security lights, like he’s starring in a Taylor Swift music video.

The one about the boy who broke her glass heart and threw away the pieces.

If you would’ve asked me earlier what the sexiest outfit on a man is, I would’ve said a tailored suit or a tuxedo. Now? It’s a pair of black track pants, a gray “It’s Not Unusual” Tom Jones T-shirt, a black beanie, and glasses.

I hate that the lines of his Golden Ratio face look sharper at night. And that the bright colors of his tattoos seem to glow seductively in the shadows.

It’s a cruel joke he’s so beautiful.

I exhale away the thought, leaving a trail of vapor in the air, reminding myself that I’m just lonely and that I’m not into Nick. That we’re just childhood friends.

Unfortunately, my heart doesn’t get the message and trips over itself as he holds his hand out for me to take. I slip my freezing hand into his strong, warm one, ignoring the shot of syrupy heat moving through my veins at the contact.

Gravel crunches beneath our feet as we start a slow stride toward Ben’s. Turns out sitting down all day is hard on my knee, so I’m thankful for the leisurely pace. Plus, I’m in no hurry to start my gremlin showdown, so there’s that too.

“Aren’t you cold?” I ask his profile, feeling the chilled air seep through the thin material of my leggings, goose-bumping my skin.

“My ancestors are from the Highlands, lass. We don’t get cold.”

I flashback to the blue locker-lined halls of Bradford when a soft-spoken “I’m sorry, lass,” said to our stodgy principle, always got Nick out of detention.

Winston tried his Southern charm on her repeatedly, with zero success. Me? I was the perfect one who never got into trouble.

“Of course, you don’t,” I say, focusing on the yellow lights coming from the Hallmark house. Another single spark of excitement to see Emmy flickers to life. I try to focus on the spark, ignoring the fact Nick’s laser stare is burning a hole in my cheek, but I can’t. “What?” I bark.

He pushes up his glasses with his pointer finger, his smug lips tipped at the corners. “You look like a flamingo, babe.”

His unexpected words send a shot of burning insecurity through my veins.

I take it back. I hate black beanies. And glasses.

And human-heater Highlander jerks.

“Thanks,” I clip out, annoyance poking at my chest with a skeleton finger.

“A cute flamingo.”

“I get it.”

“An adorable flamingo.” His arm bumps into mine, seconds before his finger is giving the tip of my cold, likely flamingo-pink nose a boop.

A. Freaking. Boop.

My eyes narrow into slits. “If you boop my nose again, I will end you.”

His grin widens. “I had no idea flamingos were so aggressive.”

“We’re super aggressive. Especially when annoyed,” I warn.

He chuckles at that, rubbing his thumb along the top of my hand, smothering my fiery anger with hypnotic lazy strokes.

Why. Does. He. Have. To. Touch. Me.

After a few more gravel-crunching steps, he clears his throat. “By the way, I told Mrs. B you’re a breastfeeding guru, so just go with it, okay?”

My spine jolts straight. “What?” I pull my hand from his before we step onto the stone walkway. “Why would you tell her that?” My voice raises with panic. “I don’t know the first thing about breastfeeding.” I fumble with my purse, grumbling under my breath about being cursed as I try to unzip it with frozen fingers.

“What are you doing?” he asks on a soft laugh, placing a steady hand over mine.

“I need my phone. I’m going to google breastfeeding.” I shoot him a death glare. “Since I’m apparently a guru at it, I should know what I’m talking about.”

His white-toothed smile widens.

“Relax.” He frees my purse from my grip, slinging it over his shoulder like that’s a normal thing to do. “All you have to do is wing it for a few minutes so Mrs. B will take her voodoo shit and go home. The person who handles that stuff will be here in the morning.”

“Whose genius plan was this?” The answer is looking down at me with gold-honey eyes.

“Mine.” His cheek creases. “Pretty good, right?”

“No. Not good.” I exhale the urge to wipe away his smug grin. “I don’t wing things,” I say, rethinking if he knows me at all.

His brows scrunch. “Sure, you do.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “You’ve got me confused with someone else.”

He pulls out his phone from his pocket, holding it up in front of my face. His screensaver is of me. On the freaking bull. “You were saying?” He smirks, challenging me to argue as he slips the phone back.

My nostrils flare as I echo my earlier thought. “Is there ever a normal day with you?”

His chest puffs with pride as he retakes my hand. “Nope.” He shoots me a cocky grin as he tugs me back into a reluctant stride. “That’s why you love me.”

His teasing words wrap around my mechanical heart, squeezing until I hear metal crunch.

“Keep telling yourself that.” I snicker, proud it doesn’t sound as forced as it feels.

I care about Nick. I might even have a lingering firefly crush on him. But love? Nope. Not love. I’m not sure if I even loved Dylan.

Or if I’m capable of love at all.

His deep voice takes on a mock girl tone. “If the world ends, I want it to end when I’m with you, Nick.” His eyes sparkle in triumph behind his glasses.

It takes a second to place his words. But when I do, they teleport me back to a balmy summer day when I overheard my grandpa tell Steve that a doomsday solar flare was set to hit that night. Then he gave him a walkie-talkie and enough MRE’s to last the fallout.

I ran to get Nick from the pool in a panic, making him promise he would stay the night. I didn’t know what a solar flare was, but growing up with Fernando Souza meant I knew what a doomsday was.

And I wanted to be with Nick when it happened.

“I was eleven.” The memory of us sneaking into the backyard, lying shoulder to shoulder on the cool grass, looking up at the stars and waiting for the end of the world, tightens my chest. I force in a deep breath, expanding my lungs against the crushing pain.

Nick’s grip tightens to steady me as we climb the stairs.

His smug brows raise. “And you wanted to spend your last moments with me.”

I look away before he can crawl inside my gaze, unlocking the chest of firefly memories with his name on it.

“Like I said, I was eleven.” My gaze slides to Daisy spinning excited circles in front of the glossy black front door. As we clear the last step, I pray that someone walks through it, saving me from this moment. Even if that someone is the gremlin with her voodoo water.

It’s clear the most dangerous person here is holding my hand.

He moves to my front, blocking my view of Daisy with his body. My neck tilts back, and our eyes lock. I want to lean into his Highlander heat, but I don’t.

His chin dips. “And who would you want to be with now?” His low, teasing voice covers me like a warm blanket.

“Daisy,” I say, because it’s the first name that comes to mind. And I’m an idiot.

Do I wish my mouth had a mute button? Yes.

At her name, Daisy bounds to my side with an excited pant. She presses her hellhound body to my thigh, tilting her head up to stare at me. I put my hand on her bulky head, turning to Nick with an I’m-pretty-sure-your-dog-likes-me-more-than-you smirk.

His cheek creases as he tucks a flyaway strand of hair behind my ear, leaving a tingly trail where his long fingers brush skin. “Lucky for you, we’re a package deal.”

You will not picture surviving the Apocalypse with Nick and his love babies.

“Great, if the world ends, we’ll have a party. Can we go inside now?” I motion to the door with a flick of my irritated wrist.

“It’s a date.” He boops my nose with a baiting smirk.

Before I can snap my fingers like Thanos to end his existence, he grabs my hand and leads us through the front door and into an “It’s a Girl” balloons and flower-arrangement extravaganza. With expensive-looking gift baskets halfheartedly shoved off to the side to clear a path.

I guess, if you’re into gift baskets, being the son of Woodside royalty has its perks.

We navigate our way through the clutter while Nick’s eyes jump to Daisy, who’s sniffing one with rapt interest. “Don’t even think about it.”

She throws an innocent look over her shoulder at his voice and trots onward.

The pleasant scent of fresh flowers starts to mix with the pungent scent of garlic and licorice the closer we get to the living room. I wrinkle my nose. Then I’m hit with the equally jarring sight of Granny Gremlin scooting past us with her walker and a stack of washcloths flung over her shoulder.

Is she wearing a pink velour tracksuit that matches my outfit? Yep.

We’re freaking twinsies.

I can’t help but give Nick’s hand a startled squeeze when her scoot comes to a sudden halt. Her head slowly turns my way like she can sense my presence.

I want to take a step back when our eyes meet, but I don’t.

Her witch’s gaze narrows. “You.” She seethes the single word like a curse.

Feeling it tingle along the back of my neck, I straighten my spine, tilting my chin ever so slightly with my brows raised. It’s a cutting look borrowed from my witchy mom. We hold eyes for a few tense beats before she continues her scoot with a harrumph, a little faster than before.

Riley “The Aggressive Flamingo” Souza: 1

Granny Gremlin: 0

Nick looks like he’s going to say something when our attention swings at the sound of Baby Rose’s soft crying. In unison our feet carry us toward the sound. For the record, I’ve never walked toward a crying baby. Ever.

We step into the living room to see Ben amongst an explosion of baby stuff that Daisy’s busy inspecting. Ben looks like absolute crap. Messy black hair. Bloodshot brown eyes. Wrinkled gray T-shirt with yellowish stains I don’t want to know the source of.

He’s sitting on the arm of the couch, his strong shoulders slumped as he gently swings Baby Rose in her carrier-thing between his splayed legs.

He gives us a chin up while making tired shushing noises.

I drop my gaze to the swinging baby. Her chubby cheeks are scrunched pink with her soft cry, her black hair a mess like her dad’s. She’s so freaking cute I can’t stand it.

I give her a bright smile and a short wave.

She shoots a loud cry my way like a sharp arrow, letting me know she’s not impressed. She’s an excellent shot, by the way. My wave morphs into a casual hair-behind-the-ear tuck as I fight the urge to slowly back away while whistling a nothing-to-see-here tune.

Guess I can cross baby whisperer off my list of new-life possibilities.

Ben stands, increasing his gentle swing until her cries turn into whimpering hiccups. The dark circles under his eyes say this has been their routine.

“That bad, huh?” Nick asks, dropping my hand to fidget with his glasses.

“Worse,” Ben grumbles.

“She still having a hard time nursing?”

“Yep.” Ben rakes a hand through his thick hair. “I gave her a bottle, but now Em’s freaking out because of nipple confusion or some shit. And I’m this close to throwing Mrs. B out. Had to send Derek to get a pizza to lure her ass home.” A vein in Ben’s forehead makes an appearance. “So that’s where we’re at.”

He scrubs a rough hand down his bearded face.

I’m pretty sure he’s exhausted to the point of delusion because nothing he said makes sense. Lure the granny home with pizza? Poor Ben.

“We got this, bro. Don’t worry.” Nick gives my arm a soft elbow bump to say something, widening his eyes at me with a slight head tilt toward Ben.

My gaze swings to Ben. “Yeah, uh, don’t worry, I’ll handle Mrs. B. And the, um, other stuff.” I give an unsure side-glance to Nick. He nods like we’re police detectives on the case.

Never a normal night.

“Thanks, Ry.” Ben gives me a hint of a smile before turning his exhausted eyes to Nick. “The only way she’ll sleep is if I drive her down Skyline. But I’m too tired for that shit right now.” His nostrils flare, and his jaw ticks with a stifled yawn.

“I’ll drive. You sleep,” Nick says, then turns to me. “Cool if we take your car?”

“Sure.” I go to reach for my purse to get my keys, remembering he has them both.

“I’ll grab the baby bag,” Ben says as he shuffles his way to the den, swinging baby Rose as he goes, with Daisy on his heels.

Seeing a crying eight-pound baby bring a battled-tested two-hundred-plus pound Marine to his knees causes something I can’t name to pang at my heart.

Unlike my dad, my mom stayed for the battle. Even though she was only seventeen. Even though she didn’t have a Ben or a Nick to lean on. Even though her friends were too busy being teenagers to care. And my grandpa was too busy seeing my grandma through her first (of many) rounds of chemo to help.

My mom was far from perfect, but she stayed.

And that’s something, right?

I snap from my thoughts as Nick slings a heavy arm over my shoulders and gently steers me toward the hallway.

So I can face off with the gremlin.

While he goes on a relaxing drive.

A relaxing, beautiful Skyline drive under the stars.

I give him some heated side-eye. “Remind me not to include you in my next life.”

He tilts his chin, cocking an arrogant brow. “You said that in your last life.”

“Guess I’m cursed.” The unwanted smile gracing my lips confirms my cursed status.

“Or blessed.” He squeezes me against his side.

“Or you’re a stalker,” I tease under my breath.

“You came back to me,” he volleys with a grin before dropping his arm.

Not came back home. But came back to him.

I let the thought fall to the ground. And squash it under my foot as we stop at the hallway entrance. We stare down it for a few heartbeats like I’m The Chosen One and this is as far as his mortal soul can take me.

In case you were wondering, I’m not The Chosen One.

I’m whatever the opposite of a Chosen One is.

“Go get ’em,” Nick says in an encouraging voice, right before he gives me a smack on the butt, like I’m one of Steve’s football players going onto the field. Or a horse at the starting gate.

I gasp as my body jolts alive in a way it wasn’t a second ago. Warm flutters spread in my lower stomach.

My shocked gaze jumps over my shoulder to see Nick’s easy stride toward Ben and Daisy like this is just how we do things. Has he ever smacked my butt before? No. Do my fingers itch to smack his perfect bubble butt back? Maybe.

I file the thought of having a possible spanking fetish away in my “Shit to Think About Later” folder, straighten my non-Chosen-One spine, and march my tingly Souza ass toward Emmy’s bedroom.

First, I need to save my insta-friend from the gremlin.

Then I need to save myself from Nicolas freaking MacGregor.

Both are long shots.

“As a licensed, uh, professional, I suggest we try something else.” I catch eyes with Emmy’s bloodshot ones, noting the darkening circles of watered-down-blue inkiness under them, giving her another reassuring nod.

You know that frantic feeling when your alarm doesn’t go off, so you scramble like mad to get ready? And then when you finally make it to the studio, your stomach’s in knots because you’re positive you left your front door wide open and people are stealing all your shit?

Emmy looks like that feeling.

She’s propped up with a stack of pillows at her back, her belly deflated to a manageable size now but still swollen. The black robe she’s wearing gives her skin, which was pink and healthy last time I saw her, an almost ghostly hue. It doesn’t help that her hair is a dark, fresh-from-the-shower, tangly mess around her shoulders.

I’m pretty sure babies are adorable little life-sucking vampires. Just saying.

My gaze swings to the gremlin at her shrill voice, her eyes on me, as she says, “Like I said, she’s got sour milk from not eating the walnuts I brought her.” Here we go again with the freaking walnuts. She shoots Emmy an admonishing look, then raises her chin at me. “This will help pull out the toxins so the baby will suckle.”

The this she’s talking about are washcloths soaking in garlic-and-fennel voodoo water. Washcloths she intends to drape over Emmy’s ginormous boobs, which are practically popping out of her robe like two painful, blue-veined balloons ready to burst.

For once, I’m thankful for my itty-bitty ones.

“Did you try loosening the pectoralis major?” I ask the gremlin in my best guru tone.

Have I been tossing out the names of random muscles, hoping to throw her off? Yes. Is it working? Not yet. But I’m in it to win it, folks.

“Maybe we should try that,” Emmy speaks up, hope sparking behind her tired eyes.

I nod, thoughtfully. “We can also work on the infra-spin-actus to get the milk circulating, lessoning the, uh, souring effect.” Emmy’s lip twitches at that one.

I hold her Disney blue eyes with my brown ones, pressing my lips together to keep from smiling, letting her know if she’s going down, I’m going down with her. #GirlGang.

“I don’t need your fancy schooling,” the gremlin sneers as she tugs at her pink velour jacket.

Yes, I told her I have a certificate in Lactation Consulting from Harvard.

Like Steve says, go big or go home.

She continues, “My system is tried and tested.” She straightens her hunched spine. “I’ve nursed five babies, three of them with colic. And my neighbors’ kid” —she flicks her wrist— “what’s his face, when his mom dried up.”

I shudder at the thought of her gremlin babies. And poor what’s his face.

She turns to the bowl on a wooden chair and swishes her finger in the voodoo water like it’s a witch’s cauldron. “Almost ready.”

My eyes swing to the soft knock on the bedroom door.

“Come in,” Emmy rushes out, sitting up a little straighter, pulling her robe closed the best she can.

A striking man, around the same age as Nick, with carved features and a mop of thick auburn waves fills the doorway with a pizza box in hand. He’s dressed like Jesse, in a green and black flannel and worn jeans, and is built like Ben. Maybe a few pounds lighter.

If Luna were here, she’d call him a “tasty snack” for sure.

“Hey,” Tasty Snack says to the room in a deep, gentle voice. His gaze quickly rakes over my frizzy flamingo state, and he flashes me a small smile before turning to Em.

I smile back, but it’s too late. It’s safe to say my first impression sucked.

“They gave me the wrong order.” He takes a few steps forward and opens the box’s lid like he’s starring in a Pizza Hut commercial, glancing at the gremlin.

I look to see her beady eyes are fixed on the pizza—eyeing it the way Gollum eyes his precious. I guess Ben wasn’t delusional after all.

“It’s a white-sauce special with garlic prawns and crispy pancetta.” He exhales. “I know you guys hate white sauce, sorry.” He closes the lid with a disappointed shake of his head, peeking at the gremlin from under his lashes.

Note to self: Order a garlic prawn pizza when I get home.

Emmy’s eyes widen in a painfully fake lightbulb-moment before she turns to the gremlin. “Isn’t that your favorite, Dottie? You should take it home. You’ve been here all day. And you must be starving.”

There’s porno-level bad acting, and then there’s Tasty Snack and Emmy-level bad.

“Put it in the fridge. I’ll take it home when I leave.” She flicks her bony wrist at the pizza.

Emmy’s eyes jump to Tasty Snack, whose green eyes jump to mine.

My eyes jump to the gremlin. “There’s no room in the fridge,” I rush out. “I brought some, uh, stuff and put it in there. Sorry.” I press my lips together as her eyes narrow in on me.

“I’d be happy to drive you home,” Tasty Snack says in that deep, gentle voice that belongs on a meditation app. “I’m sure…” His eyes hold mine for my name.

“Riley.” Do I almost say Peanut? Yes.

“I’m sure Riley can handle things from here.”

Her Gollum-gaze slices from the box to the bowl of voodoo water. Then her eyes land on me. “Listen closely, girl. You’re gonna run the shower as hot as you can get it. Then while the bathroom is steaming up, place the soaked cloths over her bosoms. Understand?”

“Soaked cloths over bosoms, got it,” I repeat, knowing I will never say that sentence again in my life. And as soon as she leaves, that stinky water is going down the drain.

“Leave them on for three minutes.” She holds up three arthritic fingers like I need a visual. “Then help her to the bathroom and have her sit in the steam for five minutes.” Five fingers splay in the air for my benefit.

Do I fight the urge to give her a high-five just to see what she’d do? Yes.

“Then put her in a warm shower, not hot, for another ten.” Both hands go up.

I give her a mental double high-five with a chest bump.

“Okay,” I say, glancing at Emmy’s wet tangles, wondering how many times this lady has made her do that ridiculous routine. One is too many.

“Then help her pump the sour milk. Got it?”

Hard pass on that.

“Got it.” I give her my you-can-totally-trust-me smile number twelve.

The gremlin turns to Emmy, her scowl softening as she puts a hand on her cheek. And gives her a gentle grandmotherly pat with so much tenderness in her beady eyes it pangs my heart. “You’re a good girl. And I love you.” She drops her hand and shuffles to the walker, her scowl back in place. “Next time eat the damn walnuts. I’m old and too tired for this crap.”

“I will.” Emmy gives her a soft smile. “Thanks, Dottie.”

I have no idea how these two found each other, but it’s clear they have a bond. The kind of bond that makes me feel like an outsider.

The gremlin gives her a curt nod and scoots her way toward the door, looking up at me with witchy eyes from under droopy lids as she goes. “Move it, Tweety!”

At least it’s not “flamingo.”

I gladly step out of the way and watch her shuffle toward Tasty Snack.

“You gonna stand there all day looking pretty? Let’s go,” she barks at him.

He shoots us a pray-for-me parting smile and disappears through the door, Granny Gremlin fast on his tail.

Well, that just happened.

My shoulders relax now that the voodoo mission Nick volunteered me for is over. I’m pretty sure if it weren’t for a garlic-prawn pizza, and the tasty snack carrying it, I would have failed. Big time.

The soft sound of sniffles coming from the bed makes my stomach sink. I turn to see Emmy wiping quiet tears from her flushed cheeks. When our eyes lock, she gives me a wobbly smile that hurts my heart.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Angie is the one with perfectly placed Band-Aid words to help heal your hurt. Me? I say stuff like, “Keep your chin up.” Four unfortunate words spoken from perfectly glossed teenage lips to my bawling roommate in New York when she found out her parents were getting a divorce.

Keep. Your. Chin. Up.

I’m pretty sure she googled “Signs Your Roommate’s a Sociopath” before changing rooms.

“You okay?” I ask softly, sending a mind-meld message for Nick to turn the car around because Emmy needs him. Even Daisy would be better at comforting her. Basically anyone, but me.

My soft question triggers a fresh avalanche of tears.

Don’t you dare tell her to keep her chin up, Riley.

She wipes her eyes with her robe belt. “My brain won’t let me sleep. My baby hates me. And Ben…” Her eyes are so full of anguish when they meet mine, my chest aches with it. “He’s so good with her.” Her voice thickens with tears. “I’m a nurse. I should be good at this.” She sniffles. “Babies love me…” Her forehead wrinkles. “I read the books. I did the things. You know?”

I nod with a reassuring smile, even though I have no idea what she’s talking about.

She continues, “And the thought of Ben’s parents staying here for a week… I just can’t handle it. Not now”—she motions to herself—“not like this. But they’re so excited.” She sighs. “I’m a horrible person.” Her head falls back on the pillows. “And my boobs are holding me hostage. They hurt so bad.” She closes her eyes, fresh tears trailing from the corners. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

I may not understand the pain of being a new mom to a cute vampire baby, or what it feels like to have your boobs hold you hostage, but I do know the “it wasn’t supposed to be like this” feeling all too well.

Before I can stop myself, flamingo legs are carrying me to the bed and I’m planting my butt next to her, taking her hand in mine. “What can I do to help?”

I wait for it to feel awkward. Me holding her hand like the first night. But it doesn’t. Nick’s probably rubbing off on me. If I boop her nose, I’m done for.

“You can trade bodies with me,” she says, forcing a strained smile.

I chuckle. “You don’t want that. Trust me.” I return her smile with a hand squeeze and stand from the bed. Ignoring the twinge in my knee and the crackle and pop of my joints, I walk to the voodoo water on the chair. “How about I get rid of this?” I pick up the bowl. “And let some fresh air in?” Maybe burn some sage to get rid of the negative gremlin energy.

Emmy sits up, wincing with the action. “That’d be great, thanks.” Her brows scrunch as she tucks a tangle behind her ear. “I’m sorry things are so weird and messed up with me right now. I mean, I’m usually more put together than this.” Her chin dips with a self-deprecating smile. “Sort of.”

Time to tell her who she’s talking to. “Emmy, I’m a total mess who literally talks to animals in public now, so don’t worry about being weird with me.” I widen my smile. “We’re insta-friends. We can be weird messes together, okay?”

“Okay.” She beams a watery smile my way.

I beam back, and float to the door with helium balloons filling my chest.

I didn’t tell her to keep her chin up once.

Not once.

Do I feel oddly proud of myself? Yes.

Why do I wish Nick was here to see me in my non-chin-up glory?

13

CARL THE CARROT

Things I learned last night:

1) The stains on Ben’s T-shirt were caused by something called “spit-up,” which is just another term for cute baby-vampire vomit.

2) Babies smell so good (when not pooping).

3) If gently swinging a car seat was an Olympic sport, I’d be a gold freaking medalist.

I stifle another yawn as I scan the breakfast menu and my drama-queen stomach reminds me it’s starving to death with the back of its hand over its forehead and an obnoxious rumble—that’s thankfully lost to the noise of the busy restaurant.

There was no prawn pizza last night.

Or anymore girl time with Peaches.

There was only Nick and me, taking turns keeping Baby Rose happily swinging in her carrier, or snuggled cozily in our arms, while Ben and Emmy slept between feedings. And Derek (AKA Tasty Snack) got some sleep before making the long drive back to Wyoming.

A grateful Emmy relieved us of our baby duties around 2:00 am. And even though I was out for the count once my head hit the pillow, I’m still dragging a little today.

Nick texted this morning that I could work from home, but I like having a place to go. A schedule to keep. I’m even starting to enjoy talking to people. Kind of.

I look to my car through the diner window, knowing Daisy’s safely snoring away in the backseat but still feeling weird about her being in the car alone.

“You sure she’s okay?” I ask Nick, picking up my coffee with my sore baby-swinging arm.

“She’s fine,” he says, his voice a little raspier from the morning. “If she wakes up, we’ll take the food to-go, okay?” He gives me an appeasing smile.

He’s wearing different glasses today. Round and wire-rimmed, like a professor.

A sexy college professor with strong, veiny hands and cool tattoos.

I will not picture Nick keeping me after class for some one-on-one tutoring.

Will. Not. Picture. It.

I return his smile with a totally-not-pervy one before we look back to our menus.

“The Nutella pancakes are good,” he suggests.

“I can’t eat sweets in the morning, but thanks.” I take another sip of blessedly black coffee.

“Since when?” he asks, setting down his menu.

“Since forever,” I say, like he’s the only one on the planet without this basic human knowledge.

His head tilts. “Did I imagine you eating all the Captain Crunch when we were kids?”

“You and Win ate the Captain Crunch. I ate oatmeal.”

“Hmm.” He contemplates me for a few beats. “So you don’t like sweets in the morning,” he says like he’s taking mental notes.

“Or sugar in my coffee.” I hold up my black brew before taking a deliciously bitter sip.

It’s not my grandpa’s mud coffee, but it’ll do.

“What else don’t I know about you, Peanut?”

“There’s lots of stuff.” I shrug, dropping my gaze to my coffee. “Ten years’ worth to be exact,” I say under my breath.

I peek up to meet his stare, trying to wash away the awkward sentence with a pressed-lip, dimpled smile.

“Twelve years, actually,” he counters before taking a sip of his orange juice.

No smile.

“Right,” I say, fighting off the heaviness expanding in the space between us with a soft laugh.

My head swings to my purse when bagpipes playing “Scotland the Brave” sounds from it. It’s the work cell phone.

Nick won’t let me change the ringtone because of the Campbell curse. Did I ask him to elaborate on said curse? No, I did not. Having learned my lesson when I asked about the coat of arms hanging in the waiting area.

Life tip: Never ask Nick about the Clan MacGregor. It will start with an oral history on the blood feuds between the clans and how his people were banned by the king, with dogs bred to hunt them. Then before you know it, he’ll be walking toward you, playing the bagpipes.

Yes. He has bagpipes. And he’s not afraid to use them.

I grab the cell from my purse, thankful for the distraction. My nose scrunches when I see it’s a text with a photo of a man’s back with the ugliest tattoo I’ve ever seen, smack dab in the middle. It looks like an owl-chicken-turducken.

“Poor guy,” I say under my breath, with a sucks-for-him smile and shake of my head.

Unknown Caller: Hi Nick. My name’s Zander. Jimmy at Buckshot’s gave me your number and said you can do something with this? Hit me back if you can. Thanks.

No doubt Nick can fix this, but he’ll have to wait six months to get an appointment. When Nick said he’s sort of a big deal. He wasn’t lying. He is.

“Who is it?” Nick asks off my smile.

I show him the screen. “Some guy named Jimmy said you can fix this.”

He leans forward, his eyes inspecting the screen.

He sits back. “‘Dammit Spock, I’m not a miracle worker,’” he says in his best Bones from Star Trek.

Bones was his favorite character. Spock was mine. My grandpa’s was Captain Kirk.

“Still terrible.” I snicker at his impression, exchanging the phone for my coffee. My gaze skims his tattoos as I take a sip, wondering if he has any owl-turduckens lurking under his neon ink. “How many poor life choices have you had to cover?”

“On me?”

I nod.

“None.” He grins. “I like my mistakes.”

I look at his perfect ink. “Or you just got lucky.”

Smirking, he pulls up the sleeve of his shirt to show his impressive biceps. Then I see it, surrounded by a halo of Hemsworth skin against a backdrop of colorful neon ink.

A carrot. A freaking carrot.

I bust out laughing. “A carrot?”

He drops his sleeve. “Are you laughing at my artistic choices?”

“It’s, like, a sad little carrot.” I laugh harder. “On your arm. For life.”

“Carl’s not sad.” He feigns offense. “My buddy had extra UV orange, so we were meant to be.”

“I’m pretty sure Carl’s crying on the inside.”

He chuckles. “Maybe. But he’s there, and I’m keeping him.” He picks up his orange juice. “Like with the Bay Gardens couch you love, I like to remember where I’ve been. Who I am. The mistakes I’ve made.” Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone before I can name it.

Our attention swings to our middle-aged server as she stops at our table.

“You guys ready to order?”

Nick motions for me to go first.

“I’ll have the spinach and feta omelet, please.”

“Country potatoes, hash browns, or fruit?” she asks while grabbing my menu from the table.

“Hash browns.”

“Toast?”

“Sourdough, if you have it.”

She nods, tucking my menu under her arm, and turns to Nick. “The usual?”

His cheek creases. “With strawberries and extra whip cream. And a side of bacon to go. Thanks, Tam.”

No doubt the bacon is for Daisy.

“You got it, hon.” She grabs his menu and flutters away, checking on customers as she goes.

I glance to the car, half expecting to see Daisy poke her head up at the no-no word.

“So besides having terrible taste in breakfast food, what else don’t I know about you?” He takes a sip of his sugar coffee, his eyes teasing. “Tell me about your friends.”

On the list of things I like to talk about, conversations about me come in dead last.

“My friends?” I shift in my seat. “I guess Krista’s my best friend. She’s from Texas and, uh, really cool. You’d like her. You’d like Nia, too. She can speak, like, five languages.” Lame. Lame. Lame. “There’s a group of us who are pretty close.” I glance at my coffee. “We haven’t talked much since I moved, but if I need them, I know they’re there, so…”

“Cool.” He holds out his hand, palm up. “Can I see some pics?”

“Why?” My brows scrunch, my mind racing through the pictures on my phone.

All of them staged. Fake. And Instagram-worthy.

“I want to see you in your natural habitat.” He smirks, his fingers doing a give-me motion for my phone.

I sit back with a nervous laugh. “I’m not going to give you my phone, Nick.” I cross my arms over the black MacGregor Ink T-shirt I woke up an hour early to wash.

I don’t know why the thought of him seeing the old-me is heating the top of my ears, but it is.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Can I see your phone?” I challenge.

Without hesitation, he pulls his phone from his jacket pocket, unlocks the screen, and slides it across the table to me. Then raises his brows for me to do the same.

“Fine.” I pull my cell from my purse with a huff and slide it across the table, like this is some kind of weird drug transaction.

He picks up mine.

I pick up his.

I tap on the photos icon, wondering why my heart’s beating like I just ran a mile. And scroll through his life.

His wild, beautiful life.

Pictures of Baby Rose and Emmy. Pictures of his love babies. Of sunsets that melt into the ocean. Nick, with his clients proudly displaying his artwork. Luna, Carlos, and Bean doing what they do. The old gang fishing. Nick surfing with friends (which I didn’t know he did). I scroll past the smiling selfies of him with a few gorgeous brunettes (I will not think about). And the sexy redhead kissing his cheek (I also will not think about).

My finger pauses on a picture of Nick with an older woman with brassy-blonde hair. At first, I think it’s his grandma, but then realize, with a twist in my gut, it’s his mom.

And she looks terrible.

Her face is sunken with deep lines of a woman twice her age. She’s had a hard life, and it shows.

But the twist in my gut isn’t for her. It’s for Nick. For the worry I see etched in his eyes. The heartache I see in his smile. The protective way he wraps his tattooed arm around her frail shoulders.

Some things never change, I guess.

I glance at him from under my lashes. His honey-gold eyes are fixed on the screen as he scrolls through my beige life—his expression unreadable.

Even after Krista went on a deleting spree, there are still a ton of pictures of Dylan and me. Perfect pictures of us doing perfect couple things.

I wonder what he thinks about those.

I wonder if he can see my smiles are carefully chosen.

Nick catches my gaze, holding it. “Do you miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“Ballet, your friends…” He sets down my phone. “Dylan.”

I follow his lead, setting down his phone too.

“I don’t know.” I shrug, messing with the fork on the napkin. “Sometimes, I guess.”

Nick nods, then clears his throat. “I saw you dancing in the kitchen the other day.”

“What?” Time stops at his words.

“I was bringing Daisy breakfast, not, like, spying on you or anything,” he adds, adjusting his glasses. “The window faces the backyard.”

I close my eyes.

“Oh my God,” I groan as heat crawls up neck.

“You looked—”

“Ridiculous.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Happy. You looked happy, Ry.” His voice softens. “I want you to be happy.”

I drop my gaze to my fork, straightening it on the napkin. “I’m happy.”

He leans forward, and his warm hand covers mine. “Are you?”

I meet his earnest gaze, his question tying my tongue into a thousand knots.

I’m happy when I’m with you, Nick.

My stomach sinks at the thought. I know once I tell my mom about my injury, she’ll burst into my new life like a swarm of locusts, chomping on it with her razor-sharp words until there’s nothing left. Then she’ll rebuild it into something perfect. Something without Nick.

And I’m not ready for that yet.

Our moment is severed when our server walks up with our breakfast. Nick moves his hand from mine so she can set down my omelet and toast—which I have no desire to eat now. And sets down Nick’s Willy Wonka pancake sugar bomb with a small to-go box.

“Can I get you anything else?”

A few shots of tequila would be nice. Or the bottle.

“We’re good, Tam. Thanks,” Nick says when I don’t answer.

I give her a parting smile and turn my gaze to the window to see Daisy’s eyes searching for us. She looks nervous. Like she needs me.

My legs twitch to go to her.

I wave at her like a weirdo from the window.

I can tell she spots me waving like a loon when her Cujo jaw hangs open and her pink tongue lops to the side. The car jostles as she goes to the passenger’s seat and she sticks her bulky head out of the cracked window, trying to get a better view.

“I’ll get the check and some boxes,” Nick says, scooting from the booth.

“I’ll go, uh, to the car.” I grab my purse, following his scoot.

We stand.

He takes a step closer. “Admit it. You love her.” There’s a playful glimmer in his eyes that pulls a smile from my heart.

“She’s alright.” I smirk before speed-walking toward the exit, the sound of his raspy laughter nipping at my heels. I scoff at the thought of loving Daisy.

There’s no way I can love Nick’s dog. I mean, I’m not even a dog person.

You ordered matching pajamas.

It’s not a T-shirt with her face on it, so...

Matching. Freaking. Pajamas.

Whatever...

14

PARKING LOT GOODBYES

There’s no elegant way to say this, so I’ll just come out with it: I’m addicted to pinball.

A full-on, heart-pounding, palms-sweaty, neck-tingling, Indiana Jones kind of addiction.

“Come on,” I growl as I furiously hit the flippers, trying to get the silver ball to the Temple of Doom for multi-ball. It’s worth twenty million points.

Points I need in order to get my initials on the board.

“Shoot for the ramp,” Carlos says at my side.

“I am. The jerk ball’s not cooperating.” I catch the ball in the flipper, cradling it like Carlos taught me, slowly letting it roll to nearly the tip, then shoot.

Right up the freaking ramp like a champ. Woohoo!

“Nice,” Carlos says, his voice carrying the warm smile I’ve come to look forward to. I don’t even notice his scar anymore.

Funny how that works.

Daisy’s tail starts to hit the back of my leg in quick processions, which means Nick’s walked in. I should feel bad for playing pinball at work, but Nick’s the one who insisted I break Carlos’s record, so…

“I better get back,” Carlos says softly, not waiting for a response before walking away.

“You don’t want to watch me destroy your score?” I tease. There’s no way I’ll beat his score, so Nick’s on his own with this one.

“Go see Bean,” Nick orders Daisy, his low voice brushing across the back of my neck. Daisy springs from my side at his command.

There’s something in his voice that has me glancing over my shoulder. The look on his face turns me from my multi-ball action. The balls go straight down the middle.

“What’s wrong?” I say, taking a few reflexive steps toward him, noting the serious lines of his face and tense set of his broad shoulders.

He scrubs the back of his neck. “Steve’s on his way.” His words punt my heart to my throat.

My gaze slices to the door. “Why?”

Calm down, Riley. He’s probably just dropping by.

“To see you,” Nick finishes, squashing the hope of this being a casual drop-by.

“Why, what did you tell him?” I ask, still gripping onto the hope that Nick didn’t tell him my secret.

I’m not ready to talk about my injury. Not ready to make it real. Not ready for my locust mom to chomp on my Nick bubble until it bursts. Not yet.

I still have three weeks until I’ve worked off my advance.

Three weeks until my grandpa comes home.

Three weeks to pretend.

The Grim Reaper looks up from his place on the couch. He’s smiling. He never smiles.

My hand goes to my stomach, feeling it drop with dread.

Nick scrubs a hand down his dark-blond stubble. “I told him I had a friend whose knee was pretty messed up and could use one of his team doctors who specializes in that shit to look at it.” He fills his lungs. “Then I told him the friend was you.”

His words hang suspended in the air for a few heartbeats before they pierce my skin like a rainstorm of hollow-point bullets.

I shake my head. “You told him?” The words sound small against the enormity of hurt sinking into my bones.

“I’m sorry, Ry.”

“You knew why I didn’t go to Steve.” I swallow the bitter truth in my words, taking a few steps back—wishing I was a million miles away from him instead of a few feet—the sound of my heartbeat drowning out the Indiana Jones song coming from the pinball machine.

He knew Steve would tell my mom. He knew she had the power to take my broken pieces and pulverize them until there was nothing left but dust. Nick was right when he said he’ll always know me. The real me. Making his betrayal sting like a swarm of yellow jackets.

“I want you to be happy, Ry.” His voice is a soft rasp. “Like in the kitchen.”

My voice isn’t soft. It’s sharp like a steel blade. “You don’t get to do this, Nick. You don’t get to tell me when I’m happy. Or how I’m happy. Or who I’m happy with.” My voice drips with acid. “Even Dylan had the decency to—”

Nick’s jaw ticks. “Dylan’s a fucking prick,” he seethes, his deep voice an icy tone that sends a shiver through me.

His gaze darkens, his pupils devouring the burnt-honey layers.

I square my shoulders against the urge to shrink under his glare. “At least he cared enough about me not to go to Steve behind my back.” I point to my chest. “At least he let me make my own choices.”

For everything Dylan did wrong, at least he kept my secret safe, even though he didn’t want to, even though he said I was ridiculous. He gave me that at least.

“No.” Nick shakes his head, his voice low and menacing. “Dylan didn’t tell your dad because he doesn’t give a shit about you.”

I flinch as his words scrape down my back, leaving a trail of red welts.

He takes a step toward me.

“I do.” He points a sharp thumb to his chest. “I give a shit about you, Riley. And I’m not going to watch you miss a chance at fixing your knee because you’ve got issues with your mom.” His face hardens, and the air swirls with an energy that traps me in place. “If you’re pissed at me for that, fine. I can deal with it. If you want to yell at me for giving a shit, I can deal with that too.” His jaw hardens.

His declaration slides across my skin like a hot iron.

My head cocks to the side. “So, suddenly, you care about me?” My voice oozes sarcasm edged with something deep and painful. An Arctic-wind smile spreads across my face, flash-freezing my heart between beats. “Did you decide that this week?” I flinch as the old wound with his name on it rips wide open, oozing the festering pain trapped underneath.

If he cared, he would have called. But he didn’t. Not once. Never texted. Not once. Never came by my grandpa’s, or Steve’s, or Win’s when he knew I was in town. Not once.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His sharp brows furrow, deepening two lines between them. His voice licks at my skin like a live wire.

I widen my stance, knocked off balance by the raw energy expanding between us. “It means you don’t really give a shit, Nick.” I swallow past the splintered glass in my throat. “It means I’m just your newest rescue project.” I hate that my voice sounds shredded. Hate that he can hear my pain.

I want to push past him and walk out the door, saving myself from the unbearable heat of this dumpster-fire moment, but my legs won’t budge.

“Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t need you to save me. I’m not Daisy or Peaches.” I point at him, fiery anger bubbling at the tips. “I don’t need you to swoop in on your white horse to save me after ten years of not calling or —

His chin dips. “Twelve. It’s been twelve years, Riley. Not ten. Twelve.” His voice is edged with anger, like he has the right to be mad at me.

“Fine. For twelve years you never called, or texted, or stopped by my grandpa’s when you knew I was in town.” I scoff, a cold, ugly sound. “You didn’t even bother saying goodbye when I left. So you can save your bullshit for someone else.” I flick my wrist. “Go find another rescue project because I’m not it. I don’t need you to save me, Nick.” Liar.

His nostrils flare. “Rescue project?” he repeats, his eyes shooting gold daggers at me from behind his glasses.

I raise my chin. “You heard me.”

“Yeah,” he says in his low, raspy voice as he closes the space between us in a few long-legged strides. I open my mouth to say something, but words become breath when his heavy hand lands on the side of my neck. “I heard you.”

My body goes stock-still at the contact. I brace my hands on the cold metal of the pinball machine behind me.

He’s close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from his body, so close I can smell cinnamon jelly beans on his breath.

“Good,” I say in a stubborn whisper, my gaze flicking over his features as the vein in my neck thumps an erratic beat against his rough palm.

His thumb slides under my chin, pushing it further back until our eyes lock. I feel myself sinking into the darkness in his gaze.

I part my lips to say something, but I can’t think of anything except he looks bigger from this angle, bigger without the smile that reminds me of the boy I knew, older with his jaw set in this sharp line.

“Now it’s your turn to hear me.” His long fingers flex on the crook of my neck, his other hand on my hip, his possessive grip anchoring me in place, letting me know this moment belongs to him.

That right now I belong to him.

My blood turns thick and hot at his touch. I take in a steadying breath, trying to cool my senses, too dizzy at his closeness to grab onto any of the thoughts racing through my mind.

“You’re wrong.” His nostrils flare with his deep breath. “I didn’t save Daisy or Peaches, or Pres, or Fin.” He swallows, his voice rougher as he continues, “They saved me.”

Hurt flashes across his face before he inches closer.

I feel his pain soak into my skin.

His gaze drills into mine. “You saved me once too… pulled me out of the black fucking hell I was living in.” His chest expands with steady breaths, his hand growing heavy on my neck like his next words are laced with kryptonite. “You gave me color when I didn’t even know what that shit was, Riley. You gave me that.”

My gaze travels over the color marking his body. Flashes of the black hell he’s talking about send a sharp pain through my chest: the bruises, the cuts, scabs, the wooden baseball bat he kept next to his bed before he was even big enough to swing it fully. The dark secrets he kept hidden behind bright smiles and quick laughs.

I knew his secrets.

I knew he poked the beast and took the beatings so his mom didn’t have to. I knew she threw him in front of her in the lion’s den and used his heart as a shield.

And I hated her for it. Hated that she didn’t protect him like a mom should. Hated that she made sure his sister was safe but not him, not the sweet boy who saved snails from the sidewalk. Hated that she gave him an extra slice of pizza at school lunch with an I’m-sorry smile, knowing he wore the marks meant for her.

I fucking hated that smile.

Hated that he smiled back.

I wrap my hand around his arm, feeling tense muscle under warm skin. His gaze heats.

I open my mouth to say something, to let him know how sorry I am for keeping those secrets when I should’ve told, but he presses his thumb into my chin with a shake of his head.

His thick Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “The day you left, I sat on the roof of my car in the parking lot, watching the planes take off, knowing one of them was yours, with a smile on my face even though it fucking gutted me.” His eyes blaze liquid gold as they hold mine.

I want to turn away from the searing heat, run from the pain in his words, but I can’t move. I can’t even breathe.

A picture of Nick sitting on his car in his baggy jeans and beat-up Vans, watching the planes in the sky, feels like an iron fist to the gut. His words twist like a jagged knife in my heart.

His fingers tighten. “Because I knew inside, I was just like him. And someday, I’d take something from you that wasn’t mine to take. That eventually I’d ruin you like my dad ruins people.” He releases a heavy exhale. “I smiled when you left because it meant you were safe from all that shit. Safe from me. I didn’t call because I wanted to keep it that way.” His jaw ticks.

“Then you came back…” His voice trails off, defeated and tired. “And now I don’t know what to fucking do.”

He thinks he’s like his dad? That I’m not safe with him?

I feel crushed under the weight of his words.

“Nick.” I place my hand over his heart, like that will stop the hemorrhage. My pain absorbs his, becoming one pain. Our pain. “You’re nothing like your dad.” I pray he can hear in my voice that I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life. “You’re nothing but good inside.” I flex my fingers on his chest. “Not like him. Nothing like him.”

I met his dad once. Saw firsthand the violence he breathed. Heard the words he wielded like weapons. And saw the wounds they left behind.

When Win texted me in New York that Nick’s father had been beaten and left for dead in front of where Nick and I would pick up our skate-park snacks, I actually smiled. A bright smile that felt inky and wrong to my sixteen-year-old heart, but I didn’t care.

Some people deserve what they get.

“Babe…” Nick’s lids lower. His broad shoulders slump as he presses my flattened hand harder against his chest. His rapid-fire heartbeats kick against my palm. “I have to fight not to be like him every fucking day.”

There’s so much hurt in his voice, so much heartache etched in his words, it sinks into my skin like barbed wire.

My fingers tighten against the intensity of it.

“Please, listen to me. You’re nothing like that man.” I want to say monster, but I don’t. I want to place my hand on his cheek, but I don’t do that either. “I know you, remember?” I deliver a version of the words he gave me back to him. “That’s how we work, right? You and me?” Nick and Peanut.

His eyes search for truth. Then he bends down and brushes his nose against mine, resting his forehead on my own. “I missed you.” His words are barely above a whisper, but they vibrate every cell of my body.

There’s so much tenderness in the feel of his forehead on mine, it squeezes my chest until I can’t breathe.

“I missed you, too.” I close my eyes and lean into the truth of my words, tilting my chin up a little, feeling his uneven breaths hit against my mouth, wondering what would happen if I closed the space between our lips.

Could I kiss his hurt away? Could I breathe it into my body on his cinnamon breath and make it mine? Would he kiss me back? Or would he push me away, and I’d lose him all over again.

I open my eyes when he moves from my forehead, his hand tightening over mine on his chest.

He shakes his head with an exhale. “If you knew…” His words trail off, and something flashes across his face too fast for me to name, but it feels black and cold.

His gaze drops.

I bend down to catch it with mine.

“Knew what?” I gently push against his chest, urging him to talk to me. “Tell me, Nick. Talk to me. I’m here.”

He holds my gaze for a few choppy heartbeats, then shakes his head again. “I wish I was the guy you think I am, Peanut. But I’m not. Not even fucking close.” His gaze drills into mine until I can feel the part that makes Nick, Nick, wrap around the part that makes me, me.

Until it’s just us.

Then his mouth is on my forehead in a gentle press of soft lips against skin that moves like a thousand fireflies through my body, blinding me with their light.

He pulls back, peering down at me. “I’m not the guy on a white horse here to save you, Riley.”

I open my mouth to tell him he’s the only place I’ve ever felt safe. That when the end of the world comes, I still want to be with him when it happens, but his thumb brushes across my parted lips, silencing my words. His eyes track the motion with a laser intensity that turns the air in my lungs to vapor.

His voice rumbles his chest. “I wish I was. Wish I could be that for you.” He drops his hands from anchoring me in place.

Sending me adrift onto the ocean of fake smiles, fake selfies, fake this, fake that, fake… everything.

He takes a few steps back, and I watch the moment slip under the surface, not sure if I want to dive under to bring it back or let it sink away.

He clears his throat, slipping his hand into his pocket. “I just wanted to let you know Steve was on his way because you hate surprises.” He messes with his professor glasses. “Sorry, shit got weird.” He glances to the door, letting me know he doesn’t want to talk about what just happened. “He was leaving Win’s when I called, so he’ll be here soon… I’ll go, so you can finish your game.”

Like I give a crap about the pinball game.

“Nick,” I say his name, my stomach twisting at the thought of leaving things like this between us, but not really knowing what else to say or do. Not knowing how to fix this, or if I’d make it worse if I tried. “Thank you for, uh, being my friend.” I exhale, hating that I can never find the right words to say.

Thank you for being my friend? So fucking stupid, Riley.

He nods with a pressed-lip smile and moves to the door, turning back to me with his hand on the knob. “I’m going to head out with Bean to pick up the parts for Pearl. After you’re done with your dad, you can call it a day too.” He opens the door. “You want me to take Daisy, or do you want to take her when you leave?”

“I’ll take her,” I say a bit too quickly. “I mean, if you want.” I shrug, trying to tone down the eagerness in my voice.

I have no idea why the thought of having Daisy with me makes me feel better, but it does.

His cheek creases in that way. “You do love her.”

“Maybe a little,” I tease, even though I’m not really in a teasing mood, but I can see in his eyes he needs that from me, so I give it to him.

Even though what I really want to do is wrap my arms around his waist and transport us back in time to when we were kids, so I can do it all differently.

Nick’s smile grows, the playful light returning to his dark eyes.

He takes a step out and turns before shutting the door. “When I said you can be pissed at me for telling your dad about your knee, I lied. You can’t. See you at home.”

Home. And then he’s gone.

Like a tornado that rolled through the heartland, leaving nothing but scattered debris and remnants of what was behind.

There are moments in my life where I can clearly see the line drawn in the sand. One side the “before this,” and on the other, the “after this.”

Like when I danced en pointe for the first time. When I heard my mom crying real tears after my grandma passed away. When my mom married Steve. The first time Nick and I played video games without Win, laughing until we fell asleep on the living-room floor.

When I hugged my knee to my chest, knowing what that pain meant.

Now, knowing Nick was at the airport. That he didn’t throw me away. That I meant something to him. That I didn’t imagine our friendship. That I saved him from his black hell like he saved me from my beige one.

I stand on the pile of debris, knowing no matter how much I clean up the mess our words left behind, no matter how much I rebuild and put things back until they’re picture-perfect again, it will never be the same between us.

I swallow past the unbearable tightness in my throat.

I’m not sure we can save each other this time. I’m not the white swan anymore, and Nick’s not the lanky skater boy I maybe-loved.

He’s a blood-splattered Viking wearing an armor made of rainbow tattoos, battling the demons his dad unleashed with a lazy grin and an easy laugh.

And I’m a bull-riding shield-maiden, too busy fighting off my own demons with fake smiles and Taco Bell to help him.

I step off the debris pile, allowing my feet to carry me out of the door and down the hallway to the bathroom.

I close the door behind me and walk to the sink.

After a lifetime spent looking at my reflection, the mirror has become a touchstone I both hate and need to survive.

I fix my hair a little with shaky fingers, trying to put my perfect mask back in place, but it fits different now. Not so perfect.

I wonder if Steve will notice the cracks.

Or if Nick will know he’s the one who broke it with his words.

I fill my lungs and close my eyes.

Memories of us I don’t want to see play like a trailer to a movie I don’t want to watch.

I tighten my thighs, trying not to crumple under the weight of the emotions piling on my shoulders. My teeth clench.

You’re still in love with him, Riley.

It was just a teenage maybe-love crush…

Liar.

My eyes spring open and I suck in a ragged breath, surprised by the icy burn of a blade running through my heart—a death blow in a battle I swore I’d never fight again.

I clutch my bleeding heart.

I can’t believe I’m falling for Nicolas MacGregor.

Like once wasn’t enough.

And there’s a good chance I’m falling for his stupid hellhound and her stupid adorable face, too.

My stomach sinks.

This is going to hurt.

Maybe even more than the first time.

15

DON’T FEAR THE REAPER

After duct-taping my mask back together, I drag my feet down the hall toward the buzzing of a tattoo gun and soft music, trying like hell to leave my messy feelings for Nick behind in the bathroom so I can deal with Steve. But they’re stuck to my shoe like toilet paper.

I shake them off the best I can and plod into the work area, eyes searching for my stepdad. I bite the inside of my cheek, imagining if he’ll be hurt, or mad, that I didn’t tell them about my knee. Or worse, both.

My gaze catches on Luna, busy working on a half-naked, tattooed, grizzly man lying face-up on a black leather table.

If Santa Claus was a grizzly biker dude, this would be him.

His jolly belly’s too big to see what she’s inking on his side, but judging by his tightly shut eyes and reddened face, it must hurt. A lot.

She glances up at me while she works.

“Are mommy and daddy fighting?”

Her sly grin acts like a blowtorch to my cheeks.

“Um. We were just talking,” I clarify, tucking a strand behind my ear.

And take a few more steps in, trying to cool my cheeks by fanning my gaze around the room in case I missed Steve’s six-foot-four frame the first time.

A spike of adrenaline jolts my spine when I spot him through the window, talking with Nick and Bean in front of his cherry-red 1975 Ford truck.

Golden childhood memories of us kids piled into the cab to grab Slurpees from 7-Eleven in “the old girl” sit heavy on my chest.

Steve, me, Nick, and Win—that was always the order.

“Jesus, girl,” Biker Santa growls, snagging my attention. He lifts his head off the table, crinkling the exam-room paper beneath him, and tilts his chin to her. “You mining for gold in my side or what?”

The buzzing stops.

“Beauty hurts, babe.” She shoots him a wink, then slides her gaze out the window to the boys, then to me. “Your dad’s the king of tasty snacks, girl.” She sighs, her eyes going back to her work. “Older men are my weakness.”

It’s the first time I’ve heard someone call Steve the king of snacks. The king of football, yes. Food? Nope. But it’s not the first time I’ve seen women drool over him.

Win might have gotten his singing voice from his mom, but he got his farm-boy good looks from his dad. Though, unlike Win, not everyone loves Steven Night. But everyone respects him. Including me.

“So you’re saying I have a chance?” Biker Santa grins.

“I said older men, Buck. Not old as fucking dirt,” she teases.

“You’re breaking my heart, darlin’,” he says, chuckling.

“Yeah. I do that a lot.”

His jolly belly moves with his laugh. “I bet you do.”

I chuckle with him because I’m nervous as hell and I don’t know what else to do. My gaze swings back to the window, tracking Nick as he walks from Steve with Presley on his shoulder and Bean leading the way.

I want him to look at me so I can mind-meld with him, letting him know I’m no longer mad he told Steve, but he disappears out of sight without a glance my way.

Taking in a deep yoga breath through my nose, trying to quiet my mind, I watch Steve make his way toward the shop as he’s messing with his phone.

Is he texting my mom?

I run a hand down my ponytail and look over my shoulder at Luna.

“Where’s Daisy?” I ask, suddenly wanting the comfort of her gorilla weight pressed against my leg.

“Carlos took her for a walk,” she says as she squirts soapy liquid on the tattoo and wipes. Out of all the designs I imagined this grizzly Santa getting, a colorful dragonfly was not it.

“Oh, okay.” I drop my hand and force my feet to meet Steve at the door, trying to prepare the words I’m not ready to say to a man I’m not ready to see. Especially not after being thrown around in Nick’s tornado.

My lips move into a dimpled smile as Steve walks in.

I don’t usually give him this smile, but I can’t help it. My heart’s pounding, and my mind is spinning so fast I’m on smile autopilot.

His face softens when our eyes lock, his hazel ones crinkling around the edges as he meets my fake smile with a warm one.

Slipping his phone into his pocket, he closes the space between us in a few long-legged strides.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says in his Matthew McConaughey Texan twang, a deep voice roughened from years spent yelling at his players from the sidelines.

He never yells off the field. The only time I saw him come close was when Win took Steve’s motorcycle for a joy ride when he was thirteen.

He wraps me in his brawny arms, and his clean Old Spice scent takes me back to our crack-of-dawn drives to summer training camp for his team.

A team he always made me feel a part of.

“Hey,” I say against his navy button-down shirt, guilt clogging my throat as I hug him a little tighter, hoping he knows he’s not the reason I stopped visiting. Stopped inviting them down. Stopped calling and started texting.

He brings me at arm’s length, his hazel gaze traveling over my face.

I wonder if I look as broken on the outside as I feel on the inside.

His heavy hands squeeze my shoulders. “I’m glad I’m here.”

My heart peels back the steel layers to his words and grabs onto what’s hidden underneath: You’re not alone.

“Me too,” I say, emotions I don’t want to feel leaking into my voice.

Steve drops his hands from my shoulders and motions a thumb toward his truck. “Wanna grab a hot chocolate at Chuck’s?”

Chuck’s was our crack-of-dawn stop on the way to camp headquarters in Santa Clara. Coffee and a donut for him. Too-sweet hot chocolate that I barely sipped and a banana for me.

“Sure, just let me get my purse.” I turn and catch eyes with Luna, pausing my steps on the way to Nick’s muse room. Her needle stops buzzing. “I’ll be back in bit to get Daisy, okay?”

“Sure thing.” Her gaze slides to Steve. “You’re looking good, Steve,” she says, trying to snare his attention with a flirty smile that I’m glad my mom’s not here to see. She has diamond-tipped claws when it comes to her husband.

“Thanks,” I hear his uninterested reply at her blatant attempt at flirting.

I can’t help but smile at that.

I’m sure some men in their late forties would bite the shiny hook Lusty Luna’s dangling in the water. But not Steve. He only has eyes for my mom. And as much as I hate to admit it, I’m glad she has that.

I walk into Nick’s muse room, speeding past the pool table to my purse on the couch, slinging it over my shoulder.

My stomach dips when I walk past the Indiana Jones game.

I flip off Harrison Ford.

Freaking Temple of Doom.

“So, what happened?” Steve asks, getting to the heart of why we’re parked at Chuck’s Donuts, sipping hot chocolate while watching people get off the bus.

I meet his eyes, feeling crushed under the weight of worry in them.

“I blew my knee out.” I swallow hard, knowing my next words will free me from this cage but only part of me can survive outside it, so I take in my last breath and say, “ACL, MCL, and the medial meniscus—all blown.” I shrug the heavy weight on my shoulders. “The window of opportunity for even a partial recovery closed months ago, so this is it.” I finish with the same words the doctor gave me and closed-lipped smile number two.

There, I said it. Out loud.

It’s done. I exhale the last of my ballet-bubble air and watch the Grim Reaper scoop up my lifeless body into his phantom arms and carry the perfect me away.

I want to run after him, but I don’t. I want to cry, but I can’t. I want to scream at God to do something, but he never answers my calls anymore.

So I just sit back and watch myself disappear, sipping hot chocolate in a parking lot with Steve.

“Damnit,” he says, his voice a low rumble that moves through my chest like rolling thunder.

“Yep,” I say, exhaling.

He knows what that injury means: The Terrible Triad. A career-ending injury usually reserved for basketball players, yet here I am, lost in the Bermuda freaking Triangle of dream dust, broken bodies, and machine parts.

He grunts and nods slowly, scrubbing a rough hand over his mouth, processing the information with eyes narrowed on the windshield.

When his gaze meets mine, I brace for the pity I’m afraid to see, but there’s none. No trace of disappointment. And believe me, I look for that too.

There’s pain, though. Pain for me.

Pain I don’t deserve.

“I’m so sorry, kiddo.” His voice is rougher, his eyes glossed with tears that kill me to see.

This was a mistake. I should never have come home.

I shake my head. “Don’t be. I pushed too hard. Didn’t listen to my body. After the surgeries, I kept pushing.” My gaze follows the cars zooming past on El Camino as I wish I was in one of them, going anywhere else. “I don’t know why I couldn’t just…” I drop my gaze to the cup lid, and my words mutate into a short huff of disappointment. “I did this to myself, so it is what it is, I guess.”

I take a sip.

It’s still too hot, but I swallow it anyway.

“Hey.” I turn at the steel in his voice, meeting his gentle eyes. He dips his chin. “That kind of thinking will keep you stuck, Riley.”

“Yeah, I know.” I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “I’m trying…” I blow out a frustrated breath. “It’s been a real shitty year, Steve.” There’s an edge in my voice that’s out before I can pull it back.

He nods. “I’ve been there, and if it weren’t for your mom and you kids, I’d probably still be there. So I get it. Get how easy it is to get stuck, eyes glued to the replay, trying to figure out how to bend time to redo that shit.”

At twenty-seven the Reaper came for Steve too. Summoned by a helmet-to-helmet collision heard around the world. His team won the Super Bowl and lost their MVP to a neck injury that should’ve paralyzed him but left him broken in a different way.

A year later my grandpa was called to repair a leak in Steve’s yard, and in true Fernando Souza fashion, he kidnapped a scruffy Steve and his rowdy son and brought them home to my mom and me for dinner.

They came back the next night for my mom’s meatloaf. Steve was clean-shaven this time, his hazel eyes clear. My mom made three different meatloaves before he showed, burning each one. He said it was the best meatloaf he’d ever had.

Four months later, they were saying vows in his backyard.

Funny how life works.

He clears his throat. “You remember Dr. Cole?”

I shake my head, failing to place the name.

“He looked at a few of your sprains, back in the day.”

“Oh, right,” I say, seeing a fuzzy image of his shiny bald head and the space between his teeth when he smiled.

His gaze flicks to my legs. “I can have him take a look, to see if anything can be done. Crenshaw got this stem cell treatment that regrew his ligament, if you can believe it.” His eyes brighten with hope as he talks. “It’s unreal what they can do these days. You want me to give him a call?”

Hope is a dangerous thing for someone like me.

“We’ll see. Thanks.”

He nods. “How are you dealing with the pain?”

He wants to know if I dull my pain with prescriptions and alcohol. I want to tell him that the physical pain is the drug that keeps me numb inside, but I don’t.

“Advil mostly.”

“That’s good.” The lines on his forehead smooth out a bit.

“Mm, hmm.”

We watch another bus come and go with a disproportionate amount of interest. His cell chimes from under the awkward silence blanketing us.

I startle at the unexpected bark of rich laugher, spilling a little hot chocolate on my hand as it fills the truck.

I swing my gaze to see his eyes on his phone.

He meets mine, brows raised, eyes shining. “Is there something else you want to tell me, Riley?” The tone in his voice sends me back to when I was thirteen and got caught sneaking out with Megan to meet boys from school.

Nick was more pissed than Steve. His lecture about the danger of teenage boys and kidnappings longer, too.

“Um, no… why?”

“You sure?” His grin grows.

He turns the screen to me. It’s a screenshot of my bull-riding Instagram post. “Your mom said you get this from me. And I couldn’t be prouder.” He chuckles.

I kick myself for not thinking my mom would eventually stalk my socials, trying to piece together why Dylan left me. Of course she would.

And how the hell did I forget about posting that days ago? I’m usually an obsessive checker. No like goes unseen. No comment un-hearted.

Why did I post that picture? It’s not cute. At all. I don’t look like a Viking warrior—I look like I’m calling on the gods to help me take the biggest poop of my life.

“This is a nightmare,” I grumble, reaching to the floorboard of the truck for my purse, pulling out my phone with shaky fingers.

“Why? Because everyone will know how awesome my kid is.” His grin widens. “You’re a Night through and through.”

I grab onto his words, but they slip through my fingers.

I try to pick up the pride in his voice and wrap myself in it, but it falls apart at my touch.

I’m not really a Night. My mom is. Winston is. But not me. I’m a Souza. And if my real dad had stayed, I’d be an Abrams.

Maybe in a different dimension, I’m Riley Abrams. A successful real estate agent with a house and a Daisy of her own. Maybe a Peaches, too. And a Fin. But not a Presley… he’s kind of a dick.

“If you think I’m awesome, you need to get out more,” I scoff.

Holding my breath, I click open the app on my phone, and scan the damage with twitchy eyes, skimming the hundreds of comments, snagging on the ones that matter most:

tinydancer888: Is this really you?!

…

dance4life: That Nor-Cal water must be magic!

…

nialeani: Miss you! Looks like you’re having a blast! xo

…

laballetgirl: Lol! So fierce!

…

itsjustkrista: OMG! This is the best thing I’ve ever seen!

…

dylanbeckett: What have you done with Riley? Amazing.

My heart trips over its next beat. Why is Dylan commenting on my post? Anger slides up my neck at the fact he thinks he has the right to say anything about my new life. If he’s going to stalk my socials, he should do it quietly, giving me the same respect I gave him.

I click the reply under his comment:

itsjustkrista: @dylanbeckett she’s always been amazing.

dylanbeckett: @itsjustkrista I know.

My chest swells. Krista always has my back—she’s pulled a few knives I couldn’t reach from it too. Ballerinas have a reputation for being catty and cold. Some are, but most are too busy chasing their dreams to have time for petty bullshit.

Most are the ones you’d want to ride into battle with, like Krista. I decide to call her soon. Maybe not today, but soon.

“I think this’ll be my new screensaver.” Steve is gleefully messing with his phone.

“Don’t you dare.” Nick and Steve having matching screensavers of me is a new low.

“Too late.” He gives me a white-toothed grin before slipping his phone back into his jeans pocket. Then continues after a few heartbeats, “So, what’s the game plan, kiddo?”

The game plan I was excited about a few days ago seems stupid now, but I guess a stupid plan is better than no plan, so I go with it. “I’m helping Nick with some assistant stuff while I figure things out.”

He grunts with a nod. “You’re not interested in coaching?” He means teaching, but I don’t correct him.

“Zina made me an offer at the school, but I’m not, really”—I look back to the hot-chocolate-stained lid—“ready for that yet.”

“Yeah, it can take a while.”

Or forever.

“I think I might be pretty good at this assistant thing, so maybe I’ll look for a job doing that.” I shrug, taking a sip of the hot chocolate.

It tastes chalky now that it’s cooled some.

“Nothing wrong with that.” He clears his throat and reaches for the pack of Big Red chewing gum he always keeps in the ashtray.

He holds a piece out for me.

“I’m good, thanks.” I give him a small smile.

He pops in a piece, chews for a bit. “Spring training’s coming up, and I could always use your help too.”

Helping his players with proper stretching and balance was one of my favorite things to do during the summer.

You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a bunch of Goliaths try to out plié each other, giving fist-bumps when they can finally touch their toes.

Did I feel partly responsible for Grady’s “miracle leap” over the defensive line to score the winning Super Bowl touchdown?

Yep, sure did.

The corner of my lip twitches. “I’d love to help.”

“Cool.” I know the next subject by the way his chest rises as he takes in a deep breath through his nose and lets it out slowly. “Listen, I don’t know why you didn’t tell us about your knee. Or why you’d want to carry this shit alone when you’ve got people who love you.”

He pauses.

“I respect your reasons are your own, Riley.” He presses his lips together like he’s trying to figure out his next words. “But I also love your mom, and I need you to know it’s gonna hurt her bad when she finds out. It’d be better if she heard it from you, but I’ll tell her if you want.”

My blood turns to ice at the thought. “I can tell her.”

“Good.” He nods. “I’ll let her know you’re coming for supper. Say around six-thirty tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow works,” I say, trying to cover the dread in my voice with a dimple.

He gives me a few thoughtful nods. “Your mom felt you pulling away this last year. I told her you were just settling into your new position with the company. That you were fine. To give you space. She knew something was wrong.” He shakes his head. “She was right.”

He’s disappointed with himself because of me.

And it makes me feel like total shit.

“I’m sorry, Steve. I just…” I want to say that he doesn’t know my mom like I do. That she’s not the same person with me she is with him, or Win, or pretty much anyone on the planet. That she hates me because I was her Terrible Triad, the injury that stole her ballet dreams. But I keep those thoughts to myself. “I don’t know why I do the things I do sometimes.” I run a hand over my knee out of habit. “I’m twenty-six and I feel like I should have this figured out.”

He chuckles at that. “Well, I hate to break it to you, kid.” He puts his heavy hand on my shoulder. “I’m nearing fifty and still don’t know what the hell I’m doing half the time. The minute you think you’ve got this game figured out, they go and change the damn rules.” His half smile pulls one from me. “We just do the best we can and pray the good Lord has bad eyesight and a short memory.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze, then drops his hand.

If Steve wasn’t a football coach, I’m pretty sure he’d be a preacher like his papaw, a man I’ve never met but feel I know from the stories he tells.

I raise my brows. “If this is a pep talk, it kind of sucks,” I say, grabbing onto the lightness moving through my chest. “You might want to work on it.”

“Okay, smartass.” He chuckles. “You get that from your mother.” He motions to my cup. “You done?”

“Yeah, thanks.” I hand him my nearly empty cup, watching him slide out of the truck and throw away our trash.

He still moves with the grace of an athlete. Still looks like one too.

I guess I still look like a ballet dancer, or the idea of what a ballerina should look like, but even that’s fading.

He gets back in the truck, then meets my eyes. “You ready to hit it?”

I nod. “I should probably get back to work.” I’ve never said those words in my life. It feels good, but weird and sort of like a lie on my tongue.

He starts the engine. “I know you won’t take it, but if you need money—”

I shake my head. “Nick already gave me some against my will. That he won’t let me give back.”

Steve laughs as he backs up. “That’s what family does. We show up.” He puts it in drive and shoots me a sly grin. “Even when you don’t want us to.”

I snicker at that, but after the laughter dies, his words sink in.

And I realize he’s right.

I pull out my Viking sword and sharpen the blade, readying it for battle.

If I survive dinner with my mom, I’m going to slay Nick’s monsters.

Even if he doesn’t want me to.

Because that’s what family does.

16

HERE, FISHY, FISHY…

Family sucks.

My stepbrother, specifically.

I’m pretty sure I’m going to murder him with a fishhook.

My jaw tightens when he starts to whistle the theme to The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, sealing his death-by-fishhook fate.

A Clint Eastwood movie I’ve had to watch way too many times because of him.

I hate that I have to press my lips to keep from joining his whistle.

When he adds a rhythmic foot tap, my glare slices from the quiet lake to his shadowy profile lit in the darkness by the gas lantern sitting on the pebbled dirt between us. And a few outdoor lights coming from the cabin behind us.

Even the sun’s still freaking sleeping. So are the crickets. And the frogs. Even the mosquitos are snoring in their little mosquito beds.

The only thing awake at this devil hour, besides me and my psycho stepbrother, is a woodpecker taking out its anger on an innocent tree somewhere in the forest.

“Isn’t this nice? You and me getting to spend some brother-sister time,” Win says with a smirk around the toothpick hanging from his mouth, his hazel gaze dancing to the tune of my misery.

Yep. I’m going to kill him.

“Way better than sleeping.” I take a sarcastic sip of the Donut House coffee we had to stop and get, since I totally forgot about this revenge fishing trip and didn’t make any.

Swallowing down the watery brew, I turn my sandpaper-lid eyes toward the black sky. Not a star to be found. Figures.

An undercurrent of anger sits in my chest like a stifled scream.

I’m in a dangerously dark mood for three reasons:

1) This is my default mode at five o’clock in the morning.

2) I have PMS.

3) When I got home yesterday with Daisy from work, Nick and Pearl were gone.

And the only texts I got from him was one asking if I could feed the babies dinner because he’s stuck in San Jose. So, I did. Then another asking if I could read them a bedtime story because he can’t make it back for night-night time.

So I did that, too.

Spending a ridiculous amount of time on Nick’s floor reading stories to his babies—mostly to Finn, who seemed oddly enthralled by The Little Engine That Could—hoping to catch Nick when he came home.

Because I needed to see if things felt different between us now.

Because I feel different.

Because all I can think about is the tender feel of his forehead pressed on mine. His cinnamon breath on my lips. The way he shredded my mechanical heart with his words, and then walked away.

A little after one in the morning, Daisy and Peaches sprang from my bed and out the kitchen doggy door, letting me know Nick was home.

And that they’d rather be with him.

I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, wondering why he’d been stuck in San Jose. And who he’d been stuck with.

“You cold?” Win asks, probably mistaking my clenched teeth for a chill. He takes the toothpick out of his mouth, pointing to the cabin behind us with it. The cabin belongs to Ben. The lake belongs to Ben too. Along with the thirty acres of lush forest surrounding it. “I can see if there’s a blanket or something inside.”

A girl could get lost in thirty acres.

“I’m good, thanks.” I snuggle into my grandpa’s wool-lined jean jacket, thankful Win grabbed it from the rack before we left.

It smells like plumber’s putty, rust, and copper. I loved those smells as a kid. The musty scent of his old work van. The sound of the copper pipes on the rack clanking in time with the Portuguese fado music mixed with radio static. I had no idea when I was six, that by the time I was ten, these things would embarrass me.

That I’d have him drop me off a block from school the mornings I’d spend the night at his house, so no one would see my grandpa’s beat-up van or hear the Portuguese music or clanking pipes. Perfect ballerinas don’t drive in old smelly plumbing vans.

“So, what’s going on, Ry?” I turn at his hot-chocolate voice to see his baseball cap is pushed up on his forehead in serious-talk mode. Shit. “It’s been like a year since you’ve visited.” His voice softens. “Or called.”

His words hang suspended in the silence between us.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been, uh, busy.”

His voice softens. “Too busy to return my texts?”

“I always texted you back.” I don’t want to sound defensive, but the sharp edge in my voice is there before I can smooth it out.

“A thumbs-up isn’t a text, Ry.”

He’s right. It’s a brush-off.

“I know.” I exhale the words on an unspoken apology.

“I just worry about you is all.” He shrugs with a heaviness in his broad shoulders and a glimmer of hurt in his eyes.

Hurt, I put there.

I add Win to the list of people I don’t deserve.

“You don’t have to worry. I’m fine.” I give him a dimpled smile, praying it doesn’t look as cracked and broken as it feels. “I’m sorry I didn’t call more, Win. Or text. I should have.” A hundred should’ve’s float in my mind.

I should’ve gone to your grand opening…

I should’ve been there to see your dreams come true.

His eyes hold mine for a few stuttered heartbeats.

He takes in a deep breath. “Nick told me about Dylan.”

My spine straightens at his words, and my fingers twitch around my coffee cup. I never told Nick not to tell Win, but it still twists my stomach into a knot that he did.

Win looks to the lake, moving his fishing line in the water, swallowing before meeting my gaze. “I’m your big brother. You’re supposed to call me so I can kick Dylan’s pathetic ass for fucking with my little sister. You’re supposed to call me to help you move your shit home.”

He lifts his hat, then sets it back, like he used to do on the pitcher’s mound before he’d throw the baseball.

“You’re supposed to come to me with this stuff, Riley.” He exhales. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad Nick’s got your back. Glad you trust him.” He shifts, the lawn chair creaking as he sits forward and wedges the pole into a pile of rocks to hold it upright. Then looks to me. “I guess, I just want you to know that I’m here for you too. That you can trust me.”

I look down to my lukewarm coffee, trying to find the words to let him know I do trust him. That I’m just not good at asking for help or talking about my feelings with anyone.

“I blew out my knee last year, so that’s why I’ve been, uh, sort of distant with you.” I shrug. “And everyone, I guess.” I turn to him. “I’m not good at… feelings, you know? Not good at talking about them.”

“Jesus, Ry.” He takes off his hat and sets it on his knee. “I’m so sorry.” He runs a hand through his thick hair in a gesture that’s one hundred percent Steve. “You have surgery?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “But it’s totally shot. Maybe therapy will help with mobility, but I won’t dance professionally again.” I wait for the sharp pain to slice through me at my words, but it’s just a dull ache in the empty space where the old me used to be.

“My dad has the best doctors for that shit, Ry.”

“I know. He offered to call…” I shake my head. “I don’t remember his name.”

“Probably Dr. Cole,” he says with a slow nod. “He’s the best.”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” I fill my lungs with silence and mountain air and look to the inky water, the weight of reality pushing down on my shoulders. How do I tell Steve I don’t want to see his doctor? That the Reaper already came and went. And now I just want to move on.

“What?” Win asks, softly, noticing my sudden fascination with the lake.

My chest deflates. “I’ve been in ballet since I was seven. It’s all I’ve ever known.” I meet his steady gaze, and even though it’s hard, I give him one of my secrets. “I don’t know who I am without it. And that scares the shit out of me, but I’m trying to work through it.” I turn back to the water. “Even if Steve’s medical team can perform a miracle, I’ll never be at the level I was.” I slip my hand into the jean-jacket pocket, fiddling with my grandpa’s loose change. “I know it sounds stupid, but I don’t want to spend my life being haunted by who I was.” I blow out a breath, puffing my cheeks with it. “I’d rather just retire.”

You’re so weak, Riley.

So whiny and pathetic.

My mom’s voice echoes in my mind. And I’m thankful for the darkness. Thankful that Win can’t see the heat crawling up my neck to my cheeks.

“It doesn’t sound stupid, Riley, not at all.” I turn to the sincerity in his voice. “I didn’t take the scholarship at Baylor because I knew I’d never escape my dad’s shadow.” He smiles with a breathy laugh. “It’s a big fucking shadow.” There’s pride in his voice, but there’s also a tinge of something else too. Something familiar. “So I get it. I get not wanting that shit.”

I give him a soft smile. “Thanks, Win.” The words feel small and inadequate, but I don’t know what else to say.

“You holding up, okay? It’s a lot to handle.”

“Ask me after dinner tonight, when I tell my mom,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

His eyes widen. “You haven’t told your mom?” He tsks with a slow shake of his head. “Not good, Ry. Not good.”

“I know.” I exhale. “I just couldn’t handle her on top of everything else going on.”

“Yeah, she can be a lot sometimes,” he concedes.

“Sometimes?” I say with a humorless laugh.

Looking to the lake, I let the darkness swallow my laughter.

“You tell Nick?” Win asks as he grabs his pole from the rocks.

“He pretty much held me hostage until I did.” I leave out the fact I was the one who broke into his house through his doggy door. In my underwear.

“Sounds about right.” There’s a little bitterness under the rich chocolate of his voice that has me shifting in my seat.

He puts his hat back on and reels in his line. The florescent-green bait pops from the water and swings in the air as he reels it to him.

“I made him promise not to tell anyone, though, so…” I add, trying to clear away the sudden heaviness in the air.

He grabs the bait, checking it. “Well, he kept his promise.” He stands, bringing his arm back, and casts his line, the sound of the reel spinning as it flies into the darkness. “Even from me.”

A soft plunk in the water sounds as it lands.

My stepbrother and Nick have been inseparable since kindergarten. A lifelong friendship forged on the playground when Nick got in trouble for eating red crayons and Winston for eating ants. I knew Nick didn’t tell Win about his dad because he would’ve told Steve in a heartbeat. He wouldn’t have kept his secret like I did. He was a better friend.

The thought of Win being mad at Nick because of me sits like a bag of rocks in my stomach.

He gives me a tight smile that, after a few beats, blooms into something genuine. “So, what’s the game plan, sis?” He gives me a raised-brow look. “Professional bull rider?”

“My bull-riding days are over.” I laugh. “I’m doing assistant-type stuff for Nick while I figure things out.”

“I heard.” He sets his pole into the makeshift rock holder. “You ready to kill him yet?” He chuckles.

I smile at that. “He’s a pain sometimes, but I like working at his shop. And the people are cool.” I tighten my grip on the fishing pole, feeling it vibrate with a little nibble, relaxing when it stops. “We’re all going to Vegas next weekend, so that’ll be fun.”

“Vegas? With Nick?” He laughs a rich sound as he leans back, his legs fall open and relaxed. “Good luck. Last time we went, he came back with a parrot. Had to rent a car to get home.”

“He got Presley in Vegas?” That explains the whole Elvis vibe.

“Yep.” He grins. “Left the bar with a few girls from Georgia, or some shit, and came back in the morning with a shaved head and a fucking parrot on his shoulder.”

I swallow back the bitter jealousy rising in my throat at the thought of Nick leaving the bar with a few girls, to do “crazy good in bed” sex stuff, no doubt. I hate that the only girl I know from Georgia is gorgeous and super sweet, and that I’m picturing Nick getting it on with a bunch of her clones.

“Figures,” I say, with a snicker I’m not feeling.

“Where’re you guys staying at?”

“Um, I think the MGM Grand, but I’m not sure. Luna’s the one handling all that.”

“God, I haven’t had a break in…” He sighs with a shake of his head. “I don’t even remember the last time. Maybe I should crash your party.”

Do I want my overprotective stepbrother in Vegas with me? No.

“You should totally come.” My gaze jumps to my fishing pole when it tugs down in a sharp yank. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I stand from the chair with my hand on the reel, and my stomach flip-flopping.

Swim away, fishy. Save yourself!

“Fish on!” Win exclaims as he rushes to my side. “Set the hook!”

“I am,” I say with a half-ass pull, giving the idiot fish a chance to save its idiot life. I even dip my pole in the water in a last-ditch effort to not hook it.

Win gives a hearty laugh at that. “Some things never change, softy.”

I glare up at him. “Just because I’m not a brutal killer who wants to separate this fish from its fishy family doesn’t mean I’m soft,” I lie.

Freaking Nemo and his sweet, goofy dad who loved him so much. Unlike mine.

“Did you just say fishy family?” He smirks.

“Whatever.”

The fish bites down on the hook and takes off with a hard tug—no doubt regretting this life choice.

My lungs deflate as I raise the pole and struggle to reel him in.

Yes, I decide it’s a boy fish.

A boy fish with rainbow tattoos who leaves fish bars with gorgeous girl fishes from Georgia.

“Here, I’ll release it for you so it can be with its family.” He grabs hold of my pole, pausing with raised brows. “Or we can have it for lunch.”

“Win.”

“Fine, we’ll let this one go.” He grins, turning his baseball cap backward like he always does whenever he reels in a catch. “But you see that cooler?” He motions with his head to the cooler strapped to the back of the off-road golf cart that got us here from the other side of Ben’s property. “We’re not leaving until it’s full.”

“You’re kidding,” I say flatly.

“Shouldn’t take us more than”—he pulls the big flopping trout out of the water—“I don’t know, eight or so hours.” His grin widens as he hands me the pole back, gets a better grip on the fish, and takes his pliers from his pocket.

“What if I promise to never break a record of yours again?” I say, a tinge of desperation clouding my voice.

“Record?” He holds the fish like a football while he pulls out the hook from its mouth with the pliers. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Riley.”

He smirks before stepping up to the lake to release the fish.

Then meets my eyes and starts whistling.

Freaking whistling.

I plop into the lawn chair, knowing this is how the next eight hours are going to go.

If my life were a YouTube Channel, I’d unsubscribe right about now.

In case you’re wondering, it takes six hours to fill a cooler full of fish for Win’s “Cajun Trout” dinner special. Four and a half hours under an overcast winter sky to get a sunburn on your nose. And eight hours of fishing hell before you’re back in your hibernation bed napping, with Peaches purring by your head. #FunFacts.

Well, it wasn’t all hell. I got to visit Emmy and the baby—who’s finally breastfeeding—after we dropped off the golf cart. We ate some yummy fried chicken one of the Golden Girls brought while her mother-in-law, Catherine, watched the baby.

And we watched her cool-as-shit best friend, Mara, on her reality show’s YouTube livestream, arguing with a mountain man she calls “Big Boots” about a baby wolverine she found and is determined to keep. Big Boots seems like a big grump, but he also looks like he could take down a pack of wolves without breaking a sweat, so he’s probably a good guy to have in the Alaskan wilderness.

When Emmy started yelling at Big Boots through the laptop, ordering Ben to fly to Alaska and kick his ass (though, I’m not sure he could), Ben gave her a sweet, sure-thing-babe kiss on her forehead. Then he and Win went to the garage to coo over Ben’s other baby, which has four wheels and a Cobra engine, whatever that is.

Ben’s dad was with them. Though I wouldn’t have recognized him on the street.

Last time I saw Mr. Crawford he was charging onto the baseball field like a raging bull in a five-thousand-dollar suit, ready to kill the umpire whose bad call cost Win and Ben the State Championship. Now, he wears pullover sweaters because he can’t always button his shirts right.

There’s a quiet cruelness to Alzheimer’s.

A cruelness in the slow goodbye of it. The way it dims your light, waiting like a thief in the shadows until your last spark dies so it can steal your most valuable pieces in the dark.

Ben’s dad still has a spark left. A flicker I saw when he looked at his son holding Baby Rose. He didn’t say anything, but it was there. It was also there in the way he paused to let Catherine walk into the living room from the kitchen first.

I don’t know why I thought of Nick when he did that. Don’t know why, at that moment, I wanted to be wrapped in his arms, but I did.

I lift my head from the pillow to look at the clock, then let it fall back with a groan when I see I only have two hours before dinner with my mom.

When I throw an arm over my eyes, the top of my hand lands on fur. But I don’t move to pet the inviting softness. I learned the hard way that Peaches doesn’t like to be touched.

“I don’t want to get up,” I whine, lifting my arm from my eyes so I can turn my head and peer into her green ones. “You want to take my place? You know how to drive, right?” My arm falls to my side. “Don’t worry my mom won’t pet you.” I touch my sunburned nose to see if it’s tender. “She might try and take you to get groomed, though.”

My body goes still when her little wet nose starts poking at my face. The sound of her purring is the only thing I can hear when she moves to my ear.

Poke. Poke. Poke.

I bite my lip to keep from giggling.

Riley Souza does not giggle.

Then I feel it. A little sandpaper tongue on my cheek. I’m not sure if she’s tasting me to see if I’m worth eating or giving me a kiss, but either way I can’t help the laugh that leaves my lips.

Just when I’m about to tell her this is the most action I’ve gotten in months, bagpipes sound from the work cell atop the dresser, startling us out of our snuggle time, and sending Peaches flying from my bed and out of the room with a loud hiss.

I feel you, girl. The sound makes me want to hiss and run, too. I’m usually quick to answer whatever tattoo question lies on the other end of those bagpipes, but my body decides the dresser is too far, not because of work, but because the sound makes me think of the Viking I haven’t seen since yesterday. Not that I ever stop thinking about him since I’ve been back, which is just as awesome as it sounds.

Was I super eager for Nick to see me looking like a fishing-before-dawn mess when I got home? No. But I can’t deny there was a pang of emptiness in my chest when Win dropped me off and I saw Nick’s car was gone. Again. Especially knowing Daisy was with him.

Guess I’ve gotten used to it being the three of us, so it felt weird that they were doing stuff without me.

Did I shake the bag of t-r-e-a-t-s from the walkway, which usually has Daisy plummeting through Nick’s doggy door, hoping I was wrong? Yep.

But instead of a plummeting Daisy, I got a prowling Peaches.

I set a treat on the kitchen floor for her, but she didn’t touch it. Instead, she followed me into the bathroom, and stood in the doorway while I took a hot shower to get the fishy smell of the green PowerBait off me. Then she moved to sit on the closed toilet lid and stared at me while I moisturized my newly freckled nose and sun-kissed cheeks.

The freckles are from my dad’s side. Or at least that’s what my mom tells me.

I’ve only seen one picture of him, taken at junior prom in front of a fake palm tree with his arm around my mom’s waist. He was tall and blond with a crooked smile that hinted at arrogance. My mom was a stunner, even then. Even in an ugly teal spaghetti-strap dress.

Even pregnant with me.

Technically, it’s the only picture I have of the three of us.

Not that I care.

I throw the covers from my bare legs and look back at the clock, hoping I saw it wrong.

Nope. Still T-minus two hours until D-Day dinner with my mom. Which leaves a little over an hour to transform myself back into the perfect me so I don’t have to see that disappointed look in her eyes.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and pull up NikkieTutorials on YouTube to see if she has a makeup look that could transform me from a limping pigeon into a graceful swan.

I tap on the video that has a soft and dewy pink look. Mentally pairing it with the black cashmere sweater and overpriced black jeans my mom bought me last time she came to visit us in LA.

She always said I looked great in black.

Black Swan, it is.

17

PIGEON PERFECTION

“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” I growl to myself while trying for the tenth time to button these cursed jeans.

I’ve tried everything. The mid-thigh squat, then pull and tuck. The lying-down lift, then shimmy. The mighty tug-of-shame (I may have fractured my pinky with that one).

But not even Hercules himself could get these suckers to fit.

I fall back onto the bed with a heavy sigh, my Black Swan jeans indenting my hips, realizing I’m royally screwed.

The last time I wore these jeans, I was fresh off of Nutcracker season when my body’s as lean as it can get, so I knew they’d fit tighter this time.

But did I expect I wouldn’t even be able to button them?

Nope. Didn’t see that coming.

Which means I’ve gained more hibernation-rotation softness than I thought.

It hasn’t helped that Nick keeps supplying me with Kit Kat bars at work. And takes me out to breakfast in the mornings. And lunch at Milagros if he’s not with a client. And Daisy’s been insisting that I stay snuggled with her at night, to watch Loki get into trouble instead of doing my grueling work out. She has a thing for Tom Hiddleston, by the way.

It’s not that I mind being a little softer around the hips with a little more bubble to my butt. I actually like the way I look now.

The old-me was a fine-tuned machine.

The new-me is just… me.

But the fact I can’t fit into my old jeans means my mom will notice I’ve gained weight and say the thing she always says to let me know I’ve lost my discipline.

“You’re looking healthy, Riley.”

Most people would think it’s a compliment. I mean, who doesn’t want to look healthy, right?

It’s not a compliment with my mom. To her healthy means soft. And soft means lazy.

And laziness is the greatest sin of all.

When I got out of the shower and heard Steve’s message—that he told my mom about my knee, because she was about to email my performance videos to the director of the San Francisco Ballet—I felt relieved.

My relief at not having to repeat the same Reaper words again was short-lived when my phone didn’t ring with her ranting on the other end. When it didn’t chime with her rapid-fire texts. When no one yelled my name as they stormed into my grandpa’s house.

There was nothing but the sound of my ticking heart, counting the minutes of silence.

Silence is never a good thing with Alessandra Night.

And now my jeans don’t fit, which is just the cherry on top of what’s sure to be the mother of all craptastic nights.

“Go away,” I say, hearing Finn’s little claws snag the comforter as he climbs onto the bed.

He’s been stalking me to read him a bedtime story since I started getting ready.

I may partially blame Nick for my growing Souza softness. But I one hundred percent blame Finn’s blue-cardigan-wearing, chortling ass for the makeup catastrophe on my face.

If he wasn’t screech-hissing at me from the bathroom floor the entire time I was getting ready—like Jeffree Star in a ferret’s body—that my technique sucked and nothing was working, maybe I wouldn’t look like this makeup fail.

But Finn’s right. Nothing is working.

My eyebrows look like two caterpillars having a staring contest, not fashionably full with a whisper of an arch. My lips look like an over-lined mess, not soft pink pillows of kissable goodness.

I turn my head to meet Finn’s beady eyes.

“What do I do now?” My chest deflates. “Is it too late to make a run for it?”

He arches his back and starts to hop, letting me know I’m a drama queen.

“Yeah, look who’s talking.” I stand with a huff and tug the pants off my legs with zero grace.

And strip from the cashmere sweater next, tossing it in the growing pile of clothes near the closet, then trudge to the bathroom with Finn nipping at the back of my ankles.

I figured out what happens when Finn gets nippy.

He bites. And then scrambles away with a sound I can only describe as an evil-ferret laugh.

I’m definitely not going to be a ferret mom.

Um. You were just googling ferrets for sale—

Shut up.

After washing my face, I take Finn’s advice and slather on some tinted moisturizer, put on a few coats of mascara, and finish the look off with a swipe of clear gloss. Then throw my freshly curled-to-perfection hair into a messy bun.

With zero fucks left to give, I put on an old pair of charcoal-gray leggings and a matching gray sweatshirt—that have been recently demoted to pajamas—in a look I like to call Twitchy Pigeon Perfection.

I finish off the look with sneakers, and a few spritzes of brown-sugar body spray, determined to at least smell good. Then I do a few squat/hip-alignment moves to crackle and pop all my pieces back into place, feeling Finn’s beady eyes judging me from the bed.

I face him, squaring my shoulders. “Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m going to give you a special treat in the kitchen, and you’re going to let me carry you back to Nick’s with zero nips. Deal?”

He gives me an arched-back hop of agreement.

“Alright. Let’s do this,” I say, giving him one of the tongue clicks Nick uses to call him. Yes, I decided during squat number two to use Finn as a pathetic excuse to see if Nick is back.

Like a wise woman once said, never let a good ferret invasion go to waste. #NoOneSaidThat.

I grab my purse, ignoring the fact my stomach flutters with a few rogue fireflies at the idea of seeing Nick. It’s nuts how I’ve gone years without seeing him, months without thinking about him, but after a few weeks home, he’s imbedded into nearly every thought.

And being without him leaves me feeling... homesick. Just like old times.

Luna is right. I need to get a life outside of work. But the thing about Hermit Mode is, once you initiate it, it’s freaking hard to turn it off.

Plus, Sexy Spock has officially ghosted me, so I’m sort of stuck.

When Finn starts down the comforter, I adjust my purse strap so it’s cross-body, a smile tugging at my lips, remembering how Nick wore it like this.

I head to the kitchen, the ting-ting of Finn’s little claws on the hardwood floor, following. I glance over my shoulder at him.

He chortles that he’s dressed better than me.

He’s not wrong.

I lift the lid of the Captain Kirk cookie jar, break off a chunk of a chicken-jerky treat I put there for Daisy, and hold it down to Finn with the tips of my fingers.

He snatches it and takes off like the little furry thief he is.

“Hey,” I call out as I take off after him. “We had a deal.”

He cackles sucker! back at me as he disappears through the doggy door.

The cold air slaps my warm, sun-kissed cheeks as I hurry out of the kitchen and onto the dark walkway heading to Nick’s place.

“Wait,” I whisper-yell as Finn scurries through the backyard and disappears through the doggy door. There goes my plan.

I fill my lungs and force my feet to turn and head to my car, pretending not to feel my stomach dip when I walk through the side gate to the driveway, seeing the empty spot where Pearl is usually parked. Nick isn’t home yet anyway.

“Then you came back… and now I don’t know what to fucking do.”

I guess he’s figured out staying away is the best option.

Smart guy.

I bite my lip when my phone lights up with Krista’s name. My hands tighten on the steering wheel as uneasiness about why she’d be calling me nips at the back of my neck.

We always text, not call, unless it’s an emergency or we’re drunk or both, so I have to answer it. Right?

With a resigned puff of air, I pick up the phone from my lap, and hit speaker.

“Hey,” I answer, trying to keep the wariness from seeping into my voice.

“Girl! Are you fucking sitting down?” Her usually slow Texas drawl ping-pongs off the windshield, smacking me in the chest with her excitement.

“Um, I’m driving, so yeah.”

“Can you pull over?” I hear her move the phone to shush someone in the background. Probably Angie.

“Why, what’s up?”

“Just pull over. Rehearsals are about to start, and I have to tell you before I lose my shit.”

I flip my blinker on, even though I’m the only person on the road, and pull over to park. “Okay, I’m pulled over. What’s up?”

I’m pretty sure she’s being promoted. She deserves it. But I still hold my breath, bracing for Jealousy to claw at my chest with his sharp talons, exhaling when he doesn’t come.

“The baby isn’t his!” Krista exclaims, followed by a burst of laughter. Laughter that blends into a chorus that lets me know she has more than just Angie with her.

“What?” I ask, jumping up to catch what she’s throwing my way, but it flies right over my head.

“Dylan. The baby isn’t his.” Her rushed words blend into her laughter.

Her statement should light a match in my chest, but it doesn’t.

“You’re kidding me,” I say, forcing excitement into my voice.

“Told you they wouldn’t work, girl. Start with lies, end with lies.” The murmur of voices grows in the background along with the pianist tuning his piano. “Damnit, I’ve gotta run.”

My muscles ache at the familiar sounds. I run a hand down my thigh and over my stiff knee, feeling echoes of rehearsal energy vibrate my bones. I can almost smell the old wood, Tiger Balm, and clean sweat. I loved that energy. It was my fuel.

Now I run on Kit Kat bars and mud coffee.

“Okay,” I say with a fake smile in my voice. “Thanks, Krista.”

“Let’s talk later? Miss you.”

“Miss you, too.”

The line goes dead.

I stare at the glow of the reflective street lines as a car drives my way from the distance. I want to feel gleeful. Want the laugh I gave Krista to be real. Want to give Karma a high-five and a chest bump for being a total badass.

But I sort of feel… I don’t know, bad? Which makes no sense. I should hate Dylan. Should wish on him an eternity cursed with explosive diarrhea whenever he steps foot on stage.

But even though Dylan’s a total dick, at least he stayed for the battle. And if his Instagram is an indicator, he was super excited about being a dad. Unlike mine.

Krista’s right, though. A relationship that starts with lies, ends with lies.

My lies were told to Dylan with fake smiles, fake laughs, and fake orgasms. His lies were told under the sheets with someone else. Lies are lies whether you say them out loud or not.

Filling my lungs with the remaining hint of new-car smell, I set my phone on the passenger’s seat, and blow out a long breath.

If bad things come in threes, I’m pretty sure that call was number one of the night.

Only two to go. Yay.

I grab my purse from the floor and pull my clear lip gloss from it, hoping to wash away the Dylan Drama with a fresh swipe. Maybe I’ll fix my hair, too. And maybe add a little concealer…

Look good, feel good.

My brown eyes lock with my rearview reflection as I bring the gloss to my lips. The fact the mirror is already angled at me, and not the road, sinks my stomach.

I leave my lips untouched, slipping the gloss back into my purse, and angle the mirror to the road where it belongs.

My gaze catches on Daisy’s eyeless pink piggy on the floor when I put back my purse.

I pick up its ratted-fur mess and bring it to my lap. I may hug it to my stomach a little, wishing my goofy hellhound was sitting shotgun.

The sound of my cell ringing again cuts through my thoughts. My eyes slice to the seat.

My pulse spikes when I see it’s Nick calling.

I flex my fingers around the piglet and order my hand to let it go to voicemail. If Nick thinks he can just disappear last night, be gone all day without even so much as a single text, and expect me to just be here when he’s ready to talk, he has another thing coming.

My heart kicks up another notch on the third ring.

My fingers twitch.

Do. Not. Pick. It. Up.

I snatch it from the seat with a defeated puff of air, and press speaker. “Hello,” I say in my most casual, not-missing-you-at-all voice, feeling my heart punch against the seatbelt.

“Hey, Peanut.” His deep voice fills the car, slamming into my chest like an asteroid. It hurts.

“Hey,” I say, my voice a little softer from the impact.

There’re a few heartbeats of awkward silence.

Just when I open my mouth to fill the silence with something, Nick clears his throat saving me. “So, things went good with Steve? You’re doing okay?”

I hold Daisy’s pink piglet a little closer.

“Yeah, it went fine, thanks,” I say in a tone that lets him know he should’ve called me last night if he wanted details. Or this afternoon. But he didn’t.

He stayed out doing whatever with whoever, while we were at home missing him. Worrying about him.

“I’m glad, babe.” His deep voice drops to a soft rasp. “So, your dad invited me to dinner tonight. But I didn’t want to overstep, so if you don’t want me to go, just say the word.”

I know why Steve invited Nick to dinner. He’s like bad-mood kryptonite for my mom.

I run a hand down my leg, pushing back the unwanted flutter in my chest at the thought of seeing him.

“You should come,” I say, my voice a little too sunshiny. Calm and cool, Riley. “I mean, if you’re not too tired.” Do not picture Nick with TMI Samantha... The phantom image covers my sunny Nick moment with a dark cloud. “I know you got home late last night. I guess, technically, it was the morning.” Great. I went from eager to sounding straight-up jealous.

Just wonderful.

“Did you miss me, Peanut?” I can hear the cocky smile in his voice.

“No.” I scoff with a guilty snort.

“You sure? Because it kinda sounds like you missed me.”

“Did you miss me?” I counter.

“I always miss you.” His soft-spoken words whirl around me like dark magic, lying on my skin and seeping into my pores. This is the second time he’s told me he missed me.

I shake the thought away, reminding myself that he’s like this with everyone. Says stuff like this with everyone. He’s not my Nick, he’s everyone’s Nick. I fight off his dark magic with a sharp dose of reality.

Reality sucks, by the way.

“Right,” I say with a laugh that almost sounds real.

I stomp on the ember of hope, trying not to ignite the memory of him whispering that he missed me in front of Indiana Jones, with his forehead pressed to mine. And his cinnamon breath on my lips. I know Nick didn’t miss me like I missed him. He missed me like a friend.

I missed him like a boy I maybe-loved.

There’s a weighted pause. Then he says, “I’ve got to pick up Daisy from my sister’s. Then we’ll head over. Cool?”

Why isn’t Daisy with him? Where has he been all day? Who has he been with?

“Cool,” I repeat, moving my hand over my heart, feeling a dull ache starting to form.

“You’re mad at me,” he states as fact, his raspy voice thicker than a moment ago.

I have no right to be mad at him. But I am. Mad he didn’t call to make sure I was okay after Steve. Mad he didn’t let me know he was okay. Mad he stayed out so freaking late. Mad at myself for caring.

“Mad? I’m not mad. Why would I be mad?” I scoff-snort.

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” he says, his arrogant smirk clear in his voice.

“Settle down, Shakespeare. The lady isn’t doth-ing, or whatever.”

His tone shifts as he says, “I didn’t call yesterday because I wanted to give you space. I’m sorry if that was the wrong thing to do. And then I had to deal with some shit and...” There’s a pause, followed by another heavy exhale. “It was a fucking shitty night, Peanut. Believe me, I’d rather have been home with you.”

Home with you.

Something in his voice has me straightening in my seat. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“It’s all good. I handled it.”

I look down to the pink piglet on my lap, twisting its slobber-crusted fur between my fingers.

“You know I’m here, Nick, if you want me to, uh, handle stuff with you.” Handle stuff with you? Jesus, Riley. “I mean, we can handle stuff together, is all I’m saying. Because that’s what friends are for, right?” I stammer out like a cheesy Hallmark Card.

This. This is why I don’t talk.

He chuckles. “Have I told you how fucking cute you are?”

My cheeks flush with teenage wishes at his words. The last time he told me I was cute, I looked like a flamingo. The time before that, his pirate voice carried baby-panda vibes.

This time it feels different.

Play it cool, Riley. Be one with the coolness.

“Maybe. I don’t remember,” I say—coolly—trying to keep my grin from reaching cheese level.

“Well, you are.”

I bite my lip, then tease, “Wish I could say the same for you.” The smile in my voice inches dangerously close to premium cheese. “But you’re not even a little cute. Sorry.”

“Not even a little?” He groans in that playfully exaggerated way. “You’re breaking my heart, Ry.”

“Yeah, I do that a lot.” I steal Luna’s line because she’s sexy and sassy. And I’m neither of those things. Fake it ’till you make it.

His laugh brushes against my skin. “See you in a bit, heartbreaker.”

“Okay, bye.”

“Bye.”

I end the call, set the phone on my lap, and take in a deep breath past the happy bubbles expanding in my chest. I’m pretty sure if I wasn’t strapped in by the seatbelt, I’d float away.

I’m in serious trouble.

And not because I’m about to face my mom with a cracked mask.

Dressed like a freaking pigeon.

Nope.

I’m in trouble because Nick said he missed me last night. And that I’m cute, in a non-baby-panda voice.

And I believe him.

The smile I give the windshield as I pull back onto the road is so big and goofy I can’t help but giggle at how ridiculous I look.

Yes, a real giggle.

Giggling by myself like a freaking weirdo with an eyeless pink piglet on my lap because the boy I’m maybe-falling for is maybe-falling for me back.

I think. I hope.

Do I put on Bob Marley’s “Is this Love” and sing along in my goat voice?

Yep, sure do.

My last happy bubble pops as I push the code for the iron gate into the keypad and watch it slowly swing open to the Italian villa that looks like it belongs on a Tuscan hillside, not in Atherton, California.

Gold-veined Italian marble running through the house may not be my thing, but I always loved the outside. Especially at night like this, when it’s lit up with landscape lights.

I drive down the cypress-tree-lined driveway, toward the stone fountain with falling water lit like cascading blue diamonds, and park in front of the four-car garage that used to hold my ballet studio. My childhood is in that garage.

Taking in a deep breath, I force my legs to carry me out of the car and toward the house, letting the trickling sound of the fountain wash over me.

The first time Steve had us over to his house for dinner, there was no gate, no majestic fountain, no circle driveway, no Italian-villa vibe. It was just a modest house with chipped white paint and “good bones” set on five acres of breathtaking Atherton real estate, full of olive trees and a neglected vineyard.

Steve bought the house for the land. With plans to build a ranch for Win, but then the Reaper came for his quarterback career, so the house stayed as it was.

Until he met my mom.

A fledgling interior designer who, after watching Under the Tuscan Sun for a month straight before meeting Steve, was completely obsessed with all things Tuscany.

Her argument at dinner—that the olive trees and grapevines confirmed the land was meant to hold a contemporary Tuscan villa, not a Texas-style horse ranch—was evidently a winning one, because Steve hired her to design it.

It was her first official design job.

She had no idea she was designing her dream house.

Steve knew. My grandpa said he knew, too.

Me? I guess I knew something was up when he kept coming back for her burnt meatloaf.

I walk past the stone fountain, breathing in a mist of chlorine water that blows my way in the breeze. It reminds me of summers spent in the pool with Nick and Win.

The fountain was a gift from Steve for their first wedding anniversary. A smaller replica of the one she accidentally fell face-first into on their honeymoon in Italy.

Steve loves telling that story.

It’s hard for me to picture my mom sitting in the water, soaking wet with hair stuck to her face, laughing so hard he had to carry her out. But Steve doesn’t lie. He’s like Nick in that way.

Unlike my grandpa who has no problem making stuff up. Which is why, when he told me the fountain was a portal into another star world—the Pleiades, specifically—I knew better than to believe him.

I spent my young life searching for his stupid portals. Under the kitchen sink. In the dead oak tree behind the baseball field (got a nasty spider bite looking for that one). In the closet behind his “good suit.”

I knew the fountain was the same, just one of his fantastical stories he loved to tell.

Did that stop me from looking? Nope. If there was a slight chance I could escape my mom to hang out with star people for a little while, I was going to take it.

After a few hours of searching, with Nick and Win throwing curious looks my way, I knew it didn’t matter if I found the portal. My mom’s voice would always be in my head. No matter what star cluster I teleported to.

Look good, feel good.

I tuck a few flyaway strands behind my ear and fix my messy bun into a high ponytail, then tug down the hem of my gray sweatshirt, wishing the Black Swan clothes would’ve just fit.

Wishing I’d had time to clear my head with a quick workout before I left. Wishing I’d had time to redo my makeup and maybe re-curl my hair. Or maybe cut some cute wispy bangs.

I bet I could totally pull off this outfit if I had wispy bangs.

My pigeon steps carry me on the stone pavers, to the giant arched dark wood door set against the honey-colored plastered walls.

The door is new. So are the small cypress trees flanking it.

I fill my lungs and push the doorbell, my shoulders feeling heavier than a moment ago.

Last time I came home, Dapper Dylan was with me. He pouted on the drive here because I insisted on us staying with my grandpa. Instead of my mom’s bigger, much nicer place.

I wore a black Audrey Hepburn-style dress—I knew my mom would love it—finishing off the look with a classic French twist. When she opened the door and bestowed her rare, dazzling smile of approval on me that felt like a standing ovation in my chest, I knew I looked perfect.

Now? Not so much. But at least I smell good.

The door swings open to Steve wearing an easy smile. “There she is.”

Yep. Here I am.

“Hey.” My lips twitch when I see he’s wearing the ratty old sweats and equally ratty Texas Longhorns T-shirt my mom’s been trying to get rid of for years.

I’m pretty sure he has a secret stash somewhere, just to mess with her.

Did I mention Steve is awesome?

His chin dips. “You know you don’t have to ring the bell at your own house, right?” he teases, throwing an arm over my shoulder for a quick side hug. “Where’s Nick?” He gives the driveway a glance before shutting the front door.

“He has a few things to do before he heads over.”

His forehead creases. “Hope it’s alright that I asked him to dinner.” He leads us into the entry hall, past the round foyer table holding a centerpiece full of white orchids. “Thought he might ease things a bit, you know?”

“It’s fine.” I give him a small smile, noticing a little gray at the temples, mixing with his sandy hair. Other than that, he looks the same as when I was a kid.

I’m pretty sure he’s a vampire from the Tom Brady coven.

“Good.” He nods. And after a few quiet steps, he playfully bumps into my shoulder with raised brows. “Heard you and Win had an exciting day at the lake.”

I scoff. “Yeah, nothing like being woken up at four in the morning by your stepbrother playing reveille on his phone from your bedroom doorway.”

He tries to stifle his grin but fails. “That little shit.”

“Yeah, he thought it was hilarious.” I bite my cheek to keep from smiling too, remembering Win cracking up while dodging my hurled pillows. Just like old times.

His grin breaks free. “That boy’s something else,” he says, the tinge of pride in his voice unmistakable.

“Probably got the idea from you,” I say with a smirk, remembering the night Steve snuck a life-size cardboard cutout of a grizzly bear into Win’s bedroom at the Yosemite cabin.

The glorious sound of Win’s high-pitched scream in the morning filled the house. Followed by Steve’s deep laughter. I loved that trip. Even without Nick there.

Steve’s smile grows. “Nope, that one’s all him.” He slows his steps as we walk into the living room. My gaze travels over the plush furniture, to the wood-beamed ceiling, and through the wall of glass to the lit-up pool. His head motions to the kitchen. “Your mom could probably use some help with dinner.”

I fill my lungs. “Maybe I should wait until she’s not surrounded by knives.”

“Go on.” He motions toward the kitchen with a soft laugh. “You’ll feel better after.”

“Right,” I say, turning to face my doom, wishing Daisy was by my side. “If I don’t make it back, tell Daisy I love her.” Finn was right. I am a little dramatic these days.

His brows quirk, a questioning gleam in his eyes. “Daisy? Nick’s dog?”

“She’s my hellhound now.”

“Your hellhound…” he repeats, in a voice that’s usually reserved for Nick.

“Yep.” And with that I start toward my mom, hearing Steve’s soft chuckle behind me.

If you were wondering how long it takes to be fully infected by Nicolas MacGregor’s weirdness.

It’s a week.

18

SHANNON NUMBER TWO

I poke at the hard, overcooked salmon with my fork, then bring another small stab of the lemony Greek salad to my mouth.

Poke. Stab. Chew.

This has been my routine since we sat at the dining room table ten minutes ago. Not the kitchen table, where we always ate dinner as a family, but the fifteen-seat dining room table, a place reserved for guests. Sure glad I rang the doorbell.

I move the sweatshirt from my neck as I chew, feeling the silence lie on it like an electric blanket, glancing over at Nick’s waiting plate.

Then peek up at my mom from under my lashes. She’s doing more of a salad-shuffle-wine-gulp thing, with her long-lashed deep-brown eyes focused anywhere but me.

Not that I care.

I also don’t care that besides her telling me to put the salad on the table, she hasn’t said a word to me. No jabs. No smiles. Nothing.

Since we sat down, Steve’s been busy flicking his gaze between us, with his elbows on either side of his untouched plate, his hands folded like he’s deep in prayer. He’s probably praying for the leather salmon to turn into a prawn and garlic pizza from Rico’s Place. I know I am.

I’m also praying that Nick hurries the hell up, wishing he didn’t insist we start eating without him, leaving us in some kind of weird Mexican standoff, straight from one of Steve’s Westerns.

I swallow down the cherry tomato and meet Steve’s narrowed eyes. His strong jaw ticks as he holds my gaze steady. His sharp brows raise, and he gently motions his head toward my mom for me to say something to her.

I take another defiant bite of salad, letting him know I have nothing to say. That I’m only here because he asked me to come.

“Jesus,” he says with a huff as he abruptly stands from the table.

My mom’s gaze jumps to him, her brows questioning.

“I’m gonna grab a beer from the garage.” He waves a sharp finger at us. “Y’all have until I get back to work this shit out, or we’re going for a drive.” His chin dips as he looks between us. “A long one,” he threatens, his drawl deeper in his frustration.

I inwardly groan, setting down my fork with a soft clank.

The last time Win and Ben stopped talking over some girl, Steve took them on one of his drives. They ended up in Arizona.

No thanks.

He stalks out of the room, mumbling something about armadillos and hens under his breath.

There’s a good chance I’m the armadillo in this scenario.

I clear my throat, trying to wake up my dead vocal cords, knowing I have to get the ball rolling on this conversation from hell before Steve’s back with his truck keys in hand.

My mom’s brown eyes slam into mine at the sound. She picks up her wine to take another sip, her steady gaze daring me to say something.

Everything about her—from her glossy gel manicure to her perfect beach-wavy, sun-kissed chestnut hair, to her soft white T-shirt and perfectly fitted faded jeans—shines a swan spotlight on all my speckled-pigeon imperfections.

Say something, Riley.

Tell her about your new life.

She sets down her glass. “I brought you back an outfit from Aspen, but it might be a little too snug on you now,” she says before I can get a word out.

I sit up straighter in my chair, gripping my Viking shield.

It’s the first arrow fired.

My jaw ticks, with me wanting to tell her that the faint lines around her eyes add so much character, channeling some Mean Girls cattiness, but I don’t.

I set my bow down on the table.

I’m tired of playing games.

Plus, I’m out of arrows.

I take in a deep breath through my nose, reminding myself that this isn’t normal. The disgust I see in her deep brown eyes at the fact I’m not in elite ballet shape anymore isn’t normal.

None of this is normal.

“Go ahead and just say what you’re gonna say so we can get this over with.”

Her head tilts. “And what am I going to say, Riley?”

“I don’t know.” I wave my hand in the air. “That I’m a hundred-thousand-dollar investment gone wrong?” I shrug with a shake of my head. “That I ruined everything?” My shoulders slouch. “Just say it, so we don’t end up in Arizona with Steve. And I can go on with my life.”

She raises her brows. “Go on with your life?”

And there it is. Smile number four.

I take in a sharp breath as it rips into me like a jagged blade.

I raise my chin against the pain, trying to keep the hurt from bleeding into my eyes, but I know she can see it.

“And what life is that, Riley?” Her voice is quiet, like a tiger before it pounces. “Working for Nick at his tattoo shop? Living with your grandpa? Riding mechanical bulls at bars? Is that the life you want to go on with?” She ends with a soft laugh.

I hate that fucking laugh.

I sit up straighter, forcing myself not to shrink under the weight of her disappointment.

Shoulders back. Chin up.

“Working with Nick is just temporary, but I like being an assistant, so I think maybe I’ll find a job doing that or something. And I’m getting my own place soon, so… well…” I cross my arms over my chest, hating that I feel a chill run through me from her icy glare.

Hating that I can never find the right words around her.

“You will, huh? Around here?” Her mocking tone stings like a sharp slap in the face.

A remote village in Ecuador wouldn’t be far enough from you.

I swallow hard, mustering every ounce of control I have left. “Maybe. I don’t know.” I take a sip of my water, letting it soothe my aching throat.

“You think someone without a degree is going to get a job as a personal assistant in the Bay Area?” She chuckles softly. “Wake up, Riley.” She brings her glass to her lips. “You’ll be lucky to get a job working the desk at SoulCycle.” She takes a slow sip as she pulverizes my new life with her words. Just like I knew she would.

I scramble to pick up the pieces before they blow away—hoping somehow I can put them back together.

My eyes burn. “Why do you have to be like this? Why can’t you just be a normal mom?” My heart pounds in my throat, shaking my voice. “Why can’t we just talk like normal people?”

Like Krista and her mom. Like Nia and hers. Like Winston and Cindy. Why can’t I have that? What’s so different about me?

Her icy stare turns into an inferno glare. “Talk like normal people?” Her brows furrow, indenting an angry line between them, cracking her perfect mask. “I had to hear from Steve about your knee. I had to hear from Dylan that you guys broke up. Do you think that’s normal, Riley? Do you have any idea how that feels?”

Here we go... poor Alessandra.

“I’m sorry, Mom. Did Dylan leaving me for someone else and my knee injury hurt your feelings? That must suck for you.” My voice drips with honeyed sarcasm.

Her eyes flare in surprise at my words.

I’ve never talked to her like this before.

Perfect daughters don’t talk back. Perfect daughters give smile number two. Perfect daughters don’t make mistakes. Ever.

I spent my childhood imagining what it would be like to be Win. To be loved just as I am. I thought maybe if I smiled like him or joked like him… But none of it worked. I understood then that some people are easy to love. And I’m just not one of them.

“You had surgery and didn’t tell me!” she yells, snapping my spine straight, her soft cotton-candy voice edged with razor blades. “You could’ve died, Riley.” Her voice cracks on my name.

And for a split second, I almost believe the welled tears in her eyes are real. Almost.

I pick up my glass of water for something to do. “Well, so glad I lived so we can have this conversation about how much my life sucks.” I take a long sip, feeling my fingertips pulse with my pounding heart around the cold glass.

I picture Steve drinking an equally cold beer at the bar he built with Jesse, with that worried look on his face, wondering how to fix this.

I want to tell him that some relationships can’t be fixed.

Some are born broken with all the important pieces missing.

My mom takes in a deep breath through flared nostrils. I can tell she’s trying to keep her mask in place, but it’s slipping.

Good. Let it fall. Let it shatter on the fucking ground into a million pieces.

I’m tired of looking at it.

Her jaw ticks as she tries to swallow down her anger, but her voice is thick with it. “I should have been the first person you called. Not the last!”

I want to laugh at that. Want to laugh at how clueless she is.

“Do you ever stop and ask yourself why I didn’t call? Why I’d rather watch my life unravel from Krista’s couch than come home to you?”

“So tell me,” she demands in a snotty tone as she waves her manicured hand in the air. “Tell me what I’ve done to you that’s so horrible, Riley.”

I open my mouth to say something, but I don’t know how to shape these volcanic feelings into words. Don’t know how to tell her that her voice is in my head without sounding crazy. That it says I’ll never be good enough. Never be perfect enough for anyone to love.

Don’t know how to say that I knew when the doctor told me I’d never dance professionally again, I’d lose her too. Because if I’m not the perfect ballerina daughter she can brag about to her friends, I’m just Riley.

And I know just being Riley isn’t good enough. It never was.

I exhale the lava feelings. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just pretend for Steve, and then I’ll go—”

“I want to know how I’ve failed you.” Her cheeks flush with anger. “By giving you everything you wanted? By making sure you went to the best schools? Had the best training? Making sure you had all the chances I never had? So I can just watch you throw it all away without even trying!” Her words hang over the table in a dark storm cloud.

I want to tell her that I’ve spent my whole life trying to be who she wants and I’m tired. That I just want to find out who I am. And then maybe I’ll decide to take the job in New York, or start my own studio, or work the desk at SoulCycle, but the words don’t come.

“Tell me what I did wrong,” she orders.

I hold her eyes, feeling the truth strike my throat like lightning and roll through my heart like thunder. “You’ve made it impossible for me to love myself, Mom.”

The soft-spoken words, full of hidden truths I never say out loud, expand in the room, until I think the walls will burst open with them. I swallow down the hurt, waiting for her to pour acid on my open wounds, bracing myself for the searing pain of it.

Instead, her eyes flash with something I feel in my chest—I take in a deep breath past the ache. Wondering if the heartbreak I see on her face is real, or if I’m imagining it.

Her neck turns red and blotchy against her white collar. She opens her mouth to say something, but closes it, her eyes cast down to her plate. For once, she has no comeback. No acid words. For once, I think she heard me.

Will it matter? Probably not.

But it feels good to be heard.

I take in a deep breath, the chains around my chest loosening, and reach for the glass of water, hoping Steve comes back before my mom says something to ruin this moment of peace between us.

Is it sad her silence is as close to “working shit out” as we’ve ever gotten? Maybe. But if it means Steve’s truck keys will stay on the hook, I’ll take it.

I startle when Daisy comes crashing into the room, bursting into the mom bubble I’m in.

“Hey, Daisy.” My smile grows as I watch her tongue flop as she runs toward me. I don’t even try to hide my excitement as I scoot out of my chair and drop to my knees for her smelly, sticky kisses.

They might be my new favorite thing.

I close my eyes at the relief of knowing Nick’s finally here.

“I’ll go get Nick something to drink,” I hear my mom say to herself before she disappears into the kitchen.

I litter Daisy’s bulky cheeks with kisses, washing myself clean from the battle, using her hellhound love—not caring that her love comes with stinky breath.

“I’m jealous.” Nick’s deep voice moves through the room like a burst of fresh air, filling my chest like oxygen.

It’s hard to believe I survived years without hearing it.

I swing my gaze to see him standing in the entryway with his tattooed arms spread wide open, like he’s waiting for his turn.

My heart slams against my chest. I try to calm it down with a deep breath, but my lungs aren’t working. Or my limbs. My brain is stuck, frozen on the image of a clean-shaven Nick.

If I thought he was drop-dead gorgeous with a scruffy beard, Nick clean-shaven is… damn. His jaw is sharper. The dimple crease on his cheek, deeper. His lips softer.

His smile, so much like the skater boy I loved, fills my body with teenage wishes and firefly dreams.

He’s achingly beautiful.

Even wearing the ugliest forest-green and navy-blue plaid pants I’ve ever seen, with one of those Scottish wool hats on his head. And a black T-shirt displaying Jackie Chan’s smiling face on his chest.

He drops his arms with a heavy sigh and adjusts his sexy professor glasses, giving me a disappointed pout. “You were supposed to run into my arms, Peanut.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to reboot my brain, and stand on crackling knees, playing it cool with a coy smile. “I was?”

“Yep.” He starts toward me in an easy strut. “There was a leap too.” He raises his left arm, full of lean-muscled goodness. “I was going to catch you with my good arm.” He shakes his head. “It would’ve been awesome.”

I raise my brows. “I’m not gonna leap into your good arm, Nick,” I say with a soft laugh as the muscles in my legs twitch at the idea.

Don’t even think about it.

Nobody puts Baby in a corner—

I slam the door on the thought and rest my hand on Daisy’s head to keep myself from living my Dirty Dancing-leap fantasies.

“Obviously,” he smirks as he stops at my front.

“What’s wrong with your other arm?” I point to his right arm, trying to keep my feet from closing the gap between us.

“Golf with Mike,” he says with a shrug, like that explains everything.

I totally forgot about his plans with Software Mike from the bar. Rainbow balloons fill my chest knowing he was golfing. Not hanging out with TMI Samantha.

“So, those are golf pants?” I tease, running my gaze along his long plaid-clad legs. Plaid is cool, but on a six-foot-three Highlander-Viking hybrid, it can be a bit much.

I will not picture stripping him down to the black boxer-briefs burned into my memory; the way the fabric stretched tight against his muscular thighs, fitting his bubble butt perfectly and molding against his…

I bite my lip, not thinking about it.

He cocks an arrogant brow. “I’ll have you know my nan made me these pants to impress the lasses.”

I smirk. “Oh, it’s definitely working.”

His smile widens. “You’re impressed, then?”

“So impressed,” I tease again, wanting to put the lid on the fireflies gently fluttering my chest to keep them there permanently.

“Good.” My heart stutters when Nick’s heavy hand lands on my shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze, his voice losing a bit of its lightness. “You talk with your mom?”

A few fireflies dim.

“Yeah.”

His chin dips, and his voice softens. “It go okay?”

I nod with a small smile. “I think, yeah… I mean I told her how I feel, so…” I shrug, trying to keep the hope in my chest from taking root. “We’ll see.”

His eyes soften, and he pulls me into his powerful arms, surrounding me with his warm body and clean, woodsy scent. “I’m so proud of you, Peanut.”

I have no idea what I’ve done that he’s so proud of, but hearing those words on his raspy voice means more to me than it should. More to me than when Kasack pulled me aside after class to say I had something special.

“You smell like sugar cookies,” he says, sniffing my hair with a soft moan. “I love sugar cookies.”

“Um, okay,” I say on a you’re-so-weird laugh, ignoring how his moan tingles my skin.

Note to self: Buy every single bottle of this shit. And bathe in it.

I smile, pressing my cheek to his warrior heartbeat, hugging him harder. Closing my eyes, I breathe him in like he did me, pulling more of his Nick scent into my lungs.

This. This is home.

This is where I belong.

Careful, Riley…

I know the moment’s over when Daisy’s footfalls pound the hardwood, and Steve’s Matthew McConaughey-smooth voice sounds as he greets her. “Hey, Daisy-girl. You gonna help me clean my plate tonight?”

Nick loosens his hug at Steve’s voice but doesn’t let go.

My breath catches when his lips move to my ear. “Your freckles are back,” he whispers. His velvet lips brush my cheek before he turns to Steve, leaving me breathless.

It wasn’t an accidental lip brush—it was a lip-brush kiss. I think.

I can’t help but run a finger over my nose with a small smile, biting my lip to keep it from spreading. And to keep me from giggling, because I think I want to do that too.

“’Sup, Coach,” Nick says to Steve with a chin up, throwing an arm over my shoulders, squeezing me to him, not that I’m complaining.

Everyone calls Steve “Coach” but me.

“How you doing, son?” Steve says, finishing up giving Daisy some loving behind her ears with a pat.

Steve calls everyone under forty son: Win’s friends. The players on his team. The kid who bags groceries at Robert’s Market. But with Nick it sounds different. It has layers to it.

“As good as gold,” Nick answers in Steve-speak with a lazy grin that tightens my chest. Can someone be so cute it hurts? Yes. They can.

A crooked smile, reserved just for Nick, spreads on Steve’s face. “It was a good game, then?” he asks before taking a swig of beer as he walks to the table with Daisy at his heels.

“Shannon’s never let me down.”

Shannon? Who the heck is Shannon?

The rainbow balloons start to pop.

“Got a hole-in-one and two birdies.” Nick’s eyes spark with a devilish glint. “Mike tried to run me over with the golf cart,” he finishes with a raised-chin grin, like that’s something to be proud of.

Steve chuckles. “I’ve thought about it once or twice.” He motions to Nick’s hat with his beer before he plops in his chair. “I need to get me a Shannon. Maybe then I can finally whoop your ass.”

A hat. Shannon is a freaking hat.

Not a woman who looks like Megan Fox.

But a hat.

“Sorry, she’s the last one.” Nick drops his arm from my shoulder and scoots my chair out for me to sit like he’s a white-gloved maître d’. “Milady.”

I give him a you’re-a-dork shake of my head with a dimple as I sit. My stomach flutters when he moves his chair and plate closer to me and sits with a heavy sigh laced with exhaustion.

I wonder if he’s tired from last night or his golf game, or both.

“At least it’s not meatloaf,” he mumbles under his breath as he studies the burnt salmon and slimy-looking mushroom risotto.

Steve grunts in agreement, giving Daisy her first salmon bite from his fingers as he looks toward the kitchen, like he can see my mom through the wall. When he looks back to me, he raises his do-I-need-to-get-the-truck-keys brows. I answer with a bright it’s-all-good-now smile.

He nods. My shoulders relax a little, thankful that dumpster fire’s put out at least. Only five gazillion more to go…

Nick takes off his hat and sits back in the chair, running a hand through his messy hair—the overhead chandelier catching bits of gold that match his eyes.

“Only you would name your hat Shannon.” I smile at him.

“Shannon The Second,” he clarifies. “My first Shannon met an unfortunate fate with a gopher.” He crosses himself like my grandpa always does when a firetruck or ambulance passes.

“You’re so weird,” I say with a small laugh, not at Nick but at myself. Because I, Riley Souza, was jealous of a hat named Shannon.

A freaking hat.

Dear Universe,

Please let hat jealousy be my rock bottom.

Sincerely,

Ry

My laughter dies as my mom walks in, carrying a glass of what looks like pink lemonade for Nick. She’s put on a fresh coat of lipstick, and her mask is back on, but it’s cracked now. Like mine.

I wonder if Steve can see through the cracks.

Her eyes briefly catch mine, and I notice they’re a little red and swollen, before she beams smile number five at Nick.

Was she... crying?

She lifts the glass. “I made your strawberry lemonade.”

She glides toward him, her steps graceful as always.

Nick jumps from his chair to go meet her.

“Thanks, Al. You’re the best.” Nick crosses the room to take the tall glass from her hand. “Dinner looks delicious,” he lies through his perfect teeth, bending down to give her a motherly peck on the cheek.

My mom’s brown eyes warm at the sweet affection.

I can count on zero hands how many cheek kisses I’ve given my mom. We’re not affectionate like that, with the only hugs we give each other when people are around. Hollywood hugs.

They look real but feel empty.

My mom gives Steve’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze as she passes to her chair.

“Why are we eating in the fancy room?” Nick asks, taking a bite of the multigrain roll.

“I thought it’d be nice for Riley’s birthday-cake pictures.” Her eyes flick to mine with an unsure smile as she takes her seat with perfect ballet posture.

I smile back, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Am I surprised my mom got me a cake and wants to take Pigeon Perfection birthday pictures? Yes.

“Shit.” Nick’s gaze jumps to mine, his eyes flared wide. “I missed your birthday.” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“Technically, you didn’t miss it.” My lips tip into a sly smile as I pick up my water. “Baby Rose is my birthday twinsie.”

Yes, I said birthday twinsie out loud. In front of my mom.

My dork flag is flying high tonight, folks.

Nick locks my gaze with his as he slips his professor glasses back on and presses his muscular thigh against mine. “You’re in so much trouble, young lady.”

His stern voice sends a non-dorky hot shiver through my body. The press of his leg against mine trips my heart. And for the first time in my life, I want to be in trouble.

A sexy-tattooed-college-professor-who-keeps-me-after-class kind of trouble.

I cross my ankles, extinguishing the flash of tingly heat in my lower belly with a small laugh. “Because I didn’t interrupt your godfather freak-out to let you know it was my birthday?”

“Yes,” he states the single word in a dark, smoky voice that clouds my vision and warms my cheeks.

“How’s the baby doing?” my mom chimes in, stealing Nick’s attention. “Win sent a few pictures. She’s just adorable.”

“Yeah, she is,” Nick says with a proud smile, resting his good arm on the back of my chair and picking up the dinner roll with the other hand. “She’s giving Ben and Em a run for their money.” He takes another bite.

My mom’s eyes flicker to Nick’s untouched salmon. I can see it’s not lost to her that no-one’s eating her petrified salmon jerky, except Daisy who’s gobbling it up from Steve’s sneaky fingers.

For reasons unknown, I bring an overflowing forkful of cold salmon to my mouth and choke down the dry pieces, giving my mom a small press-lipped smile when our eyes meet.

She smiles back, holding my gaze. “I remember my first night with Riley.” She looks between Nick and me. “I was so nervous.”

She messes with her fork on her plate, like she’s reliving the moment. Even though I don’t want it to, my heart pangs, picturing her as a nervous teenage mom.

“I’d never even held a baby before, but I was too scared to ask the nurses for help.” She leans forward with a soft laugh. “I was convinced they’d take her away from me if they knew I had no clue what I was doing.” Her eyes sparkle when they meet mine before she looks to Nick. “I told Riley we needed to pretend I was a good mom. Just until we got home. She didn’t cry the whole time we were in the hospital. Me either.” Her smile brightens. “When we got home, we cried all night.” She laughs. “I think I might’ve been louder.” Her eyes find mine again, a watery smile on her perfectly painted lips. “Twenty-six years later, and I still don’t know what I’m doing.”

I swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat, seeing for the first time the woman Steve loves.

“None of us know shit, sweetheart,” Steve says with a warm smile at the woman he adores, brushing along her cheekbone with the back of his fingers.

“Here’s to not knowing shit.” Nick raises his glass of strawberry lemonade.

He grins at me, tilting his head to my nearly empty glass of water.

I raise my glass. “To not knowing shit.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Steve raises his beer.

I’m pretty sure Daisy raises her paw, too.

My mom is the last to raise her glass.

Our eyes lock.

We drink.

19

EVERYTHING

I was wrong.

Birthday wishes don’t come true.

How do I know this?

Let’s just say, I watched my awesome wish get carried away on the trail of smoke from twenty-six blown-out candles, and I did not wish to spend the rest of my life in prison for the murder of Nicolas MacGregor. But I’m pretty sure that’s what’s gonna happen. #FreeRiley.

I pop in another Junior Mint from Steve’s stash, letting the creamy peppermint and chocolate melt on my tongue. And slice my inferno glare to Nick lazily sprawled out in the corner of the huge black leather custom-made theater couch.

When Nick threw an arm over my shoulder and told Steve that we were going to watch a movie while they walked the vineyard with Daisy, my stomach fluttered with the idea of finally being alone with him.

Sure, I’ve spent plenty of time with Nick since I’ve been back, but never alone. Not really. We were surrounded by people at Ben’s. And at the shop, there’re his friends and clients. In the car, there’s always Daisy. And at home, we have all the babies needing us.

So when we grabbed movie snacks and headed to the home theater—that used to house Steve’s trophies and memorabilia—for our movie date (I totally forgot about), I was butterflies-in-the-stomach kind of excited.

That was then.

The movie lights up Nick’s face as he continues to recite every freaking line of Anchorman around a mouthful of Hershey’s kisses in his deep Ron Burgundy voice.

Every. Freaking. Line.

Welcome to Ron Burgundy hell.

“I swear to God, Nick,” I grind out, wishing I’d gone to the vineyard with Steve and my mom.

He swings his gold devil gaze to me. “‘Don’t act like you’re not impressed,’” he says in his exaggerated, deep Ron voice, head tilted, brows raised as he strokes a fake mustache. “I can tell by your eyes you are.”

Do not kill him, Riley…

“Congratulations,” I deadpan. “You’re officially the most annoying man on the planet.”

“And the cutest,” he says with a crooked smile, unwrapping another Hershey’s kiss. “My nan says so.” He pops it in.

Do not smile.

Do not agree with his nan.

I tilt my head to the side. “Sorry, that spots already taken.”

His eyes narrow. “By who?”

“Tom Holland,” I say in a cool tone, then pop another chocolate-covered mint into my mouth.

Life Tip: You have not lived until you’ve seen Tom Holland dance in the rain to Rihanna’s “Umbrella,” wearing black pleather shorts and fishnets. Trust me on this one.

He swallows the chocolate.

“Who the hell is Tom Holland?” His face scrunches like the name smells bad.

“You know…” I wave my box of Junior Mints in the air. “Spiderman.” Yeah, that didn’t sound as cool as I thought it would.

“The kid with the squeaky voice?” he asks, his brow puzzled. “From the last one?”

“Um, he’s my age,” I say, sounding weirdly defensive. “Plus he’s a ballet dancer.” My voice fades when he continues to look unimpressed. “Nia loves him too.”

I rub a hand down my thigh as he just stares at me.

“I need a root beer to help me process this.” He stands abruptly, looking down at me like I just told him Jeffrey Dahmer is my idol. “You want one?”

“You need a root beer because I think Tom Holland is cute?”

He holds his thumb up on first count. “First, I missed your birthday—”

I groan. “For the last time, I don’t expect—”

“And now”—he cuts me off with the second finger— “I find out you have a thing for Peter fucking Parker?” His chest deflates. “He sounds like a little chipmunk-man.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “That can’t be your type, Peanut.”

If Nia were here, I’m pretty sure those would be his last words. When I said Nia’s in love with Tom Holland, I meant she’s obsessed with him. Body-pillow-with-his-face-on-it kind of obsessed.

I raise my chin. “He’s not a chipmunk-man.” I add this to the list of shit I’ll never say again. “He’s...” My words trail off when I realize I don’t need to explain myself to him. My eyes narrow with a tilt of my head. “Why do you even care who I have a thing for?”

Ha! He’s jealous!

He messes with everyone like this. You’re nothing special.

So, he gives everyone lip-brush kisses?

Yes.

He ignores my question, taking a few steps back. “Root beer or Sprite?”

“Root beer,” I say, my gaze snagging on the iPad-looking remote on his side of the couch.

I press my lips together, seeing The Fellowship of the Ring in my near future. Do I know all the lines, including the Elvish ones? You betcha.

It’s payback time.

Nick bursts into my payback bubble as he snatches the remote from the couch.

“Hey,” I say, watching my Middle-earth dreams disappear under his arm.

“Cat-like reflexes, babe.” He winks, then struts his arrogant Viking ass toward the door.

Yes, I watch him go. Noting his pants may be ugly, but they fit his arrogant ass perfectly.

He glances over his shoulder with a wide grin, catching me mid-drool. I jerk my gaze to Christina Applegate as she hurls a typewriter at Ron, ignoring Nick’s raspy chuckle as he disappears through the door.

I could sure use a typewriter about now.

Feeling hot, due to anger and not the army of PMS horny hormones marching under my skin, I strip from my sweatshirt to the MacGregor Ink T-shirt underneath, wishing I had something cuter on. Like the black off-the-shoulder shirt Luna wore yesterday. I wonder if Nick thought she looked sexy. I’m sure he did. Anyone with a beating heart can see she’s gorgeous.

Artistic directors always used words like elegant, romantic, and classic to describe my look. Never sexy.

Maybe with wispy bangs—

Jesus. Enough with the wispy bangs, Riley.

I shake away the thought and redo my ponytail. Then stand to stretch out before Nick gets back, trying to release the tension in my body with a few pops and cracks. Realizing, after I’ve cracked and popped every joint (even my toes), that it’s not that kind of tension.

Something else is pulling my body tight.

I blow out a long peppermint breath and plop back on the couch, sinking into the buttery leather. Criss-crossing my legs, I run a hand over my hair, wondering if maybe I should leave it down.

Light from the doorway slices through possible-sexy-bedhead thoughts. My hands drop like a rock to my lap, and I relax into the cushion with my gaze glued to the screen, like the secret of the universe is written on Ron Burgundy’s 70s brown tie.

I’m going for a casual, definitely not horny-for-a-Viking-in-golf-pants sort of vibe.

“Nice shirt,” he says, handing me a cold bottle with a crooked smile that flutters my stomach.

“I can get you one if you want,” I say with a death-grip on my casual vibe as it starts to slip from my fingers.

“You can, huh?” He sits down, a little closer than before, letting his long legs relax open.

“I know a guy.” I throw his line back at him, scooting over to give him room, showing him I have no desire for his closeness.

“I bet he’s awesome.” His near dimple creases before he takes a swig of root beer.

I shake my head and turn back to the screen, with my traitor eyes sneaking a peek when he moves to put the soda in the holder. His shirt pulls tight around his broad back with the motion.

He catches me mid-peek as he relaxes into his previous lounge position. And winks.

Fucking winks.

Note to self: See if they sell typewriters on Amazon.

If I were wearing a watch, I’d check it with a bored sigh, letting him know the thin material of his T-shirt lying flat against the muscles of his stomach does nothing for me. Nothing.

Liar.

I press the cold soda to my flushed cheek before taking a sip, then turn to set it in the holder, looking to the screen when silence blankets the room. No more Polyester Ron.

My gaze swings to Nick, who’s busy messing with the remote-iPad-thingy.

“What happened to the movie?” I ask from under a cloud of suspicion. It’s not like Nick to give up on a chance to annoy me so easily.

I’m pretty sure he lives for that shit.

“I could tell you’d rather watch something else,” he says casually, the touchscreen lights reflecting off his professor glasses.

When he bites into his full bottom lip like he’s trying not to smile, I know I’m screwed.

“Like what?” My eyes drop to his Jackie Chan T-shirt, then narrow back up at him. “I swear, if you put on that cop movie, I’m outta here.”

Nick went through a Jackie Chan Supercop phase. Which turned into a summer of him showing off his Kung Fu mastery wherever we went.

FYI: You can’t do a butterfly kick while skating down a ramp no matter what Kung Fu noise you make. #KnowledgeIsPower.

He sets down the remote with a sugary-sweet smile that sets off every alarm bell I have.

“It’s not the cop movie.” He raises his arm for me to snuggle next to him as the movie credits start. His fingers doing that motion thing when I don’t budge. “Promise.”

“Fine.” I unravel my crisscrossed legs and scoot into his warm side, my stomach doing a few chaîné turns as I settle in.

“That’s better.” His smile widens as he drapes his heavy arm over my shoulder, a mischievous glint in his eyes that turns my warning bells into air raid sirens. He settles in, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Just like old times.”

I don’t breathe in his Sport deodorant. I don’t think about the soft way I fit against his marble Michelangelo body.

Instead, I close my eyes, letting my head relax against his chest, and think about how this feels nothing like old times.

The first time I fell for Nick, I was too young to know what to expect. Too naive to know the pain waiting on the other side of teenage hope. Now I know.

I’m pretty sure that quote about people doing the same shit over and over again and expecting a different result should be my life motto.

My eyes flash to Nick when I hear his stifled snort-snicker. I see his full lips press together in a thin line, like he’s trying not to laugh. He takes off his professor glasses and sets them down on the arm of the couch, then meets my narrowed gaze.

Just when I’m about to ask what’s so funny, I hear it. Freezing my heart between beats.

Alvin and the freaking Chipmunks, singing about Christmastime in their high-pitched voices.

Fucking Nick.

The sound triggers a burst of raspy laughter from his throat. His hand flies to his heart like it always does when he cracks up like this, as his other hand moves to the side of my head, smashing my cheek to his shaking chest in a weird head hug.

I bite my lip, caught between wanting to laugh with him and wanting to strangle him.

“Alvin,” is all he can say through his wheezing laughter.

Strangle, it is.

I push free from his head hug.

“Tom Holland is not a chipmunk,” I grind out, reaching for the remote on the other side of his leg, but he grabs it first, holding it out of reach behind his head.

“Babe,” he says, trying to get himself under control, his eyes practically glowing with suppressed mirth. The chipmunks’ chorus smashes through his control, shaking his body with renewed laughter as he blindly pats my head. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“That’s it.” I climb onto his lap, straining to reach the remote, not caring that my unimpressive chest is pushed against his face. “Give me that iPad-thingy, so I can kill you with it.”

His chuckle deepens. “You’re so violent,” he says against my shirt, his other hand resting between my shoulder blades. “Like one of those cute little monkeys with the teeth.”

“Will you stop comparing me to wildlife,” I growl, sitting back on his lap with a huff. No way I can reach the remote with his freakishly long arms. “I’m not a flamingo, or a little-teethed monkey, or a penguin…” I suddenly realize the position I’m in.

My knees on either side of his trim waist, my butt resting on his thick upper thighs, near his…

Shit. Well, this can’t be good.

Sexy Spock, are you there?

Hello? Anyone?

My heart skips a beat, knowing I’m inches away from feeling that part of him against that part of me. I remind my traitorous heart that I’ve been onstage in way more intimate positions—hello, Juliet’s bedroom pas de deux—without it skipping, so pull it together.

“I never called you a penguin, babe.” He smiles that pirate smile up at me, eyes glittering like a gold treasure. “I said you looked like a baby seal.” His heavy hand leaves my back to tuck a hair behind my ear, tingling my skin with his gentle touch. His smile fades as he holds my gaze. “You were looking up at me with those big brown eyes.”

My heart quickens at the drop in his voice. At the feel of his thighs tensing under mine. My lips part as his gaze flickers over me. Each flicker feels like a silky caress, waking up a nest of nervous butterflies that start zig-zagging a path in my lower stomach.

Uhura? You there, girl?

I swallow, trying not to get pulled into the dark magic energy surrounding us, but my vision’s already hazy with it. I let myself get pulled in, knowing it’s useless to fight.

The room fades away until all I can see is the skater boy I maybe-loved and the tattooed Viking I’m falling for.

His eyes search mine for a few suspended heartbeats. He clears his throat and brings the remote between us. I know I should scoot from his lap, that it’s probably weird that I’m still sitting here like this. But my brain must be sending the signal for my body to get moving via one of my carrier pigeon brethren, because I can’t budge.

I’m not even sure I’m still breathing.

“What do you want to watch?” he asks in a thick voice, his shoulders tense in a way they weren’t a moment ago.

“Whatever,” I say, trying to keep my breaths even and not betray the anticipation coiling low in my belly.

He looks to the touchscreen for a few heartbeats, then tosses away the remote. Closing his eyes, he leans his head back against the cushion. “I can’t concentrate with you like this,” he says on a heavy exhale. “It’s too much.”

His words release something dangerous and wild in the air. We’ve been walking the razor’s edge of a before this moment since I’ve been back. I need to see the after this.

Even if it devours us until there’s nothing left.

Even if there’s no Nick and Peanut.

Even if it means I’m destined for a fake, lonely life in Taco Bell parking lots.

“Why?” I drop my hand to his stomach, feeling his warm muscles constrict under my nervous touch. “Why can’t you concentrate, Nick?”

His eyes flash open. He squeezes my hand, stilling it. His jaw ticks. “Riley,” he says, my name like a warning and a plea. He wraps his other large hand around my waist, his grip so firm I couldn’t move if I tried.

The power in his touch sends a shot of need through me until I feel drunk with it.

“Tell me why,” I repeat in a shaky whisper, my heart hammering in my chest. I search his face for the words I need to hear.

Tell me you want me.

Tell me you feel this between us.

Tell me I’m not fucking imagining it.

His nostrils flare. He cradles the side of my neck, his thumb on my pulse. “I’m trying to be good, Riley.” His deep voice, laced with desperation, purrs across my skin. “But you’re making it fucking impossible looking at me like that.”

A battle rages in his gold-flecked gaze. A battle I ache for him to lose.

The thought pulls me forward.

“I don’t want you to be good.” I close some space between us before I lose my nerve. I slide my trembling hand to his hard chest. His heart rages against my fingers like a wild animal.

I don’t want the good Nick. I want the one he keeps locked away.

The one he hides from me.

His long fingers flex into my neck, trapping my fluttering pulse. A wave of need crashes through me, so powerful it knocks the air from my lungs.

I thought I only felt alive onstage. The way every cell buzzed when I danced. The way applause rushed through my chest, recharging my soul.

I was wrong. That was nothing compared to this. To Nick.

I want to close my eyes and melt into his touch, but I’m afraid to look away. That if I close my eyes, I’ll open them in my bed to find this was only a dream.

I don’t want to wake up to a snoring Daisy. I want to stay here.

I see the moment Nick decides he wants to stay with me too.

He scrapes his teeth over his full bottom lip. His gaze sinks into mine—black pupils devouring gold flecks. And then his hands are back on my hips, and I’m being jostled as he sits up straighter, his bedroom eyes level with my brown ones.

The light from the movie behind us plays in the masculine lines of his clean-shaven face.

I grip his biceps with nervous hands… trace the puckered scar near his elbow with my fingertips. He doesn’t say anything. Or move. His only reaction is the goosebumps I feel forming under the pads of my fingers.

I don’t know what it means when Nick doesn’t talk. He always talks.

Maybe it’s not lust in his eyes. Maybe it’s something else. Regret? Pity?

Maybe he’s just trying to find the words for rejection number two.

I know I should scoot off his lap before I embarrass myself. Again.

Fourteen-year-old me runs to open the window, letting Insecurity in. She thinks it will save us.

I slam that sucker shut, flip the brass lock, then flip off teenage me.

I don’t want to be saved.

Nick’s eyes darken like he can hear my thoughts. And maybe he can.

He cups my cheek with his large palm, like he knows I’m something delicate he broke once. The brush of his thumb along my skin is so tender it squeezes my chest. His gaze fits mine like a gold key, unlocking the room in my heart that belongs to him.

Emotion’s slam into my chest as he opens the old battered door and steps inside the messy space full of us. My stomach jolts at the realization it’s always been Nick.

Never Dylan. His door is pristine and polished, but his room lies empty.

Nick’s fingers press into my lower back, the weight of his heavy forearms trapping my upper thighs, like he’s afraid I’ll run if he lets go. Doesn’t he know this couch could catch fire and I’d burn by his side?

He inches his mouth closer to mine. Close enough for his sweet breath to become my own. Close enough to feel the heat from his Highlander chest radiating against mine.

I force in a shaky breath, feeling light-headed and dizzy, knowing Nicolas MacGregor is going to kiss me. Twelve years after I asked him to. But maybe this is how our first kiss was always supposed to be. Maybe I was supposed to kiss the Viking.

My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth.

“You’re… everything, Riley.” His heavy-lidded eyes search mine. “You know that?”

I gasp when his soft lips brush across my own, feeling every cell in my body spark at the featherlight touch. Before I can process what it means to be everything, he takes my bottom lip in a scorching, gentle kiss that stops the world from spinning.

I kiss him back with every teenage wish and firefly dream left in me. Tasting root beer and the man I’m falling for.

Soft lips and jagged breaths, innocent teenage wishes… the kiss deepens, and those melt into something else. Something that tingles between my thighs and heats my blood.

His velvet tongue pushes into my mouth, demanding and hot, sending sparks behind my eyelids. I gasp against his mouth, pulling his root-beer breath into my lungs. His fingers dig into my hips, and then he’s sliding me onto his rock-hard length. I feel his thickness press against where I crave it.

We kiss like we wrote the choreography on how to make someone yours without a word.

When I widen my thighs to feel more of him, pushing my knees into the cushion, he takes my bottom lip between his teeth, biting down with a tortured groan. A sharp wave of pleasure in me triggers a matching sound from my throat.

He devours it with a hungry kiss that stirs an ache in places hidden until now. An ache that erases the constant pain in my body until all I feel is pleasure.

Nick’s kiss is the best drug I’ve ever taken.

Heat pools between my legs as I tilt my hips to rock my most sensitive part against his. His fingers dig harder into my hips as he bucks to meet my grind. His tongue slides deeper against mine, thrusting in a rhythm that tingles the tips of my nipples.

Fingers tangled in his soft hair, I tug, sending a needy moan into his mouth, letting him know I want more of that.

He grips my bottom through my thin leggings, his hands possessive, guiding me harder along the thick bulge straining against his ugly golf pants. We kiss and move like this is doomsday and our last moments are now. And maybe they are. Maybe this is how the world ends.

Nick kisses exactly how he lives, with unapologetic passion and a bared soul.

And I fucking love it.

I tilt my head as he moves his breathy kisses to my neck.

Painting the canvass of my sensitive skin with his soft lips and tongue.

“You feel… fucking unbelievable,” he growls into my neck as I shamelessly rock against him, chasing the sensations I’m almost afraid to catch.

Breath traps in my lungs when he scrapes my neck with his teeth, sending a sharp zing of pleasure up my spine.

“Please… Nick.” I say his name like I’m dying, because I think maybe I am.

A harsh curse sounds low in his throat, and then I’m on my back. His elbow lands near my head, bearing his weight, and his mouth is consuming mine in a kiss that has me digging my nails into his back.

He lifts my thigh, settling his delicious body between my legs. The warm weight of him on top of me feels unreal. I tilt my head back into the cushion to keep our mouths together. Our jagged breaths fight for space, his hard length finding the perfect spot.

My lids fall closed at how amazing he feels. How perfect we fit.

His nose bumps mine. “Riley.” My name is a soft command to look at him.

Our eyes lock, his sharp with intensity despite his soft voice. He holds my gaze for a few heartbeats, then gives me a gentle kiss on the tip of my nose. On my forehead. And each cheek. The softness of his touch, at odds with the raw power vibrating his Viking body, makes me feel like something precious to him.

I can’t reach his nose with my lips, but I give his smooth cheek a gentle kiss to let him know he’s precious to me too.

He brushes my nose with his, his glistening lips quirking into a hint of a smile. “So fucking cute.”

I catch his pillowy bottom lip with my teeth, like he did mine, letting him know I don’t want to be cute right now.

I know he gets the message when his hand tightens on the back of my neck, and his tongue pushes into my mouth, a feral sound low in his throat. He starts grinding against my sweet spot again. Oh my God. And again. Did I just make a mewling sound? And again. Yep. I’m freaking mewling.

He breaks the kiss, meeting my gaze. His movements are slow and purposeful, like he’s sketching my pleasure with his body, like his dark gaze is painting the look in my eyes to memory while his muscles tremble with restraint.

He’s not the only one trembling.

Rigid Riley does not have orgasms while dry humping, but Nick’s Riley might.

I try not to think about how grinding against Nick like a horny teenager is the best sex of my life.

“You want me to make you feel good, Ry?” he asks on a hoarse whisper, then nips my earlobe in a sharp bite that pulls a small cry from my throat.

I dig my short nails into his back, the scattered tingles between my legs becoming a singular hum. I clutch the firm globe of his butt, urging him to go harder. I can feel a little bit of his steady control slipping. I grip him tighter, wanting his control to slip. So fucking badly.

“Nick,” I whimper. “I need you.”

He growls before he takes my mouth in a dominating caveman kiss.

Yes! I want to play with the caveman.

Daisy’s loud bark sends our world crashing around us in a violent spin.

In what feels like a flash, Nick’s standing. And then I’m looking up at a shocked Steve, looking at a shocked Nick, looking at my laughing grandpa on FaceTime.

Fuck.

My.

Life.

20

NOT THAT GUY

Have you ever dreamed about kissing someone for years? And when you finally taste their lips and feel their touch, you realize being with them is the only thing in your life that makes sense?

The only thing that feels real?

But then your stepdad walks in with your grandpa on FaceTime. And your hellhound loses her shit at chipmunks singing about hula hoops.

And the person you’ve let breathe promises into your soul jumps from you like you’re a fiery shit comet. While your stepdad mutters an awkward sorry, before he walks away with the sound of your grandpa cracking up on the phone?

Yeah? Welcome to the club.

Did I mention the someone is a Highlander-Viking-pirate in ugly golf pants? Whose kiss and dry-humping skills have ruined you for every other human, Tolkien elf, Vulcan, and sexy, cape-wearing Darkling? Who asked if you’re okay after your stepdad left in a voice that tightened your throat? And when you said you’re fine (because what else could you freaking say), he slipped back on his professor glasses, gave you a tight smile, and walked away.

With your hellhound at his heels.

And out the front door.

Leaving you alone to say awkward goodbyes to your family with the elephant in the room crushing your chest? No? Just me on that one?

Figures.

I exhale another hot breath against the windshield, looking at Nick’s rust bucket parked in our driveway.

I don’t know why I’m still sitting in my car, freezing my ass off. I think maybe I’m afraid this night will officially end when I walk inside my grandpa’s house.

And this will be our after.

My eyes drop to the fourth text in a series of lame, unsent texts to Nick that went something like this:

1st: Hey.

2nd: Hi.

3rd: So that happened. ;)

And now the glorious 4th: Can we talk?

I bite my lip and erase number four, sending it where unsent words go. Leaning my head against the headrest, I blow out another fuck-my-new-life breath.

Then my phone chimes.

My eyes drop to it with my heart freezing for a beat.

Nick: I’m so sorry, Ry. Tonight is on me. I fucked up.

I stare at his text.

My eyes burn, and my throat tightens to the point of pain. I try to swallow, but I can’t.

He’s sorry we made out.

He thinks it was a mistake.

That it was a fuck-up on his part.

The most beautiful kiss I’ve ever had was a fuck-up to him.

A. Fuck. Up.

Maybe if I’d made a better mental list while I was sitting on his lap, instead of acting like a horny teenager, I could’ve seen this as a possibility.

But I didn’t make a better list. I let myself believe in fate. Let myself believe that Nick was destined to be mine. And I was destined to be his. That we were written in the stars.

I’m such an idiot. Or maybe I’m gloriously delusional, like my grandpa. Maybe I imagined he said I was everything. Imagined that he kissed me like I was everything. Touched me like I was everything.

My heart pounds harder in my chest each time I reread his text, each word a jagged knife twisting in my gut.

“I fucked up.”

“I’m so sorry, Ry”.

“Tonight’s on me.”

I don’t know if my teeth clench because I’m freezing or pissed off at myself or Nick.

The jagged knife sinks deeper.

Both. I’m pissed off at both of us.

How could he text that? How could he carelessly crush what happened between us like an ant on the sidewalk? How can he tell me I’m everything, then tell me I’m nothing but a mistake? Something he regrets.

How can I let myself care this much?

It shouldn’t hurt this fucking bad.

I swallow past the hot lump of coal in my throat.

Old-me wouldn’t have felt this shit.

Old-me had Vulcan armor that fit like a glove.

Old-me would’ve returned Nick’s text like this: No worries! We both messed up. No big deal! See you tomorrow! :)

And she would’ve been waiting on the porch at ten sharp for Nick to pick her up for work, looking perfect, with her bright, dimpled smile firmly in place.

And with her heart safe behind Vulcan steel, she would’ve laughed that laugh and smiled that smile at Nick. It would’ve been perfect.

I’m not sure what the new-me will do, but I know it’s not that. Not even fucking close.

Pulling frozen air into my battered lungs, I step out of the car, feeling every muscle in my body ache with the movement.

Nick’s drug-touch takes approximately one hour to wear off, in case you were wondering.

I pound through the side gate, and march straight to Nick’s lit-up house, with my heart beating in time with my steps. My fingers tighten around my purse strap as I close in on the front door. Dull pain from my knee radiates up my thigh.

I quicken my steps, welcoming the pain, needing it to bring me back from the feel of Nick’s solid body pressed to mine.

The feel of his silky lips and velvet tongue on my skin, his erotic bite. The way his raspy voice sounds when it’s thick with lust.

I flip off Nick’s voice in my head, unclench my fist from around my purse strap, and throw open his front door without a single knock. Then shut it behind me. Hard.

Nick’s eyes slam into mine, his lips parting in surprise. The soft sound of Bob Ross painting happy trees fills the background. I don’t have to look to know Presley’s on his perch, watching the old show. It’s his favorite.

I straighten my spine against the storm in Nick’s gaze. He’s sitting at his breakfast bar in sweats and a white T-shirt with fresh-shower-damp hair, holding his phone.

He showered to get rid of me. Rid of my sugar-cookie scent. Rid of my touch. My kiss. While I stand here with every inch of me covered in him.

My eyes slice to the babies running toward me from the hallway.

I bend at the waist to give them all a little love, even though I don’t feel like it. At all.

When Peaches presses her wet pink nose against my hand, and Finn climbs onto Daisy’s back to reach my other hand so he can steal her scratches, I realize how much I care about them too.

Which totally freaking sucks.

“Go to bed,” Nick says to the babies in a dark voice that tingles my spine. “Now,” he adds, bringing a beer I didn’t notice before to his lips. His Adam’s apple bobs as he finishes it.

I give Daisy a goodnight pat on her square head as she and the babies begrudgingly go back to their bedroom.

Daisy shoots a sad look over her shoulder as she goes. I want to give her a reassuring smile, but I can’t fake it. Not even for her.

Nick sets down the bottle with a clank on the countertop and swivels his chair to face me, filling his lungs in a deep breath. His broad shoulders, which are usually square and set, seem slumped under an invisible weight.

His eyes hold mine. “I shouldn’t have kissed you, Ry. I’m sorry.” His muscled chest deflates. “It was—”

“If you say it was a mistake, I swear to God, Nick…” My nostrils flare as I narrow my eyes into fiery slits.

He runs a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back from his creased forehead. “You’re Steve’s daughter. I can’t—”

“You’re so full of shit,” I seethe, taking a step closer. “Why don’t you just say it?” My frustrated hands fly in the air. “If you don’t want me, just say it. Don’t hide behind Steve. Or Win, or whatever other bullshit excuses you have. Just tell me you don’t care about me. Tell me you don’t want me!”

I need to hear him say it. Need his words to devour the hope growing inside my chest before it’s too late. Before it covers every inch of my soul.

He’s out of his seat in a flash, his height shrinking the room, his arms flexing with his words as he motions a sharp hand to me. “Obviously I fucking want you, Riley.” His neck reddens around his collar, his chest expanding with his breaths.

His words weave golden thread around my fractured heart, trying to stitch it back together.

“Then why can’t we just see where this goes with us?” Maybe if we’re together my life will make sense. Maybe I won’t feel so fucking alone.

There’s a weighted pause like he can hear my thoughts.

“I can’t,” he says, dropping his eyes to the hardwood. “Not with you.”

Fourteen-year-old me burst into tears as his rejection burns like acid through our veins. I raise my Viking shield and stand at her front.

I push my shoulders back against the pain. “Oh, I get it. You can with Samantha from the bar. And you can with the girls from Georgia. And can with God knows how many other women. But you can’t with me.” My smile is frosted ice, my gaze glacial. “Someone you obviously want. Right. Got it.” My voice drips with sarcasm.

His jaw ticks. “I don’t do relationships, Riley.”

I scoff, a forced, ugly sound. “Funny, I don’t remember asking for your hand in marriage, Nick.” I say his name like a curse.

His nostrils flare. “You think we’ll just fuck and that will be it?” His penetrating gaze drills into mine. His acid voice drops an octave. “You wouldn’t be just a fuck to me, Riley.”

My heart flickers with a spark of hope and punches against my chest. The force of it has me closing the short distance between us. “Then let me be more.” I put my hand on his arm, feeling muscles bunch under my hesitant touch. “Let us be more.”

His teeth scrape his lower lip. Then he shakes his head.

“You don’t want that.” His voice is absolute, like he wrote the damn book on what Riley Souza wants.

“Don’t tell me what I want, Nick.” I step closer, tilting my head back to hold his gaze. “I want you.” I set down my shield and strip bare so he can see the truth in my eyes.

I want the sweet skater boy. The arrogant pirate bastard. The devilishly handsome Viking. The goofy Highlander. The grunting cowboy-caveman. The beautiful keeper of my secrets.

I want them all.

I want him.

We stare at each other, stuck in the space between moments. Between breaths. Between then and now.

My lungs seize as I watch the lines of his masculine face sharpen into something dangerous.

“Yeah? You want me?” His long-lashed eyes spark hellfire as he grabs my hand in his iron grip. And before I can take in my next breath, he’s leading me down the hall toward his bedroom.

My mind is racing too fast to hold onto a single thought.

My heart pounds in my chest like I’d just stepped off the stage after a performance.

Are we going to have angry sex? Do I want our first time to be like this? Did I shave my legs this morning? I don’t think so, but maybe. Am I wearing cute underwear? No, definitely not.

He storms us into his bedroom that smells like a fresh shower and Nick’s musk. But instead of throwing me onto his bed like a caveman to ravage me and my prickly legs, he lets go of my hand and continues to the nightstand, opening the drawer.

Then turns to me, his body tense, his eyes spitting gold fire that singes my skin like acid rain.

And holds up a prescription bottle.

“This one is for PTSD.” His voice bleeds anger and heartache as he talks. “Been taking this shit since I was nineteen, because I promised Steve and your grandpa I would.” It rattles as he throws it onto the bed. “I’ve been seeing a therapist off that promise too,” he says under his breath as he turns back to the drawer.

And pulls out another bottle.

“This one is because I can’t sleep for shit.” He taps the bottle to his temple. “I can get lost in the same fucking thought until the sun comes up. You want to be there for that shit?”

I open my mouth to tell him I want to be anywhere he is. That I want to hold him when he can’t sleep. That I want to get lost with him. But the words don’t come.

All I can do is quietly nod my head.

He laughs harshly at my nod and tosses the bottle onto the bed, pulling out another one.

“This one is so I don’t get a panic attack when someone stands behind me. My dad used to lock his arm around my throat from behind until I’d pass out.” His voice roughens. “So sometimes I lose my shit. And can’t fucking breathe. Even though there’s no arm. There’s nothing there, Riley. Just me and my fucked-up head.” He makes a disgusted face.

I feel his words like a punch in the gut. Birthday cake and Junior Mints threaten their way up my throat. Every muscle in my body tenses with a hate so powerful I can’t breathe.

I hate Nick’s dad with every single cell in my body.

I gnash my teeth as flashes of his dad’s face pop into my mind.

I only met him once. On the day I found out what hell was like, and that Nicolas MacGregor had been raised in the pits of it. With his mom as the gatekeeper.

Never stop by when his dad’s truck’s out front.

That was our deal.

But I had a present for him. A green iPod I’d been saving for months to get. Loaded with his favorite songs, so he didn’t have to listen to that old boombox and scratched CDs when he painted.

I knew I should’ve kept peddling, giving it to him when I got back from visiting Steve’s family, but I wanted him to have it while I was gone. Wanted him to have something from me to hold. So, when I heard laughter coming from the carport, I went to see if Nick was there.

And found his dad with a group of rough-looking men, sitting in lawn chairs, drinking beers. I was a young twelve and didn’t understand what the smiles they gave me meant. Didn’t know when Nick’s dad held his grease-stained hand out for Nick’s gift, that I should’ve run. I didn’t know what it meant when the potbelly guy pulled me onto his knee so I could show him Nick’s present first, or why it made me nauseous when he laughed. They were all laughing. Joking.

And I still didn’t get what any of it meant.

But Nick knew.

I saw it in his blazing eyes and on his furious face when he jumped off his skateboard and ran to me, yanking me off Potbelly’s lap. Saw in the way Nick’s fist struck his ragged face, quick and fast like a cobra. With venom just as deadly.

He was a tall and lanky fifteen but fought like a hardened man twice his size.

And took hits like one who’d been taking them his whole life, because he had. After the last venomous strike was thrown, and I was pulling Nick away from Potbelly’s groaning body with tears streaming down my face, I heard his dad’s sinister laugh. Saw the look in his eyes as he lit his cigarette and spoke around it, saying, “Just like his old man.”

He was proud. Proud of what he’d created.

And I knew then that the Devil wore Nick’s same gold-flecked eyes.

Nick points to the bed. “This is why I can’t be with you, Riley.” He exhales, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m too fucked up.”

A wave of hurt crashes into my chest. It hurts to hear him talk about himself like this.

Hurts that he thinks he’s broken.

I know how that feels. And I fucking hate that he’s feeling that sort of pain.

My throat constricts. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Nick.” I give him the words he gave me in his living room, hoping he can see I mean them. “Taking meds doesn’t make you fucked up. It makes you human.” I take a step toward him, stopping when his body tenses. “We’re all just trying to survive the best we—”

“What about almost killing my dad?” His sharp voice cuts me off like a steel blade. “Does that count as fucked up? Does leaving him in a parking lot to die count?” His head tilts. “How about liking it, Riley? Liking the way it felt when he begged me to stop? Is that fucked up enough for you?”

His words batter me on all sides like a hurricane, knocking me back a step. It never even crossed my mind that Nick was the one who sent his dad to the hospital.

Cold shivers run up my spine as I think about what his dad must have done to make Nick finally snap. “It’s not your fault.” My voice sounds shredded. “He was a monster.”

He gives me a wintry smile. “You still don’t get it, Peanut.” His sharp brows raise. “When normal people find their mom lying on the kitchen floor, they call an ambulance. I didn’t call an ambulance. I hunted. Just like him.” His eyes flash with something before he continues, “I drove to your grandpa’s with my dad’s blood on my hands, crying for him to go help my mom, because I thought she was dead too. Thought I’d killed her by not calling for help. And if she wasn’t, I didn’t know who would take care of her when I went to prison. I was scared out of my fucking mind for her.”

Scared for her, not for himself.

I hate his mom. Almost as much as I hate his dad.

“Your mom was supposed to be the one taking care of you, Nick.” The acid burning my voice isn’t just for his mom. I’m pissed at myself, too. I should’ve been there for him.

I should’ve protected him, like he always protected me.

He swallows, looking to his feet. “Steve and your grandpa took care of me.” His shoulders slump a little. “Steve made the security tapes disappear, and your grandpa gave me an alibi.” Gratitude too big for my body, expands in my chest at his words.

He shakes his head, meeting my gaze.

“I let your grandpa lie to the cops for me, Riley. Let Steve lie to Win and your mom.” His fiery gaze sinks into mine for a few heartbeats. He fills his lungs. “When my dad got out of the hospital, he disappeared. Haven’t seen him since.” He swallows. “I think Steve had something to do with that, too.”

I fucking love Steve.

He runs a hand through his hair with a humorless laugh, eyes tormented. “You know, after all this shit, my mom actually found someone worse? That’s where I was last night. Helping her move, knowing she’ll be back at his house next fucking week.”

“Nick, I’m so sorry,” I breathe out, with my heart bleeding for him as I watch my small words slip through the cracks of his pain.

“Don’t be.” His shoulders push back. “I let your family risk everything for me because I’m a selfish fuck. Can’t you see that? I’m not the good guy here.”

“You were just a kid, Nick. And they’re your family too. They’d do anything for you.” I step closer, wanting to invade his space and wrap my arms around him, but I don’t. “So would I.”

“I won’t take you down into this shithole with me.” He points a sharp finger to his temple. “No matter how fucking bad I want to.” His darkened eyes blaze down at me. “You deserve better, babe.” His resolute voice drops an octave. “You’ll find someone better.”

I put my hand on his chest, bracing myself against the hailstorm of everything that’s happened tonight. Kissing him, feeling him, losing him. Then learning about this unbearable heartache he’s been carrying. That threatens to batter me into a heap on the floor.

“There’s no one better—”

“Riley, listen to me, please. I care about you…” His large hand cups my jawline. He swallows. “But I’m not the guy for you.”

Care, not love. Care.

His long fingers tighten when I open my mouth to object. He shakes his head. “I’m not him. I’m your friend. Your best friend. I’m that guy. Because that’s who I need to be. Do you understand? I need to be that for you. I need us to be okay. I need us to be like we were. Okay? Can you give me that?”

The desperation in his deep voice pricks at the back of my eyes like a hot needle.

I hold his long-lashed stare. “Okay,” I lie.

His lids fall slowly as he pulls me in for a hug, relief slumping his shoulders.

In that moment, I decide this isn’t our after.

This isn’t how our story ends.

Not if I can help it.

I tell fourteen-year-old me to wipe her tears, because I’ve got this. I’m going to find a way to show Nick that I’m safe with him.

That he’s the guy. That he’s always been the guy.

The only one.

I just need to figure out how.

21

THE CAVEMAN PLAN

Important life tips:

1) Do not take love advice from Daisy. You will end up with four days’ worth of failed plans. And a dance routine she’ll insist you take on the road.

2) Do not attempt to hobble your ass up the ladder to the loft when you think everyone is gone. You won’t make it. And they aren’t gone. But when you get to work the next morning, the ladder will be.

3) Do not leave your suitcase unattended at Luna’s. You will end up with a suitcase full of her “Vegas” clothes, because all your perfect clothes—that took forever to pack—are apparently “yoga-mom shit” or have a “bank-teller vibe.”

4) Do not leave weird amounts of bobby pins at the bottom of your suitcase, or TSA will think you’re going to assemble them into some kind of ballet-bun-holding weapon.

You’re welcome.

I don’t know what I expected from Nick the morning after our kiss. Maybe some awkward silence? Some weird tension? Nick declaring his undying love for me when he woke up and realized he’d made a huge mistake?

Okay, maybe not that.

But I didn’t expect him to pick me up from the porch at our usual time, handing me my usual black coffee with his usual sleepy smile and his usual scratchy “Morning, babe” on his perfectly soft lips.

He’d painted over our night with that sleepy smile until there was no trace of it left. No trace of the promises he whispered with his body. Or the secret pain he shared in front of his nightstand, making it my pain too.

We drove to work that morning like last night never happened.

He teased. Smiled. And laughed. He even sang an upbeat duet with Presley.

Awkward or weird would’ve been something. This was nothing.

While I’d spent the night fighting the urge to climb through Nick’s doggy door and into his bed, wanting to hold him in my arms and run my fingers through his soft hair as he slept, he’d spent the night erasing me.

As the week passed, The Nothing grew between us, until I was sure it devoured whatever chance I had to change his mind.

But then something happened twenty minutes ago, while sitting squished between Nick and Bean, Aka Ethan, in airplane seats built for ants.

A caveman grunt sounded from the window seat.

Followed by another.

At first I thought Nick was clearing his throat, but what are the chances of him clearing his throat at the exact moment Ethan started engaging me in some kind of weird Southwest Airlines mating ritual that involves him sharing his lollipop with me?

Steve would say it’s the same odds as a rooster laying eggs.

So, I decided on one last plan: The Caveman Trap.

If Viking Nick won’t listen, then maybe I need to grab the attention of his inner caveman. Maybe Caveman Nick will club Viking Nick over the head when he sees me doing mating-ritual stuff with other men. Then he’ll carry me back to his cave, where we’ll spend the rest of our lives eating bugs from each other’s hair and making love by the fire he built.

It probably won’t work—but maybe.

“Can you do that?” Ethan’s deep voice sounds in my ear, tugging me from my caveman thoughts.

I meet his long-lashed, dark gaze.

“Do what?” I ask.

I’m not sure when I stopped noticing the arresting contrast of his saturated black-rose tattoos and alabaster skin, or his ice-blond hair and marble-smooth angelic features set against his impossibly dark eyes. But now I just see Ethan Hayes from Idaho. Who everyone else calls Bean. I don’t know why I call him by his real name, but I do.

A lollipop addict who eats barbecue potato chip sandwiches for lunch on white bread with mayo and American cheese, always giving Harvey the Rat the last bite.

He pulls the white mating stick from his lips and points the pink candy ball at the end toward my phone. “That stuff,” he says in his voice that always sounds like he just got back from yelling at a football game.

I drop my gaze to the ballet TikTok challenge I was mindlessly scrolling through, to see a young ballerina doing a Lilac Fairy variation on a subway platform. I don’t need the sound on to hear the music.

Mistress Lafitte’s heavy French accent mixes with the music in my head. Her voice, made hoarse from years of smoking, tells me this performance is lazy and to turn it off before it makes her eyes bleed.

“Yeah, I can do that,” I say, meeting Ethan’s gaze with a whisper of a smile on my lips, remembering all the times I made my favorite ballet teacher’s eyes bleed.

She never said my performance was lazy, though. Not once.

I have to fight the ridiculous urge to tell him I can perform it better. That her jumps are too heavy, her face too frozen. That even though the Reaper carried the precision-perfect me away, I’m still better than average. Not great, and not even close to perfect.

But I’m still pretty freaking good.

“You’re gonna dance for me tonight,” Ethan states in a magnetic voice that should pull me closer to him. And maybe if I weren’t distracted by the sudden stiffness of Nick’s arm, it would.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not gonna happen,” I say with a smirk and raised brows.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Ethan gives me a lopsided, rakish grin, then pulls the lollipop from his pink-stained lips and holds it out for me to take. “I’m going to cuddle you so hard tonight.”

It was either share a bed with Luna, who sleeps naked, or share a bed with Ethan who sleeps clothed but is a self-proclaimed cuddler. I think I might have made the wrong choice.

My heart leaps to my throat when I hear Nick growl something under his breath. Then he’s standing, hunched over from the low ceiling. Our eyes lock when his knees bump into mine as he passes. The heat in his gaze sparks and tingles across my skin.

Nick turns those molten eyes to Ethan. His once-again-scruffy jaw ticks as he snatches the lollipop from Ethan’s fingers. The veins in his forearm on full display as he not so gently knee-bumps past him.

Then prowls down the aisle toward the bathroom, like he owns the plane. His tense back muscles moving with his steps under his white MacGregor Ink T-shirt.

Ethan chuckles, watching him go. “He’s going to fucking kill me.”

His dark eyes sparkle with mischief when they meet mine.

“Why?” I ask, hope expanding in my chest like a hot-air balloon at the thought of my plan working.

“You know why,” he says with a smug grin, putting one of his AirPods in my ear and the other in his. “Guess we all gotta die sometime.” His grin widens.

And that’s when I know if I hadn’t already fallen for Nick, I’d be in trouble with this guy.

Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” sounds in my ear, right before Ethan’s rockstar arm drapes over my shoulders. He pulls me to his side, causing Luna’s slouchy cropped sweatshirt to ride dangerously close to my bra and under-boob. I may not have ultra-defined abs anymore, but my stomach is still toned, so I felt sexy with it paired with my cute-butt boyfriend jeans and beach-wavy ponytail and perfect natural makeup.

That is until Nick tried to tug the sweatshirt down from behind as we walked from the shuttle to the airport, crushing my sexy mojo under his scuffed black Converse. He’s lucky my period’s over or my Hulk-rage hormones would’ve smashed his mojo-crushing butt.

I let my eyes flutter closed when Nick bumps past us to his window seat. I relax my face in fake bliss, feeling his ardent gaze on my cheek, like there’s no other place I’d rather be than in Ethan’s arms. Even though my neck’s pulled in a painfully awkward angle that’s sending a sharp pain down my shoulder.

Ballerinas have mastered the art of making torturous positions look like we just stepped into a warm bath on a cold winter’s day.

When Nick plops into his seat, shifting and grunting like he can’t get comfortable, a small Black Swan smile tugs at the corner of my lips.

Maybe Daisy was right.

This might be a fun trip, after all.

I’m sure Las Vegas is awesome.

I’m sure the water show in front of the Bellagio is freaking amazing. I’m sure the fact there’s a mini-Paris within walking distance to a mini–New York is magical.

I’m sure the MGM Grand Hotel feels like stepping onto a Hollywood movie set. I’m sure Nick’s opulent SkyLoft suite—comped by someone named Dave—he insisted I stayed in while he slept in his original room, would’ve stolen my breath.

Yep. If I hadn’t spent the last two hours glaring at Nick’s chiseled profile, I would have noticed all that, but it’s hard to notice shit when you’re trying to murder someone with your eyes.

Nick meets my glare, his sharp brows pinched over his Clark Kent glasses. At least he’s not wearing his sexy professor ones.

I hate those the most.

“Stop giving me that look.” His jaw ticks as he swings open one of the many glass doors to the colossal convention center, ushering me through it with his hand on my lower back.

As soon as I step inside, I’m hit with busy voices and kinetic energy buzzing in the air. It reminds me of backstage before opening night. If backstage were two football fields of polished concrete and towering ceilings.

“I’m, sorry, boss. Is there a specific way you want me to look? Or, like, should I just cast my eyes to the floor or something?” I could fill every pool in Vegas with the amount of sarcasm dripping from my lips.

I set the trap for Caveman Nick and got Boss Nick instead.

Boss Nick is a total dick, by the way.

He peers down at me. The vein running through his turquoise-blue and green star tattoo on his neck making an appearance.

“It’s not my fault you didn’t bring any work shirts on a work trip,” he admonishes.

“I look ridiculous,” I say, pointing to his gigantic black MacGregor Ink hoodie hanging to my knees, covering the black leggings he made me change into so I could wear the brace Dr. Cole sent because we were going to be doing a shit ton of walking.

It’s not that I mind wearing the brace, especially when it helps as much as this one does, but I’m not looking forward to the “what happened to your knee” questions that come with it.

“You’re representing my brand,” he says while giving some tattooed bald guy with a goatee a casual chin lift.

I freeze mid-step. “Your brand of what? Assholery?” I cross my arms, my hands swallowed up by my sleeves, which doesn’t give the effect I was going for.

His face softens, and he parts his lips to say something, but his words are cut off by the sound of a woman squealing his name, right before he’s tackled by an Amazonian goddess with silky midnight-black hair.

Her shiny hair swings with health as she wraps her slender arms, inked in grayish black with accents of bold red, around Nick’s neck. Do I have to jump backward so I’m not struck down by her long Elvish leather-clad legs? Yes.

Nick’s powerful arms fly around her waist to catch her, the sound of his rich laugh rubbing against my skin like diamond-encrusted sandpaper. My teeth smash together. No wonder Nick expected me to leap into his arms. I’m sure women leap at him wherever he goes.

Not this girl.

I don’t leap unless it’s part of the choreography. Or if Patrick Swayze asks nicely while calling me Baby.

I raise my chin at the thought, then take another step back so I’m not sliced open by her dagger heels as he gives her a quick spin before setting her down. A fucking spin.

Her jade-green gaze locks with his gold-flecked one as she lays her red-manicured hand on his chest. She splays her fingers on the spot I like to rest my head when we hug. She’s only a few inches shorter than his six-foot-three frame, putting them at perfect kiss level.

Did I just grunt?

The fact they look perfect together sits like bad sushi in my gut. I swallow just in case my airport panini decides on an encore performance.

“You ready to make some bad life choices with me?” she says with her red-velvet lips tipped in a way that makes me want to club her over the head and drag Nick back to my cave by his perfectly styled Beckham hair.

“Is there any other kind?” Nick says, with a sinful grin on his jerk lips.

I bite the inside of my cheek, turning my gaze to the people buzzing around, scanning the action for Luna and the gang before I embarrass myself.

Nick clears his throat, drawing my attention back to him as he motions to me.

“This is my extremely stubborn friend, Riley, who thinks my awesome shirt looks stupid on her,” he says to me with a playful smirk. “Riley, this is Alicia. Not only is she a trash polka badass.” Trash polka? “But she can make a rose so beautiful out of toilet paper, it’ll make a bar full of men cry.”

Alicia intertwines her freakishly long arm with Nick’s freakishly long arm, beaming a smile at him. She looks like Jessie J—gorgeous with a can-hang-with-the-boys sort of vibe.

I decide whatever trash polka is, it sucks.

“Only you cried,” she laughs, her fingers wrapping around his muscled bicep in a familiar way that says she’s been there before. “Then your drunk ass used it to blow your nose.” Her jade gaze slides to mine, humor crinkling the corners. “Rude, am I right?”

Nick chuckles at her. “It’s called art in action, babe.” Babe? He gives her an arrogant wink, then freaking boops her nose before moving to my side.

When I go to put some space between us, because he’s a boop-winking jerk, he throws his heavy arm over my shoulder, squishing me awkwardly to his side with his eyes on Alicia.

The sparkle in his gaze says his mission in life is to annoy me.

Mission accomplished.

“You giving a seminar with Grady?” he asks.

Alicia gives me a quick once-over, head to toe. I know what she sees: messy airplane ponytail, tent hoodie, old leggings with a knee brace, and white Adidas. I know the moment she labels me as a frumpy non-threat—it’s in the softening of her eyes and brightening of her smile.

I deepen my dimples, thinking maybe I should show her my cavewoman club after all.

I’ve never used it before, but it feels pretty damn threatening.

Her eyes slide to Nick’s. “Dave put us in for Sunday at seven. You?”

“I don’t know.” Nick turns to me, his eyes expectant. “Peanut?”

His schedule spins in my mind like a wheel of colored Post-it notes: Green for speaking engagements/exhibitions. Blue for meetings with sponsors/collectors. Red for his art-book signings. Yellow for block-out time so he can fit in walk-ups and the convention contest, which he won last year.

“Sunday at eight,” I say at the same time some heavily pierced dude yells “Fucking beast!” at Nick from a booth that says Kingpins Jewelry.

I think it might be a compliment.

Nick returns the compliment with a regal bow. And since he’s got me in a death lock at his side, I bow too.

Lovely.

When we straighten, I flick my gaze over my shoulder at the glass entrance, wondering if I should just make a run for it. I’m pretty fast. Just ask Daisy.

He tightens his arm around my shoulders, like he can read my mind, his gaze fixed on Alicia.

“Hmm…” He taps his full lips with his finger. “If I go on at eight and you go on at seven, I guess that makes you my opening act.” He dips his chin with an impish smile.

If you’re wondering how much arrogance one smile can hold.

It’s a lot.

“Okay, big shot,” Alicia says, then swings her gaze over her shoulder as a man with a dark auburn beard and one of those Steampunk mustaches calls her over to him. She takes a few steps backward toward her friend, and asks, “We doing our usual thing tonight?”

Nick’s cheek creases. “Chocolate cream all day, baby.”

I add that to the growing list of things I don’t want to know about.

She rolls her eyes, and then her gaze meets mine. “It was great meeting you, Peanut,” she says my nickname with a teasing smile, but not in a bitchy way. “See you guys tonight.” Another sweet smile aimed at me.

Perfect. She’s going to end up being nice so I can’t hate her.

Before I can say it was great meeting her too, she’s strutting away like she’s on a catwalk and RuPaul’s telling her to work it.

I press the toe of my shoe into the concrete while RuPaul tells me to hobble my Frodo ass back to the hotel room, raid the mini-bar, and take a hot bath while watching The Witcher on Netflix.

Nick drops his arm from my shoulder.

“Why are you pouting?” he asks, grabbing my hand in his strong one as we navigate past tattoo artists and industry people setting things up. “You know I don’t like it when you’re mad at me.”

“Then stop acting all bossy,” I say with a pout I can’t stop, letting him hold my hand because I feel insecure and out of place. “Making me wear this,” I continue under my breath, my gaze flicking over the booths and pop-up tattoo shops. “I look like a hobbit.”

Everyone here has a unique style with cool tattoos.

I have no tattoos. And I’m wearing a tent.

He chuckles. “You don’t look like a hobbit.”

“Right.” I wilt a little as we sidestep a guy rolling a dolly stacked with plastic crates.

“I like you in my shirt,” he continues in a soft voice, his eyes fixed ahead. He messes with his glasses. “I like for people to know you’re with me.”

Before I can dissect his words—or squash the fireflies suddenly fluttering their tiny jerk wings—his expression changes. The air around us crackles with an energy that snaps against my skin.

My gaze jumps to three Herculean Polynesian-looking men walking toward us from one of the pop-up shops near the back, glaring like we just marooned our pirate ship on their island.

Their faces are marked with black spiral tattoos, concentrated mostly around the nose and chin. Except for the older one, whose faded spirals cover every inch of his weathered skin.

My gaze shoots to Nick, who’s wearing a boyish smile as they approach. His fingers flex around my hand, bringing us to a stop.

Are we waiting for them? Shouldn’t we be running?

I turn back to the men to see if maybe I missed something. Nope. Still three hulking guys stalking toward us with fists clenched and murder in their eyes.

“Maybe we should go a different way,” I whisper while I try to distract them with a frozen, dimpled smile. “Or hide,” I say without moving my lips, adding ventriloquist to my list of future job possibilities.

Nick gives me a wink and a reassuring hand squeeze. Then he lets go, takes several steps toward them, and stops in some kind of weird face-off.

I bite the inside of my cheek, flicking my gaze around, wondering where the hell Carlos and Ethan are. I can only imagine what shenanigans Nick did to put that look on these guys’ faces, but whatever it was, I’m pretty sure they’re going to kick his ass for it. Or at least try to.

I sound the horn to wake up my sleepy muscles, calling them to the battlefield. Can a wench take on three badass warriors to save her roguish pirate? We’re about to find out, folks.

My spine jolts when the older one bellows a thunderous string of words at Nick in a language I don’t understand. His eyes blaze with wild emotion, his nostrils flare and his cheeks puff. He flexes his arms in the air, eyes bulging at Nick. Then he juts out his flattened tongue as he conjures up the world’s most menacing sound from deep in his throat.

Well, that can’t be good.

Then the other guys are conjuring up the same throaty sounds, their tongues protruding and tribal-tattooed arms flexing, their fingers doing some kind of jazz-hand thing.

I jump a little when they bend their knees and start to chant a fierce song. They hit their palms against their barrel chests in a rhythm that shakes the surrounding air, rotating the slaps against their forearms, thighs, and chest while they chant-sing. I don’t know when their deep voices go from jarring to something that moves my soul, but it happens.

A fierce warrior dance shouldn’t be this beautiful. It shouldn’t tighten my throat and squeeze my mechanical heart, but it does.

How have I lived twenty-six years and not known this existed?

My gaze swings to Nick, and my breath hitches when he joins in.

The coiled muscles in his tattooed arms flex with raw power as his deep voice rises above theirs. He’s executing the words and passionate movements in perfect unison with his counterparts, the sinew of his neck pushing against flushed skin.

And just like that, he goes from rogue pirate to a fierce warrior too.

My heart swells at seeing him in his world with his friends, but it reminds me just how much of his life I’ve missed out on.

The chanting dies after a final war cry, and the men go quiet.

Their bodies relax in the stillness.

A few claps and whistles sound around me, but I can’t take my eyes off the beautiful expression on Nick’s face, his chest rising and falling with his labored breaths as he looks at his friends.

He takes off his glasses.

The older one’s weathered face softens as he walks up to Nick. They hold eyes for a breath, and then they grip hands, palm to palm in that guy way, and they quietly bring their forehead and noses together, eyes closed. Unspoken words pass between them.

Then the stocky one takes his place, doing the same forehead-nose thing with Nick, followed by the tallest one, who wears a wide smile while he does it.

I wonder what society would be like if we all greeted each other like this. If we shut our mouths and talked with our hearts once in a while.

Nick slips his glasses back on.

“You look good, my boy,” the weathered older man says in a thick accent, sizing Nick up with a proud smile, squeezing his arm. “Strong and healthy.” He grins, flashing white teeth. “Mom will be happy to hear it.”

Mom?

“Strong is a bit of a stretch,” the tall one teases.

Nick smirks. “Strong enough to haul your drunk ass over my shoulder ten fucking miles.”

The stocky guy laughs.

“It was two miles, and you dragged me on the ground like a canoe.” The tall one scoffs.

“That’s not how I remember it.” Nick grins, his brows raised.

I shift my feet, flicking my gaze around the room, feeling weird just standing here like a groupie while they travel down memory lane. The fact Nick has years of memories that don’t include me causes an emptiness to spread in the pit of my stomach.

“There you are!” Luna says, storming my way and saving me from my groupie status. Her wild curls bounce with her angry steps. “I’ve been texting you like crazy, girl.” She stops at my front, doing that hand on the hip thing that earned her the “Teacup” nickname.

My spine snaps straight. “You have?” I pull my cell from Nick’s hoodie pocket and look at the screen. Shit, I forgot to take it off airplane mode. “Sorry,” I say, messing with it, knowing I must have missed a ton of messages on the work cell in my purse, too.

Did I mention my grandpa’s new thing is to FaceTime me at weird hours so he can tease me about Nick with wiggled brows? Yeah, that’s a thing now. At least he’s staying a few extra weeks in Portugal, so I won’t have to face him in person anytime soon.

The man has no shame.

Steve, on the other hand, is acting like he didn’t walk in on us getting hot and heavy to the Chipmunks, so I guess that’s good. And my mom’s been giving me space, which is a welcomed surprise.

“You need to tell Bean that my name goes first on the thingy. He keeps moving his name there, but I’m first.” Her head tilts off my blank look. “You said we would do it alphabetical by last names. Not first, remember?”

Here we go. I blow out a breath that puffs my lips, not having a clue what she’s talking about, which means she’s going to get pissed and say I never listen to her.

She’s not wrong.

I always wondered why the dorm mom at my ballet school was so grouchy. I wondered why she always wore a scowl on her pretty face. Why she tensed whenever we walked into her room.

Now I know. And I want to send her a card expressing my gratitude for not killing us.

Carlos was the old dorm mom. Until a few days ago, when he started sending them to me. At first, I thought it was kinda cool having Nick’s beloved clan come to me with their problems. I felt sort of like Lady Galadriel watching over the kingdom. Then I realized the whining and bitching will never stop. Ever.

Luna drops her hand from her hip when she sees Nick and his friends. Her scowl deepens. “I know you guys didn’t do the haka without telling me, because I told you last time I live for that shit.”

“Hey, Lu,” the tall one says with a flirty smile. “You’re more beautiful than I remember.”

“You just saw me an hour ago,” she says with narrowed eyes.

Before I can sneak away while Luna’s busy staring him down, Nick grabs my hand, dragging me a few steps to introduce me to his friends.

He motions to me with a flourishing gesture. “This”—he glances down at me, and his voice softens— “is my finest greenstone, Peanut.”

Greenstone? Well, that’s a new one.

Note to self: Google greenstone and haka.

The older one’s smile blossoms as he offers me his hand. “I’m Hahona.”

I take his calloused hand and bend forward as he moves in to touch his nose and forehead to mine. I close my eyes at the tender contact.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, the kindness in his brown eyes squeezing my heart a little, reminding me of my grandpa.

“Nice meeting you, too,” I say.

He motions toward the two smiling men now flanking him. “These are my grandsons, Rongo”—he nods toward the stocky one, then toward the tall one—“and Kamaka.”

They take turns greeting me, forehead to forehead. I’m not a touchy-feely person, so it doesn’t make sense that I want to move to wherever they’re from, but it is what it is.

The stocky one—Rongo—stands back from our greeting with a glint in his big brown eyes.

His chest puffs. “Did you know I saved Nick’s life? Twice?”

I shake my head, my smile widening off the mischievous glint in his eyes.

“The first time, me and my brother were getting ready to surf Ahipara when we see this speck of color bobbing in the sea. Then it was gone. Then it was back. Then it was waving its arms in the air—”

Nick slides between us, partially blocking my view of his friend. “Alright, that’s enough story time,” he says, grabbing my shoulders as he tries to steer me away.

Is he blushing? Nick doesn’t blush.

His gaze meets mine. “Didn’t Luna need your help with something?” An undeniable blush marks his upper cheeks.

Now I have to hear the story.

“But I want to hear about the spec of color,” I protest with a teasing grin, loving that he’s embarrassed. And hating that he looks so freaking cute like this.

I hear the guys crack up behind me.

“Come by our booth, little greenstone. And we’ll tell you the full story,” he says like a warning to Nick. “We have pictures.” They laugh harder.

“Can’t wait,” I call over my shoulder.

Nick’s imploring gaze slices to Luna, who’s too busy texting like a madwoman to notice. “You need Peanut, Lu?” Her name flies like a rock from his lips, hitting her in the forehead.

Her brown eyes jump to mine as she holds out her phone. It’s a picture of Ethan dangling a small container of tattoo ink over the toilet in a tipped position. “Bean’s going to flush my Walla-Walla Blue down the toilet, Riley.” Her voice rises in panic. “Do something.”

“You should go deal with that,” Nick rushes out, giving me a little nudge toward Luna.

I push back against his nudge. “Maybe you should go deal with it,” I counter, giving him a this-is-your-loony-clan-not-mine look.

Not gonna lie, knowing this is just my temporary clan sucks. Especially since Craigslist confirmed that my mom was right. Finding an assistant job without a degree is going to be hard. Making getting my own place even harder.

He cocks a measured brow. “I was told earlier, by someone who’s definitely not a hobbit, that I’m bossy, so I’m trying to work on that.” He winks. “Have fun, Peanut.”

Before I can leap at him, and not in a sexy Dirty Dancing way, Luna grabs my hand and starts dragging me toward what I suspect is the men’s bathroom.

To save her blue paint from being flushed.

With the sound of Nick’s deep chuckle following me.

Fucking Nick.

It’s going to take a miracle to survive this weekend with him.

Do I wish I had a few thousand of my grandpa’s Our Lady of Fatima miracle candles?

Yep.

22

WANTED: HARPOON

What do you get when you combine a cool-as-shit drag queen show and the best pie on the freaking planet served in a 70s disco diner/whiskey bar called Dee’s PieHole?

Nick and Alicia’s usual thing.

Life Tip: If you ever want to see Carlos turn beet red, pull him onstage so a performer named Britney Pierce can lip-sync “Womanizer” to him.

It’s the best thing you’ll see, probably ever. And the perfect way to unwind after a day dealing with Luna and Ethan’s drama while trying to get Nick’s art books—that somehow ended up in Wisconsin—here by tomorrow morning. While also trying to update Nick’s socials, organize the merchandise booth, and get the payment software set up, which would not freaking work.

Unlike Alicia, I may look like I work in IT, but I do not. Trust me.

I’m as good with computers as I am at setting caveman traps.

For a second I thought I trapped my caveman when he growled at Ethan (yes, growled!), before snatching another mating-ritual lollipop from his hand. Nope.

He’s a slippery bastard.

We clap and whistle as the Lady Gaga performer takes a bow after a kick-ass “Bad Romance” performance. I give an extra hoot, wishing more people were here to enjoy her show. It’s just our table of ten and another small group of convention pie-eaters with a few solos at the bar and tables, but it’s barely eight, so maybe it’ll get busy later? I hope so.

It makes me feel better that everyone in our group has been hitting the ATM by the door, keeping their tip bowl full of cash. Especially Carlos, who’s been bribing them with twenties not to bring him back on stage.

And Luna who’s been bribing them for a repeat performance.

The music turns down and the lights turn up as they break between shows, which means I’m back to having awkward small talk. Joy.

I think the only one who hates small talk more than me is Carlos. I’m pretty sure it’s why he snagged the seat next to mine from Ethan. Which I thought meant I was safe from conversations, being at the end of the table with Carlos’s linebacker body blocking me from view. Wrong. It probably doesn’t help that the guy everyone came to hang out with is sitting across from me.

If you ever want to spend the night feeling like an outsider, go for pie and drinks with a bunch of cool people at the top of their game in an industry you barely know, while wearing old leggings and your hair in a messy ponytail, because your bossy-boss said there was no time to change into one of Luna’s sexy outfits.

It’s super fun.

The Granny Gremlin clones at the penny slots are dressed better than me. Just saying.

The group picks up their pie-covered forks and starts talking about some artist named Echo who does wicked freehand out of Philly. Do I have any idea who they’re talking about? Nope. But I nod and smile along, like Echo and I go way back, as I take another small sip of my warm, buttery pecan-pie whiskey.

After a few meandering comments around the table about people I don’t know and tattoo styles I don’t recognize, the mermaid sitting at Nick’s side meets my gaze. She has long, wavy turquoise hair paired with perfectly soft coral makeup and a septum nose ring she designed. Turns out she’s the owner of Kingpins Jewelry, and the best designer in New York. Or so she says.

“So you guys met as kids?” the mermaid asks before she steals another bite of Nick’s chocolate cream pie, giving him that look as she pulls his stolen fork clean from her lips. That look is one of the reasons my delicious pie sits untouched. It doesn’t help that the tattoos covering her chest are undeniably Nick’s artwork.

You will not stab her with your fork, Riley.

Just one little stabby-stab?

No.

I swallow down one of Peaches’s demon hisses. “He’s my stepbrother’s best friend, so we grew up together,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time today. It seems my origin story with Nick is way more interesting than I thought.

My neck prickles with heat under her spotlight gaze. I’m glad I swiped a MacGregor Ink shirt in my size, or I’d be sweating unattractive bullets right now in Nick’s tent hoodie.

I scrub a hand over the back of my hot neck with a small smile, glancing over her shoulder to the stage, wishing they’d hurry up with the next performance.

She chuckles, giving Nick a flirty shoulder bump, sharkish eyes on me. “I bet you had the biggest crush on him growing up.”

Yep. She’s a mermaid bitch. I want to tell her this isn’t an audition for Nick’s attention, so she can just chill the hell out, but I don’t.

“Um, we were friends,” I say, glancing to my barely touched strawberry and whipped cream pie, wondering how it would look on her face.

I take another slow sip of whiskey, finding Nick’s gaze over the glass.

“We’re gonna watch the end of the world together,” Nick says, with a secret smile that flutters my stomach. His brows raise. “Right, Peanut?”

Yep. That’s me. His best friend and Armageddon date.

I push back the pang in my heart and grab on tight to my Caveman Plan.

I set down the glass, feeling my cheeks flush.

“That’s the plan,” I say, returning his secret smile.

“Awe, he calls you Peanut,” the mermaid says with her hand going to the boobs spilling from the low-cut dress she’s wearing, no doubt purposefully drawing Nick’s attention to them. And the outline of her nipple rings. “And now you work for him? So adorable.”

The way she says adorable makes me feel like I follow Nick around with puppy eyes like Daisy wherever he goes. Like I’m a child and she’s the woman who just gave me a candy and a pat on the head.

I may look fourteen with my makeup worn off, and freckles on my nose, but I’m not. What I am is a twenty-six-year-old shield-maiden in love with the Viking this mermaid is shamelessly flirting with. I also have a few newly acquired cavewoman instincts, so she should probably stop touching him. Just saying.

Nick’s eyes darken as they slide to hers. “She’s just helping me out.” His voice is its usual smooth rasp, but there’s a slight edge to it.

My shoulders relax a little, knowing she’s annoying him too.

“Riley’s a ballerina,” Luna chimes in from the other end of the table with a little snap to her voice. “Like a professional one with a tutu,” she adds with her delicate chin raised. If she were standing, there’s no doubt her hand would be on her hip. “And she can dance, like, all the other stuff, too. She’s on YouTube.”

Do I regret showing her Krista’s Throwback Thursday dance tutorial with me breaking down Britney Spears’s “Oops!... I Did it Again” music video.

Yes.

“Wow, impressive,” the mermaid says in that bitchy way. “I took ballet for a few years, too,” she finishes haughtily with a shrug, like that makes us equal.

I nod, forcing a quick smile as the competitive-me claws violently at my throat. It wants me to tell her I didn’t take ballet, I fucking lived it. For nearly twenty years of my life, it’s what filled my lungs and fed my soul. It still does.

“She’s really good at that stuff,” Ethan chimes in, sounding defensive on my behalf.

Carlos grunts his agreement at my side.

My chest swells at their support. The MacGregor Clan may annoy the hell out of me sometimes, but they have my back, and I freaking love them for it. My ballet girls would love them too.

“How cool,” Alicia says with a bright smile. “I used to go to the Nutcracker with my family. Have you ever danced in that?”

I want to tell her I’ve danced nearly every role.

“Sure,” I say, returning her smile as I reach for my water. My mouth is suddenly bone dry, my throat raw and shredded.

Nick’s gaze locks with mine. His chin dips. You okay, Ry?

My brows raise. I might throw my pie at the mermaid.

His lip tips at the corner. I won’t stop you.

A few people at the table chime in with their ballet stories. I send a small blanket smile to them, not feeling like taking a stroll down my memory lane. My breath catches when Nick’s foot presses against mine under the table, sending a few pesky zings up my leg. He’s trying to comfort me, but it makes my heart pound harder.

“I just had the best idea,” the mermaid exclaims. “You should dance for us.” She motions at the room. “This place is dead”—she smiles at Luna—“and since you’re a professional ballerina with a tutu and all, I’m sure they’d let you.”

I can hear it in her snotty tone. She thinks I’m a fake. She thinks she’s going to embarrass me in front of Nick. In front of his friends. The thought injects a syringe of Pulp Fiction adrenaline straight into my heart.

Nick taps my foot with his, stealing my attention. He lifts his chin when our eyes meet. He’s trying to tell me something, but I’m too pissed to mind-meld, so I just give him a random smile from my bag.

And turn my gaze back to the Bitch Mermaid.

“Um, I don’t think you can just ask to use their stage.” Do I feel like having an impromptu Flashdance moment in front of Nick and his friends? I’d rather relive the time I picked out a deep wedgie at a donors’ gala, not knowing Kristof Bergman was behind me on the stairs.

“Sure, you can,” she says with a determined spark in her eyes. Then she stands from the table and saunters over to Britney Pierce, who’s waiting for drinks at the bar.

Alicia leans toward me. “Sorry about Leah,” she apologizes, looking embarrassed for her friend. “She still has it bad for Nick, so she’s acting a fool because you’re so pretty.”

Still? Like as in they were a thing once?

She looks between Nick and me, her red lips tipped into a small smile. “It doesn’t help that you guys have this serious vibe-thing going on.”

Vibe-thing?

Nick looks like he’s going to say something, but I cut him off, not wanting to hear him define our vibe-thing as just friends.

“It’s totally fine.” I flash a lightbulb smile her way, then force down a small bite of strawberry pie to show her just how fine it is.

I’m thankful when her attention is pulled away. I was right when I said she’d be nice so I couldn’t hate her. Nick and Alicia met in Germany when she was apprenticing under a trash polka artist—the one who covered her arms in the black and bold red designs—becoming quick friends. He also spent time in New Zealand learning about Maori tattooing (and the haka), where he won the hearts of the Horomia family.

I could’ve gone to work in Paris but decided on a smaller company in LA. Big fish in a little pond and all that. Nick never cared about being a big fish, only about being true to himself and his art. I’m going to try to be more like that in this new life.

My eyes swing to Nick as he throws back his drink, his throat moving with his deep swallow.

His gaze drills into mine as he sets down his glass. “Leah and I never... we never dated or anything,” he says in a dark voice as he messes with his thick-rimmed glasses.

It’s not lost on me he said never dated. Not that they never hooked up. Not that they never slept together. Picturing Nick with TMI-Samantha from the bar hurt my heart, but that was before our kiss. Before I knew what his lips tasted like. What his hot breath and tongue felt like on my sensitive skin. How he moves his hips. Now that I know, picturing him doing those things with the mermaid fucking shreds me.

I school my expression, trying to hide my pain behind a new mask.

I shrug. “You can do what you want.” I pick up my whiskey with a syrupy-sweet smile. “Just like I can do what I want.” I let the innuendo play on my lips, stained pink from consuming my body weight in Ethan’s lollipops throughout the day.

Nick’s eyes darken as his chiseled features harden at my words.

I hear Carlos grunt-laugh at my side, but I keep my eyes locked on Nick’s while I take a sip of whiskey.

I look away before he can see past my new mask to the truth in my eyes. That I’m jealous and hurt he slept with her—that he gave that part of himself to her and not to me—even though I don’t have the right to be.

My heart kicks into hyper-drive when my gaze catches on Bitch Mermaid—known to some as Leah. She’s strutting to our table with Britney carrying another round of whiskies on a tray.

“There she is,” the mermaid says in a saccharine-sweet voice as she motions to me. “That’s Peanut.”

My jaw ticks at her using Nick’s nickname.

Where the hell is Aquaman with his harpoon when you need him?

“You want to give the stage a whirl, honey?” Britney says in a sweet voice as she hands out the drinks. “We have half an hour before the next show. You’re welcome to pick a song, if you want.” She motions to the DJ with one of the glasses, then back to the table, before setting a whiskey down in front of the steampunk-looking guy talking to Alicia. “We don’t usually let people onstage, but you all have been so generous tonight.” Her eyes land on Carlos. “How can I say no?” She gives him a sassy smile.

I’m about to tell her I’m fine just watching them perform, when Mermaid Bitch bends down to hug Nick from behind, her fake-lashed eyes narrowed in challenge at me. “Told you, all you had to do is ask.”

Nick’s body tenses under her touch. I want to lunge across the table and yell at her that he doesn’t like people behind him, but before I make a fool out of myself, he reaches up and takes her hand, gently leading her to her seat.

Seeing them touch strikes a match in my chest, burning me from the inside until every organ in my body is glowing white hot.

I don’t need to call my Viking muscles to the battlefield. They’re already there, lined up with their swords raised, ready to charge at my command.

There’re a few cavewomen among them.

They may be growling.

I stand. “Sure, let’s give it a whirl,” I say with the sound of blood crashing in my ears. My gaze slides from Britney to the mermaid, my smile bright. Challenge accepted, bitch.

The table cheers me on. Nick doesn’t cheer. He stands up, his broad shoulders set in a straight line and his eyes locked on mine.

I grab my phone, leaving my purse hanging on the back of my chair.

He steps to meet me as I round the table.

Bitch Mermaid becomes an afterthought as I meet his eyes.

This moment isn’t about her. Or proving myself to a bunch of people I don’t know.

It’s about Nick and me.

About showing the cowboy-caveman who told me I can do anything over a Tomahawk steak, that I can.

“You sure?” he asks in his quiet voice, worried lines creasing his forehead as his gaze flicks to my knee. “Say the word and we’ll leave.”

I smile up at him. “I got this, babe.” I’ve never called him babe in my life. I’ve never winked at him either. Or given him a boop on his straight nose, but I do that too.

My heart glows with a thousand fireflies as the most beautiful smile in the history of the universe spreads across his masculine face. “Did you just boop me, Peanut?”

“Yep,” I say, with the sound of his silky laugh molding to me like a second skin as I walk away, following Britney’s swaying hips to the DJ.

Is it possible to have a night with Nick that doesn’t feel like a fever dream?

Apparently, not.

What’s my shortest warm-up session ever?

I’m currently at two minutes.

If you’ve never stretched in a bathroom with disco lights and ABBA telling you you’re going to have the time of your life from the speakers, you should give it a try.

I fill my lungs with pumpkin-pie air freshener, supplying my muscles with the oxygen they need, as I quickly go over Ravnik’s choreography for Bishop Briggs’s “River” on my phone. Feeling relieved when my muscles twitch in memory.

Confession time: I may have been a wee bit obsessed with Ravnik.

I went to his Instagram for the Slovenia-sexiness but stayed for his body control and musicality. Did I learn his choreography so if we ever met in person, I could bust out in his moves and win his heart? Maybe. But in my defense, he lived in LA too, so it wasn’t an entirely implausible scenario.

Out of all his videos, his “River” choreography has always been my favorite.

It looks how I imagine angry sex feels.

If angry sex involved weightless leaps that defy gravity, and contemporary moves that explode with fuming passion. Yet still feel so vulnerable you’ll want to wrap your limbs around his body, shielding him from whoever broke his heart.

Since I feel simultaneously pissed off, vulnerable, and sexually frustrated at the moment, it seemed like a perfect fit for my Dee’s Piehole stage debut. Plus, the DJ had this song in her catalog, so I’m pretty sure it’s fate.

I set my phone on the sink and cross my ankles again, bending forward to stretch my hamstrings one last time before sliding to the floor, rotating quick right, left, and center splits. I choose not to acknowledge that I’m in a public restroom, instead focusing on the cool tiles pressed to my inner thighs.

Then I stand and do a few pirouettes to center my balance, tighten my ponytail since my head is going to do a lot of whipping around, and ignore the faint urge to pee again. I know it’s just nerves.

Dropping my gaze to my phone, I tuck away a few more strands, my fingers itching to call my girls so they can yell “Shit on a stick!” at me over the phone.

Most dancers I know say “merde” before a show instead of “break a leg.” Nia lost the French and added “on a stick” a few years ago, and it became our thing. Yep. Yelling “shit on a stick” at each other backstage is how we roll.

I smile at the thought. And look in the colorful disco-lit mirror, smoothing a hand over my T-shirt, then adjust my tight compression brace.

“Shit on a stick,” I say to my disco reflection before grabbing my phone from the sink, and then swipe my shoes from the floor, leaving ABBA and the disco ball behind.

I turn down a darkened corridor toward the poster of Liza Minnelli by the stage entrance. As I move closer, I see it’s covered in lipstick smudges.

“You’ve got to kiss Liza for luck before you go on.”

I turn at the husky voice at my back to see the Paula Abdul performer, in full “Straight Up” glam, fixing her gold hoop earrings.

She was on when we first got here and killed it.

“Okay, thanks,” I say, moving to my tiptoes to give Liza a kiss on the lips. I give her an extra smooch, knowing I need all the luck I can get.

It’s not that I don’t trust my body to perform this choreography, I do.

It’s my heart I don’t trust.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Paula laughs.

“Maybe. She’s a good kisser.” I chuckle while setting down my shoes and phone. I smile nervously, running my hands down my leggings, wiping at any bathroom dust, and then adjust my brace one last time before I fix my socks.

Thank God they’re black. And without holes.

“Get the stage nice and warm for me, miss thing,” she says, fuchsia lips pulled into a bright smile before she sashays away.

I turn to the stage and shift my feet, thinking about how many times I’ve stood like this, waiting for my cue to go on. Usually I’m in a beautiful tutu, surrounded by the crackling energy from the other dancers. Now it’s just me and Liza.

I fill my lungs and close my eyes, hearing Mistress Lafitte’s voice in my head.

Break your heart open and show us what’s inside, Ms. Souza. Go!

“Shit on a stick,” I murmur again under my breath, tapping my thumb to my pointer finger three times, and then I’m moving across the stage to the sound of my table cheering.

Nick is the loudest among them. With Luna pulling in a close second.

I smile at the group as I take center stage, finding a kiss-shaped red neon sign in the back for spotting during my turns. I take in a deep breath through my nose, quieting my pounding heart. And look to the DJ, giving her a little wave that I’m ready. I feel every muscle in my body tense and twitch, but I know on the outside I’m like a still lake, so quiet it reflects like glass.

She picks up the microphone.

Her smoky voice fills the room. “Don’t let the sweet dimples fool you. Our next performer is one hundred percent spicy, divalicious.” Um. Okay… “Please put your hands together for Nick’s Peanut from MacGregor Ink.”

My gaze jumps to Nick, who gives me a proud smile and a cheesy thumbs-up as the table renews its boisterous applause. He told the DJ I was his Peanut.

I shake my head at him, a small smile rippling my still water like a skipping rock. The rock causes a ripple of second thoughts to flow over me. Is this choreography too sexy? Too vulnerable?

They’re expecting Swan Lake-type stuff, not this.

The clapping dies as the dining-area lights dim. Too late.

Then the stage lights turn up.

I close my eyes in the growing silence and let it consume me until there’s only the faint clanging sound of pie forks on plates. Until there’s nothing but my breaths and a low hum under my skin as every cell in my body starts to vibrate with electricity.

It builds in my chest until it feels like it will crack wide open from the intense heat. I fill my lungs to cool it down, drawing that power deep inside, locking it away until I need it.

I move into position. One hand splayed over my eyes. The other over my mouth. I raise my knee, like time froze right before I stepped off a cliff.

Scattered thoughts of Nick flicker in my mind.

I think of him frozen like this by my side. I think about our secrets. About the feel of his lips and the moment his breath became mine. What we could be if he took my hand and we stepped off the cliff. And fell together.

Then the music starts. The deep bass of the intro sounds like heavy chains being dropped on hollow wood.

My foot hits the stage, and my hands fall from my face in time with the sound.

I step off the cliff alone.

My movements are sharp and controlled. I let grief tighten around my heart like a vice for the boy I left behind. I release the grief, whipping my arm around, executing a double turn, then drop to the floor on the next beat.

I dance with an unleashed passion burning through my veins. I want Nick to see it in my body. To feel it in his. To see the words I can never fucking find.

Each movement feels more raw and powerful than the last. The buzzing in my chest grows stronger with each step, building to something bigger than my body. I lay myself bare for him with each intimate move.

I execute a few rapid turns, stopping razor sharp on another beat, facing Nick. I lift my gaze to his rapt one for a breath. Even in a theater of thousands, I know I’d still find him.

He’s my North Star.

I throw my head back on the next beat. My spine bows as my arms fly backward like he struck me in the back with his Elvish arrow. I hold for a breath, letting the pain of his words fill my body. “I’m not him. I’m your friend. Your best friend. I’m that guy.”

I fall out of position when the singer’s sensual voice coils around me like a snake. She’s begging for relief. Kill her or take her. Just do something.

The bass hits harder.

Her soft voice thickens as it builds.

The emotion and strength in my movements build with it.

The buzzing in my chest grows as she sings about being a saint or a sinner, but I push it down. I tease some more, winding my muscles up, then burst into a rapid-fire triple pirouette and an asymmetrical leap.

The bass pumps harder, and the chorus hits, unlocking the energy in my chest. I spring into a powerful center leap. It feels fucking amazing to fly again. My gaze moves past the red neon in the back and locks in on Nick, right before I explode into a series of modern fouettés.

Raw power, fueled by angry lyrics about choking love, whips me around. Each angry rotation demands for Nick to fall with me before it’s too late.

I throw my leg in an arc on the last turn. Catch my breath, sliding into center splits to do floor-work, flexibility and strength in liquid movements across the stage, before I spring into a turning switch leap.

I feel a quick stabbing pain shoot through my knee when I land. The stab tries to bring me back to the mortal world, but I absorb the pain, using it as fuel.

I do a few turns into a deep plié and spring from the ground, twisting into a bent-leg five-forty jump. It’s not in the original choreography, but it looks like Kung Fu badassery, so I finish with it for my sweet skater boy who loves Jacky Chan.

I want him to see that I’m a badass, too. That he’s a master at his art, and I’m still a master at mine. Even with broken wings, I can still fly high. Just not as far. I need him to be as proud of me as I am of him.

As the tempo winds down, I slow my body with it. But unlike Ravnik’s choreography, where he gets all sassy at the end, I go back to my original cliff position.

The hand over my mouth drops and my fingers reach out for the boy I love.

I’m asking him to fall with me this time.

To paint the rest of our story with his rainbow colors.

The music fades away, and then I hear it. The eruption of applause and cheers. I open my eyes, still in a bit of a daze, to see my table jumping to their feet like I just kicked the winning goal.

Luna and Ethan are yelling something at me, but my attention is on Nick.

He’s not standing or cheering.

He’s not even fucking looking at me.

He’s leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his head hung down from his broad shoulders with his gaze on the floor. His glasses dangle from his tattooed hands.

I try to mind-meld with him to look at me, but he doesn’t move.

I give a small curtsy to the group out of habit with an automatic stage smile, swallowing down Nick’s name as I walk off. It burns my throat.

The DJ’s voice follows me. “Whew, is it hot in here, or is it just me? Told you she was spicy.”

A few loud whistles echo through the quieting cheers. My hummingbird heart is beating so fast I feel lightheaded. I also can’t feel my legs, which might be a good thing, because I’m pretty sure my knee is screaming at me for pushing it.

Pressing my back against the cool wall near Liza, I take in a few deep breaths, hoping to get my heart and thoughts under control before I go back to the table.

Why wasn’t Nick cheering? He completely lost his shit after I rode the stupid bull, swinging me around like I’d just came back from a solo trip to the moon. But crack open my heart and bleed for him, and nothing?

Not even one fucking clap. Not one whistle. Or a single smile.

The Nothing eats away at whatever hope I had left.

He just wants to be friends, Riley. Just. Freaking. Friends. Don’t you get it?

Okay, I get it…

Took you long enough.

You don’t have to be a bitch about it.

I flip off the soul-eating voice in my head and make my way to the disco bathroom where I may stay indefinitely. Can you homestead a bathroom?

We’re about to find out.

23

DRUNK IN LOVE

Word to the wise: If you ever end up at Dee’s PieHole in Las Vegas, do not kiss Liza Minnelli. Even if Paula Abdul tells you it’s good luck.

She’s lying.

That kiss will ruin everything.

First, you’ll bleed your soul dry onstage for a man who can’t be bothered to give one solitary freaking clap. Then, when you fail to homestead the disco bathroom, you’ll hobble your broken ass back to the table to find the life of the party is gone.

Leaving an open tab and his credit card at the bar.

And me.

He left me behind, too.

To give fake smiles to his tipsy friends as they gushed over my performance. Except Bitch Mermaid. She didn’t gush. Luna said she was pissed because Nick shot her down when she tried to leave with him, but I was too worried about him to share in her gloat.

Maybe Nick had a panic attack?

Maybe one of his demons got hold of him and wouldn’t let go?

I texted him again after downing my whiskey. Nothing.

Not even three ellipses.

Between stealing bites of my strawberry pie, Carlos showed me his lit-up cell screen with reassuring brows.

Nick: I’m good. Make sure Ry gets back safe.

Maybe his text would’ve loosened the chains around my chest if he hadn’t turned off his phone after sending it.

Hours later, I stand from the deep hotel-suite tub with a yawn, grab the last towel from the heated rack, and wrap it around my aching body, turned various shades of pink from the hot water. This is my third soak of the night, and given the current weight of my eyelids, it’ll be my last.

Even Olivia Rodrigo’s “Good 4 U” blasting in my AirPods on repeat can’t keep fatigue from taking hold of my body.

If only my brain would shut down, too. I guess there are worst places to have insomnia than a luxurious two-story hotel suite the size of my old condo with unreal views of the city.

Sucking in a sharp breath between clenched teeth, I bring my pissed-off knee over the edge of the infinity tub. My knee’s been trying to murder me since I got back to the hotel room. I’m pretty sure it’s a full-fledged mutiny with every single muscle taking a dagger stab at me. Can’t say I blame them. Cher’s not the only one who wishes she could turn back time.

Trust me.

I halfheartedly dry my pink body, then hobble to the double sink, grabbing my phone from the marble counter to see how many hours I have left of potential sleep.

Not to see if Nick texted me back, because Nicolas MacGregor can officially kiss my ass.

It’s 1:30 am and no text.

Not that I care.

“Next time we go somewhere together, we leave together. Okay?” What a load of shit. I flip off Nick’s voice in my head. I can’t believe I felt bad for leaving him at Win’s bar.

I decided on the way back to the hotel that I’m done with my stupid “show Nick he’s the guy” plan. Like for real this time. As the hours ticked past with no response from him, slow flowing anger continued to melt the knots of worry in my stomach.

I’m sure Nick’s just freaking peachy.

Not me, but I will be. Just not right now.

Tomorrow’s not looking that great either.

I realized during bath number two that some kisses are meant to be painted over. And some stories will never end the way you want them to. No matter how many birthday wishes you make. Or how much blood you spill on a stage in front of a bunch of strangers for the boy you love.

Nick tried to tell me. Tried to tell me to let him go, to let our unfinished tattoo be what it is, but I wouldn’t listen. I wasn’t ready to hear the truth. Wasn’t ready to put down my sword in defeat.

But I hear him loud and clear now: He doesn’t want to be the guy. He doesn’t want to fight for us. And that’s just freaking fine with me.

I’m tired of fighting alone, anyway.

I blink back the sudden burn behind my eyes and snatch Nick’s crumpled Lionel Richie T-shirt from the floor, slipping it on as I head for the bathroom door. Stab-stab-crunch-stab-pop-stab. I welcome the pain in my mutinous body, hoping it will at least quiet my mind enough to get a few hours of sleep. Even though I don’t have to be at the convention until late, my ass will still wake up at freaking seven.

I wonder if Daisy helps Nick when he can’t sleep. I wish I was home cuddling with her right now, listening to her snore like an old man. I could use a few of her stinky kisses too.

I roll my stiff neck and throw open the bathroom door.

Maybe I should down one of those mini-tequila bottles in the—

My steps freeze as I walk into the bedroom.

My heart stops between beats.

I blink hard, thinking maybe I spent too long in the hot bath. Nope.

Nick’s sprawled out on the king-size bed. On his back, sideways with his feet on the floor and his arms above his head like he passed out making a snow angel.

My gaze takes in that his shirt’s ridden up his tattooed stomach, his hair’s a total mess, and his eyes are closed with his glasses missing. And I come up with the genius conclusion that he’s drunk.

How the heck did he make it up the stairs?

“Nick?” I say softly, moving toward him, seeing my black room keycard on the white comforter next to his hand. Or I should say his keycard, since technically this is his room.

I set my phone down on the nightstand next to the work cell.

“Nick,” I repeat with a little more bite in my voice as I move closer.

He slowly lifts his head to my voice, his glossy bedroom eyes finding mine. “Peanut,” he slurs in a deep, scratchy voice thick with emotion. Then lays his head back, before his eyes fall shut.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, tugging down his shirt a little.

My question is met with the sound of soft snoring.

Oh. My. God. Did he seriously just let himself into my room, after leaving me at the bar, to say my name and pass out on my bed? #MakeItMakeSense.

“Nick.” I shake his muscled thigh, taking in a calming breath through my nose when he doesn’t respond. Stepping back, I cross my arms over Lionel’s face. “You’re seriously gonna pass out on my bed?”

His soft snore lets me know that’s exactly what he’s going to do.

“Fine,” I say with a huff, moving to his feet to take off his Converse, hating that the hollow ache in my chest disappears with him here.

I plop onto my butt because my knee hurts too much to stay bent. And untie his double-knotted laces. You will not think it’s cute that he double knots his shoelaces. “Just so you know, I’m done.” I set his shoe to the side, pausing when I hear him mumble something.

Then move to the other foot when his soft snore follows. “Like really done, Nick. I’m not even going to try anymore.” I tug his other shoe free. “No more stupid plans.” I hate that a smile touches my lips when I see his white socks have frogs smoking cigars on them.

Fucking Nick.

I roll to the side with zero grace, using my good leg to stand. “I wish I’d never come back to you.” The words singe my tongue like a lit match. “I wish I’d just taken the job in New York.” I swallow past the tightening of my throat and grab his ankles. “Maybe I still will.” My voice strains as I lift his legs from the floor. Should human legs be this heavy? “I mean, I can’t work for you forever.” Now that I’ve got him caught up on everything, it’s just a matter of time before this real job turns into a charity job and I have to say goodbye to my temporary clan.

I swing his heavy legs onto the bed with a good ole heave-ho, feeling satisfied when both his feet are resting on the mattress. Now I just have to get the rest of him up so his head is near the pillow.

I roll my stiff neck at the thought, trying to bribe my muscles with the promise of a deep tissue massage. Charged to Nick’s room.

My gaze slices to my cell when it chimes with a text. I exhale and grab it from the nightstand.

Carlos: Nick with you?

Me: Yeah, he passed out on my bed.

Carlos: You want me to get him?

Me: No, it’s fine.

Carlos: K

I click off my phone, again hearing Nick groan something under his breath. Then he’s sitting up and stripping off his shirt, before flopping back on the bed.

I swallow hard, ignoring the way the soft light in the room plays along the granite muscles of his tattooed body, because it feels totally pervy with him drunk.

“Nick, scoot up,” I say, shaking his arm, feeling his hot skin beneath my still-pruned fingers from my marathon bath.

His heavy hand lands on mine, his eyes crack open. “Peanut…” he slurs, tugging me toward him. “You’re so beautiful.”

My chest seizes painfully at his words. He’s drunk, Riley.

Yeah. No shit.

“And you’re drunk.” I tug my hand from his. Of course, the only time he’s ever told me I’m beautiful, he’s drunk.

I head over to my suitcase in the corner of the wall-to-ceiling windows, pull out a pair of cotton shorts, and slip them on, not wanting to wake up in the morning sprawled with my ass hanging out of the T-shirt.

Then look at the lights of the Las Vegas skyline, wondering how many people have a drunk Viking in their bed. Just me? Figures.

Butterflies battle to death with the fireflies in my stomach. The last time we slept in the same bed, I was a girl with the flu, and he was the skater boy who took care of me.

Now he’s a drunk Viking. And I’m a broken ballerina.

The thought squeezes the breath from my lungs. I walk-hobble to the bed, seeing Nick’s moved up so his head’s near the pillow, the angles of his face soft in sleep, his long lashes casting shadows on his upper cheeks.

I ignore the pang in my heart and turn off the lights.

Then I lie down on top of the comforter with my arms folded over my chest and my body stiff like I’m in a coffin. My pounding heart reminds me I’m very much alive.

The good news is my muscles have gone quiet.

The bad news is it’s because adrenaline is pumping through my veins at a speed that lets me know there’s no way I’m going to sleep a wink.

I let the rainbow of Post-it notes for tomorrow’s schedule float through my mind, hoping it will distract me from the Highlander heat radiating from the other side of the bed.

My breath catches when the bed jostles, right before Nick’s heavy leg is thrown over mine and his steel arm weighs down my chest, trapping my arms, the sound of his deep breaths in my ear. Is he… smelling my hair? Followed by a deep moan that vibrates every cell of my body.

“Riley…” My name is a throaty slur as he pulls me closer. He brushes his nose against my hair again. “I love you.”

My heart trips over itself. His rumbly words strike like lightning down my throat to my chest. Then his soft lips brush my temple in a drunk kiss that rolls through my body like thunder.

He doesn’t mean it, Riley.

He’s drunk.

He cares about you.

That’s not love.

I bite my lip and stare at the ceiling, feeling my heart punch violently against my chest.

Those three words spoken by the boy I love, the only person who knows the real me, the imperfect me, the twitchy me who sings like a goat, singes a charred path through my body.

My breath catches in surprise when a hot tear falls from the corner of my eye. I dig my teeth into my lip harder to keep it from quivering, but it just triggers another tear.

My nostrils flare as my heart takes a battering ram to my chest. It wants out, and I can’t blame it. If this is what it feels like to be a non-machine girl, I want out too.

Nick’s arm tightens around me in his sleep while I cry stupid real-girl tears in the dark for him. For us. I turn my hand so I’m holding his arm, because I feel like I’m sinking. His skin feels like a furnace under my clammy palm.

Don’t you dare say it. Don’t you dare make it real.

“I love you too,” I whisper back with my last breath, drowning in the truth of my words.

Great. Just fucking great.

24

SOMETHING

My grandpa used to talk on his radio-thingy every Sunday to this guy who lived in a science outpost somewhere in Greenland. He lived alone in the Arctic 362 days a year, but he always seemed so upbeat over the staticky radio. I wondered what kind of person could be happy in that sort of life.

Me. I decided today that person is me.

And not just because the Viking asshole—formerly known to me as Nicolas MacGregor—left, no… snuck out during the night. Leaving his scent on my pillow and a text with one word that pretty much sums up my current existence: sorry.

Or because Luna dressed me up like a freaking Bratz Doll—the one with black pleather short-shorts, a stretchy black lacy bralette top, and strappy stiletto heels (that are oddly comfy)—saying God gave me Blake Lively legs and a Shakira booty for a reason.

What that reason is remains one of life’s great mysteries.

Or because Ethan keeps proposing to me with lollipops. And hasn’t come back with the chicken pesto sandwich he was supposed to snag me hours ago.

But above all, not because I haven’t seen the Viking jerk all day, making it impossible to give his Houdini ass the cold shoulder.

Nope. I’ve decided to pursue a life of solitude because people just aren’t my thing.

Especially not the lip-smacking, pink-gum-chewing blonde at my booth with an attitude problem.

Gum Girl raises her pierced brow. Chomp-chew-smack. “So you’re telling me you don’t have any in my size?” she says like I’m lying. Like it’s my mission in life to keep a small freaking T-shirt with one of Nick’s designs from her.

In case you were wondering, my other mission in life is to keep Nick’s art books in Wisconsin. It turns out, I control the weather too. So many talents, so little time.

I reach for my inner Zen and hold on to that sucker with a clenched fist, taking in a calming Buddha breath, picturing Daisy and me sitting in Ben’s backyard. My life was so much simpler looking at the stars, with a goofy hellhound drooling on my legs.

“Yeah, sorry,” I say with a Yoga-instructor smile, motioning to the plastic cubby shelf. “We have a bunch of other designs in your size.” I shift my weight from my knee, feeling it ache. It’s stopped trying to kill me, but it’s still pissed about last night.

I slide the hair tie from my wrist, throwing my perfectly wavy hair into a messy ponytail because Gum Girl is making my pulse spike with anger and my neck’s getting hot.

Her smacking slows for a few heartbeats, like she can’t think and chew at the same time, before it resumes and her gray-blue eyes snap to mine.

“Can you check the back?” Her blonde head tilts. Chomp-chew-smack. “Thanks.”

I glance over my shoulder, wondering what “back” she’s talking about, seeing nothing but portable walls and Luna and Carlos busy working on clients. As Steve would say, Gum Girl ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed.

When I turn back, Gum Girl’s gaze grabs mine and holds it steady. Her smacking increases, letting me know I’m not moving fast enough.

Feeling my Zen start to crumble in my grip, I blast her with an Arctic-wind smile, knowing I have approximately one minute until I jump over this counter and shove one of our plastic bags into her mouth to keep her from chewing.

“Great idea,” I say with a bright smile, then grab my purse from under the counter and slip the work cell inside. Turning to Luna, I call out over the noise of the voices and tattoo guns, “I’m gonna run to the back and check for a shirt.”

Carlos looks up from his client, his heavy brows puzzled, before he glances to the walls behind him.

Luna looks between me and Gum Girl, a knowing smile spreading on her black-cherry lips. A color I put there. Few can pull off that lipstick. Few can make mechanic overalls look cute and sexy either, but there she is: Luna, a sexy mechanic with wild curls and black-cherry lips.

“Grab some unicorn dust while you’re back there. I’m all out,” she calls back with a wink before turning to her design.

Judging by the group of walk-ups that were waiting for Luna when we got here, Nick’s not the only one who thinks she’s a genius with ornamental color. Carlos had his own group. Ethan did, too.

For Nick, I had to put up a sign that he wasn’t seeing clients until Saturday, because his crowd was a constant flow.

Carlos shakes his head and mumbles something to the guy he’s working on and his friend who’s watching.

I would give Gum Girl a parting smile, but she’s too busy checking her phone to care, so I grab my AirPods from my purse, mess with my phone to put on Lizzo’s “Good as Hell,” and walk off in search of unicorn dust. Not gonna lie, the upbeat tempo puts a little sway in my hips and eases the ache in my knee. Do I suddenly want to toss my hair and check my nails? Maybe.

The flutter in my stomach as I navigate my way past the busy booths has nothing to do with the possibility of running into Nick. And everything to do with the fact I’ve only had a bag of Doritos all day.

Hunger flutters are definitely a thing.

This is the second time I’ve left the safety of the booth since I got here at two. The first time, I ran into the friend of Nick’s who saved his life on the beach. He called me Nick’s Little Greenstone and gave me a genuine hug in front of the group he was talking to, that made me feel less alone. Less out of place.

When the group questioned him on the nickname, he explained that greenstone is treasured in his culture, so Nick calling me his “finest greenstone” was his way of saying I was someone he treasured. The girls in the group seemed to think it was the sweetest thing. Not me.

I would’ve laughed at what a shitty pirate Nick is—leaving his treasure everywhere—if his friend’s words hadn’t twisted like a knife in my Dorito gut. So, instead, I just smiled sweetly and said my goodbyes, promising to stop by his booth later so he could finish the story about how he saved Nick’s life and I could check out his work.

He doesn’t know it yet, but I’m going to follow them back to New Zealand and camp out on the beach until they adopt me into their family.

I have to sidestep out of the way as a group of girls make it clear they’re walking as a singular unit. But at least I’m not the only one dressed like a Bratz doll, so I guess there’s that.

I glance to the artists busy in the booths.

So far, it seems there are three types of artists working here:

1) Artists like Ethan who came to party with friends while forgetting to bring pesto chicken sandwiches back to their supposed “future wife.”

2) Artists like Luna and Carlos who use this as an opportunity to engage with new clients and grow their list.

3) Artists like Nick who use this as a networking event and an opportunity to build their brand. For a guy who hardly ever posts, his follower count is solid. Not that I’m surprised. The pictures he does post are freaking drool-worthy, and his art is inspiring.

The last picture I posted to my account was of me riding the bull, and I haven’t logged in since Steve’s truck. If you don’t look, it doesn’t exist, right?

Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s how it works.

A few guys smile at me from a booth with an Echo Chamber sign hanging over it. I give a tentative smile back. They’re probably wondering why a girl with zero tattoos or piercings is at a body-art convention. The answer would be Luna. And a handful of unfortunate life choices.

My gaze snags on a pair of deep blue eyes set on an aristocratic face as I walk past. Nia would flip for this tattooed Tom Holland look-alike. He runs a hand through his jet-black hair with a slow and lazy smile.

He has a cheek crease.

I want to throw a party for the single butterfly that takes flight in my belly. I give him a coy smile back while Lizzo tells me I’m a badass bitch through my AirPods.

See, I’m not dead inside. I can get butterflies with other guys. I can give flirty smile number ten. Or at least I think it was my flirty smile. I mean, I’ve only used it once in years, so…

His smile widens. Yep. It was flirty.

I look away first, feeling a little badass-bitch spark in my chest.

That’s right, I’m a strong, independent woman who’s not going to let a jerk Viking ruin her first time to Vegas—

My smile crashes as my heart screeches to a halt. My steps slow to a near stop. Nick’s leaning on a table a few booths down, drinking a beer with his usual easy smile, and by the looks of the group cracking up around him, he just said something hilarious. Shocker.

Wait until they see his disappearing act. It’s a showstopper.

I can’t see the booth sign from this angle, but the blue Post-it that pops up in my mind says it’s Pushpins. The sponsor for Nick’s needles and cartridges.

My feet itch to turn around and allegro my butt the other way, but my mutinous freaking legs won’t let them. It’s payback for last night, no doubt.

My spine snaps straight as piercing gold eyes behind sexy professor glasses lock on mine like a magnet, holding me captive. Nothing like getting caught gaping at the guy who snuck out of your hotel room while walking toward him like a stalker sloth...

Nick stands from the table, his broad shoulders tense. I glimpse a patch of plaid. If he’s wearing those freaking golf pants... His golden eyes darken, stealing my breath as he scorches a slow lava path down my body. My nipples harden at the feel of his fiery gaze licking them through the thin material.

I hate how easily my body responds to him.

Fire sparks in his eyes when they meet mine again. His jaw ticks. I don’t want my pulse to kick up another notch, or for a flush to crawl up my neck, but that’s exactly what happens.

As I continue at my sloth’s pace toward the booth he’s at, Lizzo sings to me that I’m a star and to hold my head high and shine. I tell her she’s got the wrong girl and bite the inside of my cheek.

When some guy throws an arm over Nick’s shoulder, leading him from view, I decide to turn around, so I can sashay my Souza ass the hell out of here.

Right as I’m about to make good on my plan, a tap on my shoulder swings my gaze to a set of flirty deep blue eyes.

I take an AirPod out. It’s the Tom Holland look-alike.

He takes a step back, seeing what I’m sure is a deer-in-the-headlights look on my face. His skin is covered in elegant script tattoos I’m too frazzled to read.

“Shit, sorry to sneak up on you like that,” he says in a cute non-chipmunk voice with raised brows.

“That’s okay,” I say with a polite smile, glancing to the booth Nick’s in and seeing he’s still out of sight.

“I was wondering if you have a sec?” He motions to his booth. “We need an honest opinion, and you look like an honest person.” There’s that lazy smile again.

I look back to see Nick’s rainbow arm come into view.

“Sure,” I rush out, giving Blue Eyes the deepest dimple I can manage before speed-walking into their booth, away from Nick.

Do I seem weirdly eager? Yes.

Blue Eyes’s hand goes to my lower back—a little lower than necessary—as I face his friends in the booth, who give me chin-up greetings and warm smiles. Except for the muscle-bound, bald one with his shirt off, who reminds me of Drax from Guardians of the Galaxy.

Other than him, the rest have a chill vibe that puts me at ease.

“What’s your name?” Blue Eyes bends closer to ask in a quiet voice.

My heart trips over itself when I feel my phone vibrate with a call. I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s Nick. I decide I’m on a break, so he can just leave a message.

“Riley,” I say, forcing myself not to look over my shoulder for Nick while I put my AirPods away in my purse.

He turns to the group of guys. “This is Riley. She’s going to be the judge.” He turns back to me. “I’m Echo, by the way.”

The name…

I point to him. “Freehand from Philly,” I say like a lightbulb turning on, remembering his name being tossed around the table last night.

His eyes sparkle, his lip ticking up in the corner. “You know my work?” His gaze flickers over my unadorned skin. “No offense, but you don’t look like someone who would.”

“I like tattoos. I just don’t have any.” I tuck a few fallen strands behind my ear, feeling my cheeks flush a little. I almost tell him I’m with MacGregor Ink, but I let the words fizzle on my tongue. My purse vibrates again.

“Yet,” he adds suggestively with a quirked brow. And I know then, on some deep level, that the only person whose ink I’ll ever wear is Nick’s.

My spine jolts with a zing of electricity when “Scotland the Brave” blasts from my purse.

Fucking Nick. And his stupid work cell ringtone.

“Uh, sorry, that’s just my work,” I grumble, feeling my cheeks flush as I fumble to grab the phone. Hearing a few snickers before I silence it.

“You work for Braveheart?” the guy with a black-star tattoo on his throat says with a teasing chuckle.

“He thinks so,” I mumble under my breath, then look at the screen.

Nick: Where are you?

Oh, now he cares where I am? Too late, buddy.

I switch the ringer off. And slip it back into my purse.

“You gotta go?” Echo asks, disappointment laced in his melodic voice.

I shake my head with a smile. “No, it’s fine.”

His cheek creases. “Good. We need your help to settle a little bet we’ve got going on.”

I kick a stubborn butterfly out of the nest and force it to flutter.

A guy with slicked-back blond hair and a heavy jaw stands from the tattoo table he’s leaning on. “I object, under the grounds that she knows you, so her answer’s gonna be biased and shit,” he says, like we’re starring in some kind of weird courtroom drama.

I shift my feet, feeling the phone in my purse vibrate.

“She knows about me,” Echo says, his earnest gaze meeting mine. “Have we ever met before?”

I shake my head. “No.”

He turns to the slick-hair guy. “See.”

Slick exhales. “Proceed,” he mumbles with a wave of his hand as he retakes his table lean.

Echo holds his hand out, palm up, eyes sparkling sapphires. Scrawled on his forearm in beautiful black script is the phrase Women and Children First. I kick another butterfly out of the nest, telling it if we were on a sinking ship, Echo would give me his lifeboat.

He clears his throat. “Place your hand over mine and repeat after me.”

Do I hear the Titanic theme song in my head? Maybe.

“Uh, okay…” I glance around like I’m being punked, and rest my hand on his.

It’s warm, but not Highlander hot like Nick’s.

“Do you promise to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do?” I say with a this-is-getting-weird giggle.

Yes. Giggle.

Giggling is what happens when I know Nick is looking for me.

So are twitchy fingers.

He grins, then turns to the group. “Okay, show her.”

The Drax guy stands from the chair with an annoyed grumble and turns around to show me his wide, muscular back with a portrait of the Mona Lisa taking up most of it.

Half of her is skeletal, the other half looks like it could hang in the Louvre. It’s super creepy, but I can’t stop looking at it.

Echo’s voice drops. “Okay, this is important, Riley.” I like the easy way my name falls from his aristocratic lips. I also like that he’ll never call me Peanut. And that he has blue eyes, not gold ones.

My phone vibrates again.

I shift my feet, clenching my fist when my twitchy fingers itch to grab it. “Alright.”

“Now I want you to look into Mona Lisa’s eyes.”

I do as he asks, adding this to the list of strange shit I’ve done in my life.

“Now, take a few steps to the left.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up when Mona Lisa’s brown eyes follow me.

“Now, to the right.”

I move to the right, her possessed demon eyes tracking my movements. I’m pretty sure there’s a horror movie that starts like this.

Echo bends closer. “Okay, did her—”

“Hold up,” Slick calls out, standing from the table. “Power of suggestion, bro.” He shoots him an accusatory glare. “Let me ask her.” He clears his throat, his voice softening. “Did you observe anything… different about the tattoo? Anything that stood out to you?”

I look between the guys, ignoring yet another text inside my purse.

Then look to Drax’s back. “I guess her eyes sort of followed me…”

Before I can finish the sentence, a loud cheer sounds from Echo while everyone else busts out laughing. Except Slick. Slick is pouting as he brings out his phone. And I feel sort of bad for ruining his court case.

I stiffen as Echo brings me in for a hug, his arms going around my shoulders. He smells like Doublemint gum and cedar wood. I hug him back, not really sure what else to do. He feels sort of nice. His body is strong. He’s not as tall as Nick, which is good. Tall guys with Michelangelo bodies are overrated.

He looks down at me, moves back as his arms loosen around my shoulders, but doesn’t let go. “You just won me a lot of green, Riley.” His eyes flicker to my lips. “It’s only right that I take you out to celebrate.”

Most girls would love to go out with this guy. He’s cute. With a sexy smile and jewel-blue eyes, and he seems sweet. And looks like Tom Holland.

I should want to go out and have Vegas-fun with him tonight. I should want to have a one-night stand or do something adventurous. But the truth is, I’d rather spend the night in my PJs ordering room service and watching movies.

So yeah, guess I am dead inside after all.

“She’s busy,” the familiar deep, raspy voice rips my breath from my lungs without warning.

My gaze swings from sapphire blue to glittering gold.

It’s Nick.

He looks pissed.

He’s also wearing a fucking kilt.

“I can go out with whoever I want,” I seethe as he leads me through the crowd back to the MacGregor Ink booth. My cheeks are flaming hot because I’ve reached max-level embarrassment and I’m pissed.

Who the hell does Nick think he is going all bossy caveman on me in front of people, ordering me around like I’m a child? Telling me my break is over? Ha! He’s lucky I’m still here, working in his stupid booth.

When Nick shot Echo a death glare, that had him backing up a step, then grabbed my hand and hauled me out of the booth (definitely manhandled this time!), I decided tonight No-Regrets Riley is coming out to play.

I’ve never met her before, but I heard she’s a badass and likes tequila.

I’m pretty sure they’re going to erect a statue at the Bellagio in her honor.

“You’re not going out with Echo,” he says like it’s a decree written in blood and nailed to the church door.

“Watch me,” I sneer to his profile, feeling his hand tighten on mine. Did I mention I don’t like bossy cavemen in kilts telling me what to do? Yeah. Not a fan.

His jaw flexes and his nostrils flare.

He takes in a deep breath, then says, “You want to date, Ry, fine—”

“I don’t remember asking for your permission,” I cut him off.

The vein in his neck throbs. “Just not Echo.”

He throws twin daggers at a group of guys checking me out. Guess they didn’t get the message I’m with a deranged Braveheart.

“And no one in this fucking place. Or Vegas,” he grunts as an afterthought.

My heart pounds a war drumbeat in my chest, readying the horses for battle.

“Fine. I’ll just go on a date with Mark when we get back.” I give him a saccharine-sweet smile to his profile, like I’m picturing Mark and me having a grand old time.

His gaze slices to mine. I hold my smile steady under his glare.

His steps slow. “Who’s Mark?”

I shrug. “The software guy from Win’s bar. The one you played golf with. He seemed nice. And cute.” I add the last part because why not.

His brows pinch. “You mean, Mike? Yeah, not him either.” He resumes his brisk pace, like it’s all settled. “Or anyone from home.” He shrugs, stiffly. “Or LA.”

Unbelievable.

“Why not make it all of California? Or the whole freaking planet while you’re at it.”

“Good idea,” he says in a low voice, his brows pulled tight.

I dig my heels in, pulling him to a stop.

He crosses his corded tattooed arms over his lean-muscled chest, glaring down at me like he’s the clan chieftain and I’m one of his vassals who got caught stealing the neighbor’s sheep.

I hold his glare and cross my arms over my chest, too. “So, you’re telling me I can date. Just not anyone on Earth? Basically, you’re saying I can only hook up with aliens.” I say it slowly so he can realize how idiotic it sounds.

“Yep.”

“Do you hear how ridiculous that is?”

He raises his brows. “Don’t care, Ry.”

“Fine. If I can’t date anyone on this space rock, you can’t either.”

“Fine with me,” he says without missing a beat.

I throw my hands in the air. “Then I guess we’ll just pray for an alien invasion or be celibate forever.” A few people chuckle as they pass, like that was the punchline to my life.

I’m here all day, folks.

“Guess so,” he says, holding his hand out for me to take. His fingers do that motion thing when I don’t budge.

I dig my fingernails into my palms. “Just so we’re clear”—I give him a bitchy head tilt—“it’s none of your business who I date. Period. Got it, boss?”

I feel the air around us go eerily still.

If there’s a list of the dangerous things to say to Nick, by the look of his flushed neck and hardened features, that sentence would be at the top.

“Wrong.” His eyes narrow. “You are my business, Riley.” He takes a step closer, the veins in his neck pushing against tattooed skin. “Even when we don’t talk for twelve fucking years, you’re still my business.” He points to some invisible place. “Even when you’re living with someone else, sleeping in his fucking bed”—he points to his chest with his thumb— “you’re still my business. You’ll always be my business. I’ll always be yours. That’s how we work.”

The first time he said that to me, my mechanical heart wanted to punch through my Vulcan-steel armor to reach him. To grab onto the words that made me feel less alone.

My real-girl heart knows it’s all bullshit.

“Really? Was I your business when you left me at the bar last night?” My voice is shaking with anger and brimming with hurt, but I don’t care. “Was I your business when you snuck out of bed this morning?”

“Yes,” he states evenly as he fixes his glasses, zero apology in his eyes.

Before I can tell him to fuck off and then take my ass to find my own damn chicken pesto sandwich that I’ll eat alone while scrolling through TikTok, Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” sounds from a pouch-thing in front of his kilt. It’s Daisy’s ringtone for the PawCall device, letting Nick know she wants to video chat.

Yes, that’s a thing.

“We have to call Daisy,” he says, grabbing my hand. I let him take it in his, feeling thrown off by thoughts of my sweet hellhound, wishing I was snuggled with her. “She wants to show us her new baby,” he mumbles as he leads us through the crowd again.

His long-legged stride is angry and fast.

Too fast.

I take in a sudden breath at the sharp stab in my knee. My grip on Nick’s hand tightens in reflex, but my steps don’t falter. I’m a professional, after all.

Nick stops, his gaze swings down to me. “Your knee?” he asks, concern softening his voice.

“It’s fine.” I glower, motioning for him to continue his warpath.

“Liar,” he growls, right before he bends at the waist, sweeping me up into his Viking arms, mumbling something about my stupid heels.

“What are you doing?” I yelp, my hands flying around his neck. “I can walk!” I rush out, clutching my purse to my stomach, scanning the faces of people watching us. Why are they all freaking smiling?

A few sharp whistles pierce the air, but I’m too embarrassed to see who’s making them.

“Put me down. People are looking,” I hiss.

“Don’t give a fuck.” He confirms his not-giving-a-fuck status by continuing his chieftain strut with me tucked safely in his arms.

Cradling me protectively to his chest like he could carry me through an army of sword-wielding orcs and not one scratch would befall me. Fourteen-year-old Riley does a happy dance. Apparently, she’s dreamed of being carried off to Middle-earth by her Elven skater boy.

Not me.

I unsheathe my shield-maiden sword, daring one single firefly to flutter.

My fingers dig into the back of his tense neck. “You can’t just swoop me up into your arms whenever you want. That’s not how we work. I’m not your business.” I throw his words at him like an icicle spear, feeling his arms tighten around me and his shoulders bunch under my fingers as it hits. “Do you hear me, Nick? I will never be your anything, so put me down.”

His fiery gaze slams into mine. “Keep saying shit like that and we’re gonna have a problem, Peanut.”

I wave an exasperated hand at our situation. “We already have a problem,” I say, fighting every cell in my body not to snuggle closer. Not to kiss him. Not to run my nose along his neck, breathing in his masculine scent.

I tell my traitor body to chill the hell out. I don’t care that his soft lips are framed by dark blond scruff that I want to rub my cheek against, like a purring Peaches before she gives one of her “love bites.”

You will not give him a love bite, Riley.

Just one little nibbly-nib?

No.

I tear my eyes from his profile to see Luna standing from her tattoo stool, a slice of pizza in hand and concern pinching her brows. She probably thinks there’s a reasonable explanation for why Nick’s carrying me through the convention. Wrong.

“He’s lost his mind, Luna,” I call out in warning as we approach the booth, shooting a quick nothing-to-see-here smile at some people eyeing us as we walk past.

Luna’s eyes widen as she looks between us. Then she turns to Carlos, who’s staring at Nick while devouring his slice. “Cookie, it’s happening! Finally!” she squeals in delight, rushing to him with a hop in her step.

What’s happening? And why is she freaking hopping?

“Let it be, Lu,” Carlos grumbles with raised brows as he takes the offered slice from her hand.

She claps at us in that giddy way as we storm past.

Before I can tell her she’s off my Christmas list, my butt is planted on her soft tattoo table, and Nick is dropping to his knees at my front. His dirty-blond head bends forward, his long lashes almost brushing against his glasses when he focuses on my feet.

His strong fingers wrap around my calf, sending a spark up my leg as he sits back on his haunches, bringing my heel to his thigh like this is just how we do things.

“My shoes are fine,” I mumble to the top of his head, then glance to Luna for help. She’s too busy watching us with a bright smile to care, like we’re starring in her favorite movie.

Her favorite movie is The Matrix, so I should be able to red-pill my ass out of this glitch. I slide my gaze to Carlos’s, thinking maybe he’ll help, but his greasy pizza lips tip up at the corners, letting me know there’s no escaping this pod.

Crap.

“Hello?” I fume, my gaze returning to Nick when he continues to undo the straps of my heels. I don’t have to hold on to his broad shoulders, but I do. Feeling the ridges of solid muscles under my touch. “I said my shoes are fine.”

A swarm of fireflies rush me at once—they know I can’t kill them all.

Sneaky bastards.

“These can’t be good for your knee,” he grumbles, slipping the shoe off.

It seems like a lifetime ago he was double-knotting my shoelaces in my grandpa’s entryway while I studied the unfamiliar masculine features of the boy I maybe-loved once. Who grew into the man who forced me to love him with my real-girl heart, then rejected me twice.

Three times, actually...

Fuck off.

I set my purse down with an irritated huff.

“My knee is fine.” I motion toward the other booths as he moves to the second shoe. “Don’t you have an appointment to get to?” I rip off a blue Post-it from the wheel in my mind, looking at it. “With Purebloods Ink?”

Nick sets down the second shoe. “Where’s your brace?” he asks, ignoring my question, standing to his full height and peering down at me with his golden gaze.

My eyes flicker over his kilt hitting a little below his knees, pushing back the thought of him naked under there. I’m sure his nan made it for him to impress the lasses. And judging by the lusty looks he was getting as he strutted his bossy Braveheart ass through the convention, it worked. Just not with this lass.

This lass is not impressed. At all.

“It’s on the bed where I left it.” I jump down from the table. “Isn’t that what we do here in Vegas?” I say, closing the space between us. “Leave things, Nick? You could teach a master class on that shit. Probably should add it to your demonstration tomorrow.”

His shoulders stiffen, and tension flows from his body until it fills the space between us.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he says in a soft growl.

I scoff. “Now look who’s lying.”

His nostrils flare with his deep breath. “Do you know how hard it was to walk out of that room, Riley?” he asks through clenched teeth. “But I was drunk and didn’t fucking trust myself in bed with you.” He moves closer, his chin dipping. “Do you understand?”

“No. I don’t understand.” I throw my hands in the air. “I don’t get any of this, Nick—”

“He fucking loves you, girl,” Luna exclaims, sounding flustered.

Her concrete words hit like a wrecking ball to my chest.

“I’ve got pictures to prove it.”

Pictures?

She pulls out her phone, angrily mumbling something about the loft as she starts messing with it.

“Luna,” Carlos warns.

“Don’t Luna me.” She shows him the screen. “This is some K-Drama-level shit, Cookie. Are we supposed to pretend it isn’t happening?”

“Yes,” Carlos grumbles.

There’s a pregnant pause that sucks the air out of the room.

Then Luna raises her chin. “Nope. Fuck that.”

Nick moves a few steps away from me with a dark sound low in his throat, scrubbing the back of his neck while shooting gold daggers at Luna.

Luna’s eyes narrow on Nick as she stomps to me. “She loves you too, asshole.” Then she holds out the phone for me to take. “Nick doesn’t do portraits. Ever. So you tell me what that shit means.” She exhales, pushing the phone at me when I don’t move to take it. “You two are going to be the death of me.”

I grab it with nervous fingers, looking at Nick, who scrubs a hand down his face, shaking his head at Luna.

My eyes drop to the screen, and my breath catches.

There I am.

A painting of me smiling up at him from his childhood bed, freckles on my nose, as I sew my pointe shoes. It’s a moment in time, captured by Nick and put on canvas. There’s love in the way I’m painted. Love in my clear brown eyes as I look at him. In my adoring smile.

I swallow past the pain in my throat and scroll to the next.

Me sitting on a picnic table at the skatepark, hugging Nick’s Gatorade-filled backpack to my stomach. My eyes closed, head tilted to the sun, a small content smile on my lips. My hair falling loose from my ponytail. I can almost feel the sun on my face. And the giddy happiness running through my veins at hearing Nick’s skateboard wheels on the ramp, knowing he was close.

My heart stops on the next portrait.

I wore my mom’s gold chandelier earrings on the night I asked him to be my first kiss, because I thought they made me look older, like the other girls Nick was always with. He captured the exact moment he shattered my glass heart. The stark pain in my teenage brown eyes mirrors the pain rising in my chest.

I scroll past one of me en pointe in Steve’s garage, and another on stage.

The last one is at my mom’s anniversary party years ago. I remember how hard it was to keep my mask in place that night. He captured the moment I let it slip, while looking at my wine.

The realization he loved me once squeezes my lungs.

I close my eyes and press the phone to my stomach, then look up at Nick.

Nick’s thick Adam’s apple bobs as our gazes meet. He exhales, his shoulders slumped. “I’ll go grab your brace,” he says in a lava voice that singes a path through my body.

He turns to leave.

Leaving me alone with my chest caved in while he walks away? Again. Leaving me to burn in this dumpster fire alone?

No freaking way!

I sidestep, blocking him. My hand goes to his hard chest, feeling his heartbeat punch against my palm.

I raise my chin, turning the screen to him. “Tell me you don’t love me, Nick.” My voice raises when his jaw hardens. “I want to hear you say it!” I push against his chest until he moves back a step, his face unreadable. “Tell me you don’t love me,” I demand, sounding desperate because I am. Desperate to forge new armor with his words. This armor won’t break. Ever. I push his chest again. “Damn you, Nick. Just fucking say it!”

I see in his eyes the moment the chains holding him together snap.

“Of course I fucking love you, Riley!” He turns away, running a rough hand through his hair, then faces me with every honed muscle in his body pulled tight. “I loved you before I even knew what that shit was.” He slams a palm over his heart in a deep thud. “Before I knew what this pain meant.” He points a sharp finger to the phone. “Tried to paint you out of my fucking head...” His raspy voice cracks with emotion, his eyes blazing hellfire behind his glasses.

“Seeing you dance last night...” He scrubs a rough hand down his scruffy face and gives the ground a harsh curse, shaking his head. Then takes in a trembly breath, meeting my gaze with glossy eyes. “I’ll never not be in love with you, Peanut.”

My lips part, and for a moment our happy ending fills my soul.

Until his eyes darken as they flicker over my face, and his voice drops to a fathomless black. “But that doesn’t mean I can have you.”

His obsidian words eat away at us.

Leaving behind only things that can live in the dark.

His demons and mine.

Fourteen-year-old Riley screams that the golden thread that weaves Nick to me is unraveling and she can’t hold us together anymore.

Heartache mixed with fear seeps through the cracks in my voice. “Don’t let this be how we end, Nick. Not like this.” Frustration catapults my next words from deep in my chest, “Why won’t you fight for us!”

Seeing his eyes well with tears cracks me wide open.

“What do you want me to do, Riley!” he bellows, his beautiful face twisted in pain. “I told you I’m all fucked up. Why can’t you see that? Why can’t you see I’m trying to do what’s right for you!”

He’s battling his demons. I can feel it. Feel the blood he’s spilling for us.

“You’re not your dad!” I rip the words from my heart. “And I’m not your mom! We’re not them. We’re us. We take care of each other!” My throat tightens. “I’d never hurt you like they did. Why can’t you see that? Why can’t you trust us?”

He flinches like I struck him, the look on his face knocking me back a step.

He parts his lips to say something, but no words come.

I swallow down my agony, feeling his heartache slice into my soul. “I want real with you, Nick.” My hand goes to my bleeding real-girl heart. “I want to read bedtime stories to the babies in our cave while you pick lice out of my hair. And hold you when you can’t sleep. I want that with you.” My voice cracks as I blink back tears. “But if you won’t trust us…” My words feel like lead in my throat. They want to sink down, but I don’t let them. “I’m going to take the job in New York, and I won’t come back to you this time.”

His nostrils flare at my words.

My voice shreds. “It hurts too much.” I hear people murmuring. Feel their steady eyes on the back of my neck, but I don’t care.

Let them look.

My chest rises and falls with my shaky breaths. I wait for him to say the words flickering across his pained eyes, but they don’t come.

His gaze penetrates mine, his body statue still.

He’s not moving. He’s not yelling for me to stay.

He’s doing nothing. Again.

The Nothing moves through me, painting what’s left of my heart a shiny black.

Fourteen-year-old me cries out as the last gold thread pulls from her grip. I run to hold her as she sobs, but she pushes me away. And screams that it’s my fault. I don’t bother telling her she’s wrong.

She’ll realize when she’s older that sometimes love isn’t enough.

That happy endings aren’t given. They’re earned on the battlefield.

Stepping over Nick’s abandoned sword, I feel acidic anger dissolve my heartache into a gooey heap on the floor. Good.

“I guess that’s it then.” I turn to Luna and hand her back her phone, giving her a cracked smile. I can see in her eyes she didn’t see this ending coming.

She thought he’d fight for us.

So did I.

I let the bubbling anger coat my voice in fiery red as I turn back to Nick, holding his tormented gaze. “I actually thought you’d do something. That you wouldn’t just stand there and watch me go again. That you’d do something to keep us.” Shoulders back, chin up. I raise my chin, ignoring the traitor tear streaking down my cheek. “Guess I was wrong. You don’t need me like I need you.” My mind spirals at the thought of losing Daisy too.

Turns out I’m a dog person, a cat person, a parrot person, and a ferret person.

And now I have to let them go, too.

I can feel eyes on me as I walk away, but my vision is tunneled on the neon-green exit sign in the distance.

I wait for the new armor to singe my skin, but it doesn’t come.

Just fucking great.

One foot in front of the other. I can do this. I can walk away from him.

I did it before and survived. Sort of. Not really. But I’ll keep breathing. I think.

“Riley.” My name is a low caveman growl that vibrates the air.

Before I can turn around, Nick’s in front of me, cupping my face in his large hands. “I do need you.”

His watery gaze brushes against my soul as his eyes search mine with an intensity that steals my breath. His lips part again, like he’s going to say something else, or kiss me, but instead he bends at the waist and locks his arm around my lower body.

Then the world flips upside down, and I’m over his broad shoulder.

I yelp his name, feeling his unyielding arm secure my upper thighs as his other hand goes to my butt cheek in a caveman grip that scrambles my thoughts.

“What are you doing?” I ask as his touch reworks its golden thread through my body.

And then he’s walking with me on his shoulder, his kilt swaying with his determined strut.

“Something,” he says, underneath the sound of Luna’s blubbering cheer. Past a few random claps and hoots.

Every mutinous muscle in my body sets down their swords and joins in.

“This is my something, Peanut. To show you how much I fucking want that life with you. How much I love you. That I trust us. As you can see, I’m full of genius ideas.” His voice drips with self-deprecation.

I smile, wiping away my lingering tears, feeling drunk with relief and happiness.

Joy pushes a small laugh from my chest. “I sort of thought you’d just kiss me…”

“Oh, I’m going to kiss you,” he says in a low warning that tingles my lower belly. Then his possessive fingers squeeze my Souza butt cheek while he navigates us through the convention, stealing my breath and flushing my skin.

His words send an army of fireflies through me, giving killing blows to any doubts floating around that Nick loves me back.

“Okay,” I say lamely as I bring my arms to hug him from behind, feeling the ridges of his stomach muscles flex under my fingers.

“And other stuff.” His voice drops. “Lots of other stuff.”

“What kind of other stuff?”

“You’ll find out.” The devilish grin in his voice makes me squirm a little. His hand tightens on my bottom. “Easy, babe, or we won’t make it to the elevator.”

Do I want to slap his kilted butt to go faster? Yep.

By the way, if you ever happen to see a Highlander storming through a hotel lobby in Vegas with a Bratz doll slung over his shoulder, don’t call security.

This is their love-language.

Why are we moving so freaking slow?

25

OUR AFTER

“I want the other stuff now,” I whine with a squirm on Nick’s shoulder as we step onto the dimly lit elevator. With Bon Jovi singing about a bed of roses pumping from the speakers.

Turns out Nick telling you he’s in love with you while you’re slung over his shoulder is the world’s most potent aphrodisiac. Seriously. Freaking. Potent.

Am I going to bottle it up and sell it to make millions?

Nope. It’s just for me.

I catch our reflection in the shiny gold metal walls, realizing if you google “needy mess,” no doubt my upside-down face will be the first image to pop up.

Just so you know, needy-mess face is what happens when the jerk Highlander carrying you inches the fingers gripping your butt cheek down in a slow torture, toward the place you crave them, while he tells you alien love is off the table.

Because he’s the guy. The only one.

It will drive you freaking nuts. And will make you squirm. Even if you’ve never squirmed for a man in your life. Or ever.

Turns out Nicolas MacGregor thinks it’s cute when I squirm.

Bastard.

“Not yet, babe,” he answers in a dark rasp that charges the air with a crackling energy. I’ve never wished for a bed of roses more in my freaking life.

“But this is an elevator. We have to make out, Nick. It’s the law.” Yep. I said that.

He tightens his muscled arm across the back of my thighs and gives a deep chuckle, while his weapon of torture leaves my bottom to push the elevator button to the top floor.

“Grab the next one,” he says to a few loud guys who try to step on before the doors close.

I peek around Nick’s body as they go quiet and back away. Wise choice. There’s a deranged Highlander and his Bratz doll on the loose.

As soon as the doors ding closed, Nick bends, setting my bare feet on the ground. Then his hands are circling my waist, keeping me steady as my vision swims then clears to his intense gaze locked with mine.

I dig my fingers into his narrow waist as he cups my face. He holds my gaze for a single breath, and then his lips devour mine in a kiss that sends a wave of tingles through me down to my toes.

He tastes like beer and Nick.

I pull him closer, cursing the pouch-thingy in front of his kilt. Loving how his scruffy beard against my face adds a sensation I never knew I needed. This kiss feels different from our first. It sends a primal pulse through my veins until every inch of me knows I belong to Nicolas Connell MacGregor.

I strain on my tiptoes to deepen the kiss, letting him know he’s mine too.

The faint sound of the floors dinging past tightens the coiled anticipation in my lower belly. How many dings do I get? I think there are thirty floors, maybe forty.

What can we do in forty dings?

Nick makes a desperate, choked sound in his throat, half laugh, half groan, then rips his lips from mine and turns me around. “You’re killing me, Peanut.”

His steel arm locks under my breasts, keeping me trapped against his sculpted Michelangelo body in the best way.

“Please,” I say on a jagged breath, barely having time to note the way his tattooed arm looks against my skin, before his hand snakes between my thighs. Yes!

I arch into his touch, my legs threatening to buckle for the first time in my life. It’s like Nick built this body and knows exactly how to make it fall apart.

He licks the wild pulse in my neck, and I tilt my jaw to give him more skin.

“We’re going to have so much fun,” he breathes in a dark promise against my ear, increasing the pressure on my most sensitive spot.

My insides quiver. Fucking quiver. Oh. My. God.

“This is fun,” I pant, twisting my neck to look up at him, meeting his bedroom eyes. “I want to keep doing this. Push the button on the thing,” I plead on a groan.

He grins darkly. “I am pushing the button.”

“No.” I grind shamelessly against his artist’s fingers. “The one to make the elevator stop. We don’t have many dings left, and if the doors open, I’ll die.”

I only need a few more dings.

Maybe three.

“Lucky I know CPR,” he says right before the doors open.

Before I can curse the Demon of Missed Orgasms back to hell, I’m up in his powerful arms and my hands are clumsily flying around his neck. Turns out, when I’m drunk on Nick, I make a terrible ballerina.

Then he’s carrying me past a few people. I’m too lost to care if they saw him touching me. Too lost to care that they’re staring at us.

I bring my lips to his hot skin. “I love how you taste,” I murmur, running my nose along the strongest vein. “And smell.” I breathe him in. “It’s so good.”

He looks down with a grin and cocked brows, then kisses my forehead.

It’s official: dirty talk is not my thing.

Nerves flutter in my stomach. Nick slows as we approach our hotel-room door, clearing a little of the elevator-lust dust from my eyes. I think about needing a shower after working all day. And how my bedroom skills might be lacking. And how I’ve only had sex with Dylan—who ended up leaving me—while Nick’s hooked up with a whole freaking bridal party from Georgia. And came back with a parrot.

And now he’s going to find out I’m Rigid Riley in the bedroom.

And then maybe he won’t want me.

Stop. Thinking. About. This. Stupid. Shit.

I tighten my arms around his neck as he grabs the keycard from his kilt pouch-thing.

Then he’s carrying me inside the opulent suite. Taking the stairs two at a time to the bedroom and king-size bed. My insecure thoughts go quiet when I see the determined look etched on his beautiful face.

And I know, on some deep level, he’ll still love me even if I’m not a sex goddess in bed.

Even if I’m just me.

Before I can tell him he’d make an excellent firefighter, he sets me on the edge of the bed. And moves his large body between my legs and devours my mouth in a scorching kiss. I grab hold of his neck, trying to pull him on top of me, desperate to be covered in his delicious weight, but he doesn’t budge.

He breaks the kiss and takes off his glasses, looking at me from under heavy lids. “I’m so sorry for everything.”

I shake my head. “None of that matters.”

He nudges my nose with his. “You and me. We’re forever.” He peers into my eyes. “You’re my forever, Peanut. Deal?”

In his gold-flecked gaze, I see my first love and my last. The boy who broke my glass heart and the man who put it back together.

I want to tell him that even when forever’s over. That even after this world goes dark, I’ll still be his and he’ll be mine. That we’ll always find each other.

Because that’s how we work.

My hand goes to his scruffy cheek. “Deal,” is all I can whisper back, because the man I love is looking at me like I’m his beginning, middle, and end.

And I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life.

This. I want this to be my infinity loop.

“Deal,” he repeats like a vow, taking my lips in another kiss, sealing our promise and sparking our desire.

I slide my arms around his neck, tangling my fingers in his soft hair.

Sometimes promises are kept. And people love you back.

Our kiss turns to liquid fire as he runs his powerful hands up my thighs, over my hips. Before my next heartbeat, the lacy bralette is off, and his hot mouth is on my nipple.

I try to pull him on top of me again. This time giving him a needy moan to let him know I don’t want foreplay. I want him. Now.

He looks up at me from under long lashes. “I’m going to make love to you, Riley,” he says, before he trails wet kisses along my stomach. “But first, we’re going to do other stuff…” He squeezes my breast, gently pinching my nipple, his eyes teasing me with dark-magic promises.

My eyelids flutter as his magic moves through my veins.

Then his mouth is on mine in a deep and slow kiss, his deft fingers working the button of my black mini shorts. His touch feels like an electric caress against my stomach.

“Maybe we can skip the other stuff,” I say against his soft lips. My body feels feverish and hot, my mind light and fuzzy.

He grins as he covers my flushed chest with a hand, guiding me back so I’m lying flat on the bed. “That’s against the rules, babe.”

His rules are going to kill me before we get to the good stuff.

“I don’t like your rules.” My breaths are coming in hard and fast bursts.

I lean up on my elbows while he unzips my shorts. Fireflies’ battle for space in me as he tugs them and my lacy underwear over my Souza butt and down my legs. My silky and smooth legs, thanks to Luna’s wax lady.

“I think you’ll like this one.” He kisses the small scars on my knee, his touch so tender it squeezes my heart.

He looks up at me from under long lashes. The look on his face is hungry and raw. I put that look there. Then he trails more hot kisses up my legs and along my stomach, his tongue painting a wet, worshipping line that makes me feel like a masterpiece.

I glide my hand over the tense muscles of his broad shoulders and swollen biceps, feeling them twitch under my touch. I bite into my bottom lip, wanting to kiss him like he’s kissing me. Wanting to make him lose his mind like he’s making me lose mine.

His chest is rising and falling in time with my own, his tattooed neck flushed. He meets my gaze. “You’re so beautiful, Ry.”

The look in his eyes sends every single firefly in the universe through me. Insecurity never had a chance.

He drops his lips to the inside of my thigh in an open-mouthed kiss as his fingers tease my most sensitive spot with an erotic promise that trembles my thighs.

My heart feels like it’s going to explode in my chest.

I’m not going to survive this. Nick’s other stuff is too much. He looks up at me, his brows raising like he can hear my thoughts. Another kiss. Tease. Kiss.

He’s trying to kill me.

I gasp as he slowly pushes his long finger inside me, a low sound vibrating his throat, sending a shiver across my skin. My eyes flutter closed. “Nick.”

I clutch the white bedding to keep from slipping into another dimension.

“Fuck.” He grips my hip with a growl, and then he’s devouring me like I’m made of sugar and sin, vibrating my core with his throaty moans.

His velvet tongue. His long fingers. His soft lips. They’re all moving in the most perfect choreography ever written. Nicolas MacGregor can freaking dance.

Oh. My. God.

I meet his gaze. “Please.” I rock my hips. Not caring that I’m begging him to shatter me. Not caring that I’m making noises I’ve never made before. His rhythm increases. “Oh-my-god.”

His heavy forearm presses down on my lower stomach, like he knows I want to squirm away from the intensity of what’s building between us.

Everything feels more with Nick.

My body coils tighter as he lifts his mouth and his fingers center all the sparks into one place.

“Nick, I, uh…” I whimper, letting my head fall back again. “It’s too much.” My voice trembles with my body.

“I got you, Ry. Let it happen.” His breaths are as hard as mine. “I love you.”

I cry out as his words pull the trigger, shooting an explosion of tingly pleasure through me down to my toes.

The elbows holding me up give out. Pleasure rushes through me, consuming me, his love filling every imperfection.

I hear Nick groan my name, his fingers wringing out every last bit of pleasure. My eyes open to the ceiling with aftershocks twitching my muscles.

Did that really just happen?

Before I can tell him I love him back, his mouth is on mine in a bruising kiss that tastes like us.

He breaks the kiss, his pupils wide, the black ringed in molten gold. “That was the single hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my fucking life, Riley.”

I feel something catch in my chest.

Nick sees me. The real me. The not-so-perfect me. And he thinks I’m the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life.

I can’t help a small smile from tugging on my lips.

I suck his bottom lip into my mouth, then say, “I want to do other stuff to you.”

He chuckles. “You put your mouth on me babe, and it’s over.” He kisses me gently. “I need our first time to be the best sex of your life.” He gives me a nose nudge with a small grin. “Caveman instincts.” He winks.

Then he’s off the bed.

I lean up on my elbows. “I want to be the best sex of your life, too.”

The smile he gives me stops my heart. “You’re already the best,” he says, leaving me speechless as he strips from his shirt the way men do.

Then his shoes are off. And he’s tossing the bag-thingy from around his kilt onto the bed, pulling out his wallet. The kilt drops to the floor, and he’s just in black boxer briefs, his thick erection straining against the fabric.

A flash of desire heats my skin as butterflies from all over the world gather to do a Riverdance in my stomach.

Then his boxers are gone, and his heavy erection bobs thick and proud. No tattoos on his muscular upper thighs or narrow hips.

I take it back. Michelangelo couldn’t do his body justice.

I’m speechless by how beautiful he is.

“This is going to be the quickest sex of your life if you keep looking at me like that, Peanut.” His voice is a teasing rasp as he pulls out a condom from his wallet.

His heated eyes rake over every inch of my body as he tears open the condom package with his teeth. Do I stare at him with zero shame as he rolls the condom on? Yep. Sure do.

My heart races when the bed dips with his weight as he moves to me, kissing his way up my body, knowing this is finally happening. I fall onto my back, watching him settle his Viking body between my trembling legs.

His masculine scent envelops me, his elbows near my head, his hard, heavy chest pressed to my soft one. The feel of Nick where I crave him sends a wave of need through me. I snake my hands under his swollen biceps, run them along the tense muscles of his back, feeling him tremble under my touch.

He traps my brown gaze in his molten one.

“You’re shaking,” I whisper near his soft lips.

“Yeah,” is all he says before he brushes my lips with his. “I’ve never done this with someone I’ve been in love with before, so we’ll see how it goes.” He gives me a boyish smile that squeezes my heart.

“Me either.” I never loved Dylan. Not like this.

His mouth claims mine in a gentle kiss that stitches our souls together with golden thread.

He shifts his weight as he snakes a hand between us to position himself.

I lift my neck to see us.

To see how beautifully we fit together.

Our gazes lock as he slowly pushes in. The delicious pressure of Nick stretching me releases a trapped breath from my lips and a rush of warmth across my skin.

His eyes hold mine as he fills me. Inch by inch.

I dig my fingers into his back, loving how his features sharpen with desire as he fills me. Loving him. Loving that we feel like this together. Loving that he’s mine. And I’m his.

He holds himself still, every lean muscle taut with restraint.

“You okay?” he says in a shaky breath, his eyes searching mine.

I hope he can see everything I’m feeling.

“Yes,” I say between heavy breaths, feeling him pulse inside me. I move my hips a little, hitting deep places that unlock a new pleasure in me.

I grip him tighter, stunned by the intensity of it.

“Jesus,” he says like he’s stunned too, his jagged breaths echoing my own. “You feel… fucking unreal.”

I want to tell him he feels unreal too, but he moves his hips and my words turn into a soft moan.

I lift my neck and take his mouth in a scorching-kiss to show him it’s never felt like this before. Not even close.

He deepens the kiss with a throaty groan, giving me more of his delicious weight.

Each time he slowly rolls his hips, a wave of tingles crashes across my skin, pulling a sound from my throat. Claiming every part of me as his.

Our kiss is edged with something wild, this one more breath and tongue than lips.

And then the tempo increases. He moves into me with firm thrusts, each one a little harder, a little faster. Each one dancing us closer to the edge. I want to fall with him more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.

I move my hips to meet him, ripping a desperate groan from his throat.

“Riley,” he says my name on a shaky breath. His next thrust is deeper, a little less controlled. “If you keep moving like that, we’re going to be in trouble.”

“I want to be in trouble.” I circle my hips again.

He growls low in his throat. His lips go to the crook of my neck, his scruff against my sensitive skin. He gives a soft bite, sending shivers of pleasure down my body.

And then he’s moving like he’s lost in pleasure too.

It’s everything at once. Too much and not enough.

He pushes up on his flexed arms. I bring my hands to his tattooed chest. His neck tilts back as he circles his hips to meet my grind. The control he has over his hips should be illegal.

“Babe… fuck.” He says it like he’s barely hanging on.

I dig my heels into the globes of his bubble butt, urging him closer to the edge.

“I want you to…” I say on a pant, holding him tighter.

His hooded gaze drops to mine. “Tell me what you want me to do, Riley.”

“I want you to come.” My voice is a shaky whisper.

His eyes flicker to my parted lips. “Say it again,” his voice is dark and full of grit. His hips thrust harder.

“I want you to come,” I moan the words, feeling myself pull tight at the thought of Nick losing himself inside me, craving his pleasure more than my own.

His hand slides between us, and then his fingers are on my sweetest spot.

His fingers work me faster, his hips moving in perfect rhythm. My head lifts from the bed, holding his fierce gaze.

The look in his eyes pushes me over the edge. I cry out his name as an explosion of pleasure shatters me into a million pieces. I let it scatter me across the universe, knowing Nick will put me back together.

Then he’s shattering too. His mouth crashes down on mine in an open-mouthed, sloppy kiss, a low guttural sound vibrating from his throat. His powerful arms close around me, holding on so tight I can’t move.

I run soothing hands along his back with a small smile, feeling his damp muscles loosen, his weight pressing down on me as he releases a sated moan.

I put that moan there. Me. Riley Souza. Sex Goddess.

“You’re fucking incredible.” His words fill my chest with sunshine and widen my smile. “We’re taking this bed home with us,” he continues in a rumbly voice against my hair.

“What?” I chuckle, only imagining where this is going.

“It’s our love bed, babe. We can’t just leave it here.”

“Our love bed,” I repeat, with a giant grin on my face.

He lifts his body from mine, kissing the tip of my nose. “Yep.” He gives me a lazy smile and a soft peck on the lips. “Be right back.”

I lean up on my elbows, watching the perfect globes of his Hemsworth butt head to the bathroom to get rid of the condom. Then I bite my lip with a grin and let my head fall back, hearing Nick start to sing as he turns on the sink. His off-key, smiley voice fills my body. Am I tempted to turn this into a goat-singing duet? Yep.

Rolling my gaze to the windows, looking past the reflection of the room to the glittering Vegas lights, I wonder how many people out there are listening to a Viking belt out Billy Joel in the bathroom after the best sex of their life.

A Viking who wants forever.

“What are you smiling at?” I turn at Nick’s teasing voice to see him moving toward the bed with his usual effortless grace, a bright smile across his chiseled face, his hair a mess.

A millennium could pass and I’d never get tired of seeing this man.

“What are you smiling at?” I counter, feeling my lips venture into cheesy territory, my chest expanding like it always does when he’s near.

“You make me happy,” he says simply as he plops down next to me and pulls me into his powerful arms, then cradles my head against his warm chest. Home.

Something in his exhale lays heavy on my skin.

I lift my head to meet his gaze. “What’s wrong?”

He rubs my arm. “I’ve got a lot of drama with my mom, Ry. Calls in the middle of the night and other fucked-up shit.” He swallows. “And things that are no big deal for other people can wreck me, babe.” He takes in a deep breath, a bit of tension returning to his muscles. He brushes hair out of my face. “I don’t want you to feel like… like you have to take that on.” He smiles, but it’s fragile and edged with sadness. “I can always go back to painting pictures of you like a weird stalker.” His low brows raise, creasing his forehead. “And Luna can have the intervention she’s been dying for.”

He thinks he’s the only one with fucked-up shit.

“Nick...” I rest my cheek on his chest and bring my leg over his, hugging him closer. “On my birthday, I spent hours making sure I looked perfect so I could post a freaking selfie. I thought maybe if my old life believed I was happy, I’d believe it too. That maybe I could find a way to fake it so I wouldn’t feel so... empty inside.” I close my eyes and exhale, thinking about how many pictures I took before capturing the perfect shot. It feels so stupid now.

His long fingers trail down my arm in soothing strokes.

I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “Then I scarfed down a Taco Bell party pack alone in my car, trying to fill that emptiness with something.” I exhale the old feelings as they rise up in my chest. “Then I worked out until it hurt to breathe, needing to keep the pain alive in my body because it was the only thing that made me feel… real.” My voice cracks. “That night you showed up, Nick, you grabbed my hand and pulled me out of that darkness and into your world. You gave me color.”

I look up to meet his gentle gaze. Wanting him to see my demons. My ugly parts.

I let the tears come. “I’ll keep you safe. And you’ll keep me safe.” You’ll be my armor and I’ll be yours. “That’s how we work.”

So much tenderness fills his eyes at my words, it steals my breath.

“I’ll always keep you safe, Peanut.” He brushes away my tears with his thumb.

I turn to kiss his palm, happy he can finally see what I’ve always known, thinking back to the skater boy in baggy jeans who watched the girl he loved fly away because he thought it would keep her safe. Even though it gutted him. Even though he spent the next decade trying to paint her out of his head. He still let her go.

That’s how my Nick loves.

“I know,” I say, letting him see in my brown eyes that I trust him with the parts I keep hidden. That he’ll always be the keeper of my secrets.

“Good,” he says, brushing a lock of hair from my face with tender fingers, his eyes glossed with tears.

Speaking of secrets… I bite my lip, then give him a watery smile.

“What?” he asks, his smile growing with mine.

“Um.” I scrunch my brows. “I sort of sniff your pillows when you’re not home, so I’m pretty sure I’m the stalker in this relationship.”

I drop my cheek to his chest before he can respond.

He bursts out laughing and hugs me closer to his side. “Babe, that’s so weird.”

I laugh with him. “I know.”

I wanted perfect but ended up with something flawed. Broken and battered.

And real.

And beautiful.

And ours.

Nick and Peanut.

EPILOGUE

One year later…

If you ever open a ballet studio, do not offer free classes to a granny gremlin who wears velour tracksuits and goes by the name Dottie Baker. I know you think it will help her mobility, but you’ll regret it. Trust me.

She’ll stay to watch all your classes while grumbling about her swollen feet from the rocker she had Ben haul from home. And, after you’ve spent the day trying to keep her from scaring off your students, she’ll expect you to drive her home.

Which will include stopping off at Target so she can pick up a few things (it’s never a few things), and at the senior center so she can stuff free cookies into her purse to have with her tea. Tea she’ll drink while you put away her Target haul and change her cat’s litter box.

And, as she hands you her garbage to put in the bin on your way out, you’ll tell yourself never again, but you know it’s a lie. Because, for reasons unknown, you sort of like Dottie Baker.

But not love. Definitely not.

“Stop at my house,” Dottie orders from the passenger seat as the iron gate of her brick estate comes into view. “I need to check the mail.” By checking the mail, she means going through the coupon mailers. Nope. Not today.

I shake my head as we continue past her house.

“The party started at two,” I say, cracking open the window to gulp in the fresh air, since my gremlin passenger needs the heater set to Death Valley so her “bones don’t get cold.”

“You think the baby can tell time?” she quips.

My lips twitch as I picture Rosie’s chubby cheeks and the adorable perma-scowl she always wears. That girl is just like her dad. A broody bundle of love who has us all wrapped around her little—surprisingly strong—finger. Especially Jesse.

As much as Nick and Win battled it out to be Rosie’s favorite uncle, she chose Jesse. Do they communicate by grunting at each other? Yep.

“Everyone’s probably already there.” I let my tone convey the fact we’re late because she wouldn’t let Steve’s practice squad—my last Saturday class—leave until they promised her next season’s opening-day tickets. Tickets she’ll scalp at the senior center for cash.

“Fine. Roll the window up. You’re letting the good air out.” She shifts in her seat, then grumbles under her breath, “Trying to kill me off with pneumonia.”

I glance at her huddled in her amethyst and teal tracksuit, her white cotton hair teased out to give the illusion of fullness, one blue-veined hand clutching her purse like I’m going to steal it, the other gripping the door handle to let me know she doesn’t trust my driving.

I roll up the window.

“You found me out,” I deadpan, turning up Michael Bublé before she can grumble the last word. Thanks to a tip from the Golden Girls, I have Dottie’s only weakness, besides Rico’s pizza, at my fingertips.

Turns out, Michael Bublé’s bedroom eyes and crooner voice remind Dottie of her late husband, Ron. A silver screen heartthrob the world knew as Montgomery Garner.

Who, after finding out the hard way he picked the wrong piece of land to set his trailer on, fell madly in love with the wild beauty from the mountains of Tennessee while shooting his movie.

And by hard way, I mean Dottie filled his trailer with manure and dumped a colony of angry fire ants in his bed. Prompting a pissed-off Ron, and his manure-covered clothes, to move into her one-room cabin. Where they fell in love.

They were married for over fifty years.

I tug at the soft pink turtleneck Nick’s nan made me as we turn onto Ben’s driveway, hoping we aren’t the last ones to arrive. It’s bad enough I didn’t get to help Mara and Emmy set up, but now I probably won’t get time with my broody birthday twinsie before everyone arrives.

“Slow down, Tweety. We ain’t hauling moonshine,” Dottie orders in her sharp tone.

I slide my accusatory gaze to her with raised brows. She snaps her guilty eyes to the trees. Yeah, I’m pretty sure Dottie and my grandpa have started some kind of Breaking Bad homemade-wine and moonshine smuggling ring.

My stomach dips when I see a bunch of cars and trucks already parked in front of Emmy’s house. Even Derek and his girlfriend made it from Wyoming before me.

“We’re the last ones here,” I complain on an exhale, parking in between Steve’s truck and Pearl.

Picturing Nick already inside, holding our (most likely snoring) bundle to his chest, with our sweet Daisy pressed against his leg, eases some of my gremlin-induced irritation.

“Good,” she says while reaching into her purse. “I like making an entrance.” She meets my narrowed gaze and shoves an old black-velvet box at me. “Here. Happy Birthday.”

My eyes widen.

“This is for me?” I take it from her hand slowly, like one would handle a live grenade.

My actual birthday isn’t for a few days, and I’m pretty sure Dottie giving me a present enclosed in a black velvet box is how the world ends, so I probably won’t make it to twenty-seven. #ForeverYoung.

“Just open it so we can get this over with,” she huffs.

I slowly creak open the box, half expecting the Four Horsemen to ride out, and take in a sharp breath when a sparkling pair of delicate diamond stud earrings look back at me.

My brows shoot up as I swing my gaze to her. “Dottie,” I say with actual shock in my voice. “These are for me?” I repeat.

Dottie’s the person who “accidentally” drops cans in the grocery store, then demands the cashier give her a discount on dented cans. She doesn’t give people freaking diamonds.

She nods once. “Won ’em in a poker game with Doris Day.” Her chin lifts, and her eyes glint at the memory. “She was a tough one, like you.” There’s a tenderness in her voice that shouldn’t fill my chest with warm fuzzies, but it does.

Dottie Baker freaking likes me.

“I, uh, thank you so much… I’ll cherish them, always.” My gaze flickers to the sparkly diamonds and then back at her. Should I go in for a hug? Give her a shoulder squeeze?

Just when I decide to go for the world’s most awkward embrace, she flicks a bony wrist at the box. “You gonna put them in or just keep staring at me like an owl?”

I maneuver one from the box with a soft laugh and cheesy smile.

“Admit it. You like me, Dottie,” I tease. She gives me her usual gremlin scoff as I put them in, wishing my hair was still in a tight bun from class to show these beauties off. I’m pretty sure Emmy and Mara are going to lose their shit when I tell them who gave them to me.

I face her once I have them in. “What do you think?”

And then the impossible happens. Dottie Baker smiles at me. Not a sneer. Or a grimace, but an actual freaking smile.

And it’s beautiful.

“They looked better on me,” she says in a gruff voice, still smiling.

My smile grows. “I’m sure they did, Dottie.”

My spine jolts as “Don’t Stop Believing” blasts from my lap.

“Shoot, sorry. I’ve got to get this,” I say, hitting the PawCall icon on my phone. Last month Daisy taught Finn how to call us, so that’s a thing now. I shouldn’t encourage him by answering, but I’m a sucker for that little furry baguette. And he knows it.

Finn’s beady black eyes appear on the screen with the last of my lacy bras dangling from his mouth. Somewhere on this planet is a stockpile of my lacy bras and sexy underwear. He’s been stealing my good underwear since we brought the new baby home. Of course, Nick thinks it’s hilarious. Me? Not so much.

“Finn, put it back,” I say in a stern voice with a tilt of my head.

He drops the bra and chip-chortles with an angry hop that I should be home by now and he misses me. Peaches prowls to his side and hiss-growls that she misses me too. And Presley starts to sing “I’m so lonesome I could cry…” in the style of Elvis in the background.

I miss them too.

“How about tonight we’ll all snuggle and watch a movie?” I ignore Dottie as she grumbles about me being dropped on my head as a baby.

Finn goes to his hind legs and chip-chortles that we have a deal.

“Okay, be good. Love you guys.” I give a wave goodbye, not caring that Dottie’s judging me, and disconnect the call. “You ready?” I say, meeting her gaze, like I didn’t just have a full-on conversation with a ferret.

Her gaze slides to the house. “Better have Nick help me up the stairs. My legs aren’t good today, and I don’t trust you not to let me fall.” She grabs a loose mint from her purse and pops it in. “Probably push me.”

I smile. “I’d never let you fall, Dottie. Not with these super strong bird legs,” I tease.

She harrumphs, her pursed lips twitching at the corners.

I shoot Nick a quick text, letting him know I need his help. Then I’m out of the car, taking in a lungful of chilled mountain air as I adjust my knee brace and grab her walker from the backseat.

My gaze swings to the sound of Daisy’s heavy thumps down the porch stairs as I shut the car door, her pink tongue flopping in the wind as she takes off to greet me. My girl.

I don’t know the exact moment she became mine, and I became hers, but it happened. And now we belong to each other.

My smile grows when I see Nick struggling to hold on to the squirming bundle in his arms, eager to join his big sister.

That squirming ball of fur is the newest member of our love flock. We named him Ollie, but he only answers to Baby or The Baby (we have my mom and Steve to thank for that one). A snorting baby pug that stole my heart with his first puppy kiss.

Turns out I’m a dog mom, a cat mom, a ferret mom, and a parrot mom. Do Nick and I wear matching T-shirts with our babies on it in public with zero shame?

Yep. Sure do.

Nick’s soft chuckle brushes against my skin as he sets down our squirming baby and watches him clumsily take off to me in his usual half-run, half-trip tumble.

If you ever see a baby pug trip and then run smack dab into a tree, it’s mine.

I laugh as I give my sweet girl a few extra smooches—don’t want her to feel left out—as Ollie barrels into the mix. His big brown eyes lock on mine, his pink slobbery togue already in kissing motion before I pick him up.

I lift his little pudgy body into my arms, and in a blink, every inch of my face is covered in slobbery puppy kisses.

Puppy kisses are my second favorite thing.

My first favorite thing is walking toward me, wearing his skater-boy smile, sexy professor glasses, and his black “Hold On While I Overthink This” T-shirt.

My heart skips like it always does when my gaze catches on the ballet-pink Peanut tattoo scrawled in elegant script on his neck.

The cavewoman in me freaking loves that tattoo.

And the gold band on his wedding finger.

I’m pretty sure we’re the only Bratz doll and deranged Highlander to ever elope in Vegas. Did I walk down the aisle with fake flowers and real-girl tears in my eyes to Bob Marley’s “Is This Love” with Nick singing back-up? Yep.

Is Luna still pissed we snuck off to get married while they were at the convention? Also, yes. But as much as we love our clan, and our family, that golden moment was just for us.

“Hey, Peanut,” Nick says, pressing his soft lips to mine in a tender kiss. “You miss me?”

I smile up at the boy I love. My Viking husband. The father of my furry and feathered children. Joy filling my heart at the weird life we’ve created. “Not even a little,” I tease.

I take it back.

Birthday wishes do come true.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Thank you so much for allowing me to bring Nick and Riley into your lives. I hope you enjoyed their journey! ♥

I’m excited to share Mara’s story with you next!

Stay weird, my friends. ;)

Hugs,

Lucy

GRANDPA SOUZA’S RICE PUDDING

Ingredients:

2 cups water

1 orange peel (or lemon)

2 cinnamon sticks

1 pinch of salt

1 cup Jasmine rice (or any white rice will do)

2 ½ cups whole milk

2 ½ cups half-and-half (or just use all milk)

⅔ cup sugar (more if you like it sweeter)

3 egg yolks

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Ground cinnamon (garnish to taste)

Legend has it, if you play Ana Moura’s “Desfado” on YouTube while cooking this recipe, you’ll turn a little Portuguese.

Directions:

In a saucepan add the water, orange peel, cinnamon sticks, salt, and bring to a boil. Remove orange peel from water.

Then add rice.

Reduce heat and simmer until most of the water has been absorbed.

Add the milk, half-and-half, vanilla, and sugar to the rice.

Bring to a simmer, then reduce the heat to maintain a simmer. Cook, uncovered, stirring frequently, until the mixture starts to thicken.

Beat the egg yolks together. Add a few spoons of the rice mixture one spoonful at a time to temper the eggs. Make sure you are beating the eggs while adding the rice mixture.

Now add that egg mixture quickly into the saucepan.

Let the rice continue to simmer for about 10 minutes to thicken. It should form a nice creamy consistency.

Remove cinnamon sticks.

Garnish with cinnamon (to taste).

We like to eat it warm. :)

Enjoy! xoxo

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Contents

1. Blaze of Glory

2. Spoonful of Sugar

3. Aliens are Dicks

4. Rayleigh the Harlot

5. Water Boy and Gatorade Girl

6. Infinity Loop Dreams

7. Just a Small Town Girl

8. Cowboy Take Me Away

9. Mutiny on the Bounty

10. Bonfire Heart

11. Typhoid Couch Cheetos

12. Voodoo Water Emergency

13. Carl the Carrot

14. Parking Lot Goodbyes

15. Don’t Fear the Reaper

16. Here, Fishy, Fishy…

17. Pigeon Perfection

18. Shannon Number Two

19. Everything

20. Not That Guy

21. The Caveman Plan

22. Wanted: Harpoon

23. Drunk in Love

24. Something

25. Our After

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Grandpa Souza’s Rice Pudding