Copyright © 2024 J.B. LaRee

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the author’s permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in a book review or certain non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN 979-8-9898953-1-1

Developmental Editor: Melissa McGovern, Memos In The Margins

Line/Copy Editor: Angela Garcia, Romance The Page LLC

Cover Art (hummingbird): Ibrahim Krimat

To every woman whose light flickers in the

shadows, keep shining until you blind

those bitches who tried to keep you

in the dark.

BLURB

Maisy Donovan

I aspire to make a name for myself—on my own. When my “normal” life gets shaken up, I pivot and make a new plan for my future. But the universe has a twisted sense of humor. It keeps thrusting me back into Walford, Texas, right in Jensen’s path. He’s determined to repair our broken childhood bond, and he’s asking for more than friendship now. Too late. I have nothing left to give. He denied me years ago, forcing me to cut ties and lock up my heart. And I refuse to be vulnerable again, especially with him.

Jensen Holloway

I’m steady, reliable. A master of self-control. So much so, the people of Walford want me to be their next mayor. What they don’t see are the struggles I battle beneath the surface. Maisy knew, but she cast me out. When she breaks her years-long vow of silence and speaks to me again, pursuing her becomes my singular focus. Everything else falls away. Soon, cracks appear in the facade I’ve worked so hard to embody, threatening to expose the secrets I’ve hidden from everyone, including her.

CONTENTS

Author’s Note

1.  Maisy

2.  Jensen

3.  Maisy

4.  Jensen

5.  Maisy

6.  Maisy

7.  Jensen

8.  Maisy

9.  Jensen

10.  Maisy

11.  Jensen

12.  Maisy

13.  Jensen

14.  Maisy

15.  Jensen

16.  Maisy

17.  Maisy

18.  Jensen

19.  Maisy

20.  Jensen

21.  Maisy

22.  Jensen

23.  Maisy

24.  Jensen

25.  Maisy

26.  Jensen

27.  Maisy

28.  Jensen

29.  Maisy

30.  Maisy

31.  Maisy

32.  Jensen

33.  Maisy

34.  Jensen

35.  Maisy

36.  Jensen

37.  Maisy

38.  Maisy

39.  Jensen

40.  Maisy

41.  Maisy

42.  Maisy

43.  Jensen

44.  Maisy

45.  Jensen

46.  Maisy

47.  Jensen

48.  Maisy

49.  Jensen

50.  Maisy

51.  Birdie

52.  Jensen

53.  Jensen

54.  Maisy

55.  Maisy

56.  Jensen

57.  Maisy

58.  Jensen

Epilogue

What’s Next

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Content Warning

The Run To Me playlist is on Spotify!

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The characters in this book face hardships, trauma, and losses that may be troubling for some readers. The full list of sensitive themes and topics can be found in the Content Warning at the back of the book. Please be aware the list contains major spoilers.

This book contains mature content intended for 18+ readers.

If you or someone you love experiences a mental health crisis, visit https://findahelpline.com. This global resource lists support services available in over 130 countries.

Mental health matters. You matter.

xoxo,

J.B. LaRee

1

MAISY

I bless the Welcome to Walford sign with a manicured middle finger because fuck this place.

“That’s not very nice.” The soft voice scolding me from the passenger seat belongs to Pam Wakefield, the kindest woman on the planet and my best friend’s aunt.

“Sorry,” I say with an unapologetic shrug. “It’s tradition.”

The corners of her mouth twitch as she gazes out the window of my rental car. “This town loves its traditions.”

Tucked away in the Texas Hill Country, Walford is the kind of town that brainwashes people into believing a utopia exists. Three thousand people have fallen for its charming facade with the seasonal decorations and the festivals and the friendly, supportive neighbors. If you ask me, it’s all a lie.

I flick my turn signal and make a left into the modest neighborhood behind Main Street. “Are you glad to be home?” I ask.

Pam isn’t a fan of traveling and prefers to spend her days in Walford, where she’s lived since birth. I can’t share the sentiment. If my mother lived anywhere else, I’d visit her more than once a year.

“I am, but I’m guessing you’re not,” Pam says.

“This isn’t my home anymore.”

After high school, I stuck around Texas long enough to earn my cosmetology license, then hopped on a plane and joined my best friend, Tatum Wakefield, in California. A year later, she became an overnight pop superstar and hired me as her makeup artist, hair stylist, and personal assistant.

The years we spent touring the world together were wild, to say the least. So wild, her career imploded. Now Tatum’s returning to Walford while she picks up the pieces. A return I wanted to protest. Loudly. Because I’m still her assistant, I’ve come here to prepare things for her arrival. There’s not much to do, if I’m honest, but I’m serious about my job and take pride in my work. With any luck, I’ll be out of Walford by lunch tomorrow.

Pam’s serene expression never falters when I stop the car in front of her house. Her brown bob grazes her chin when she tilts her head, studying me with tired blue eyes. I’m sure my eyes are also heavy with exhaustion. We’ve been in three different time zones in the past four days. Discreetly exfiltrating a world-famous pop star from rehab and moving her from one coast to the other is no simple task.

“How are you feeling about all this?” she asks.

By this she means the drastic upheaval of life as I know it. With Tatum’s career in tatters, my schedule cracked wide open. Luckily, my other friend, Graham Kingston, secured the funding to make his first movie and offered me a job. He’s one of Hollywood’s biggest actors, but his dream is to direct films. Because of his tight budget, he needs someone who can manage both wardrobe and makeup. I jumped at the chance to help one of my closest friends and keep busy while Tatum’s on hiatus.

Answering Pam’s question, I say, “I’m nervous, but I’m not sure why. It’s not like I’m branching out on my own.”

Her brows cinch together. “What do you mean?”

“My friends keep giving me jobs. I know they aren’t hiring me out of pity or anything, but I haven’t earned the opportunities, you know?”

In the beauty and entertainment industries, jobs are often won through a combination of connections and reputation. I’ve worked hard on the latter, behaving professionally and showcasing my skills, but I struggle with the former. I’m grateful to have made connections through Tatum and Graham, but I yearn to make a name for myself, independent of my association with them. Right now, I’m a nobody.

Pam isn’t someone who expresses her opinions freely, so I sit up straight and pay attention when she lets out a disappointed sigh. “Maisy Donovan, don’t believe for one second you haven’t earned your way. Your friends celebrate your talent by supporting you. Wouldn’t you do the same for them?”

“Of course I would. But how can I find out if I’m talented if I’m never tested by people who don’t know me? I want to leave my mark, Pam, and do it on my merit.”

She gives my hand a heartfelt squeeze. “Your time will come. Until then, walk through every door, no matter who opens it. You’ll know when you’ve found your place because you’ll fight tooth and nail to hold on to it. But”—she holds up a finger when I open my mouth to speak—“you have to open up to people. Show them the wonderful person you are on the inside. I promise you, it’s not as scary as you think.”

I purse my lips and slide my gaze to the dormant rose bushes near her kitchen window. Roses are my kindred spirits, all thorny and wild. Beautiful to admire, but dangerous to touch. If people look too closely, they may not like what hides beneath the pretty petals and foliage, which is why I have trouble letting people in. There’s something prickly about me that turns people off once they uncover it, though I’ve never been able to pinpoint what it is.

Pam disrupts my thoughts by asking, “Are you staying with me tonight?”

My heavy sigh drowns out the radio playing in the background. “No. I’ll stay at Vera’s. Tick off the box for my annual visit.”

“You make it sound like a doctor’s exam.”

I arch a sculpted eyebrow. “She’d have to show interest in me to examine me.”

“Try being nice to her, okay? Not for her sake, but for yours.”

To keep from badmouthing my mother, I hold my tongue and pop the trunk so Pam can grab her bag.

As she opens the passenger door, her mouth stretches into a wide yawn. “I’m going straight to bed. Thank you for giving me a ride.”

“Any time,” I say before she closes the door and waves.

After leaving Pam’s neighborhood, I aim my headlights at the western side of Walford, where the homes are older, most of them in some state of disrepair. My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I silently curse the pedestrians moseying across Main Street. They ogle the Christmas decorations strangling the lampposts and muddying up the shop windows.

Why must I be force-fed all this holiday spirit? It’s cheerful, welcoming, peaceful. All the things I’m not. And if these damn pedestrians don’t pick up the pace, I risk being seen by the one person I avoid in this town.

I tap my thumbs on the horn and steal a glance at the tinted windows of Bruno’s Bar. Is he in there? I wonder if he’ll recognize me now that I’ve added chunky pink highlights—this year’s color—to my brown curls. Knowing him, he could pick me out of a lineup from a thousand yards away without a scope. He’s always been aware of me, and these people need to move their merry butts before he senses my presence and chases me down.

When the gawkers are close enough to the curb, I skirt around them and drive to my mother’s place. According to the clock on the dashboard, she’ll be leaving for work soon. She’s been an emergency services dispatcher my whole life, preferring the night shift so she could spend her days doting on my brother, Logan. Now she spends her days in perpetual mourning.

Logan gave this town hope until his bright future was cut short. On a Spring Break trip during his freshman year of college, he went cliff diving at a popular lake with friends. A reckless combination of alcohol and jumping from high, rocky places ended his life. The tragic accident also marked the official end of my existence as Richard and Vera Donovan’s daughter. Not that they ever knew I existed. Before and after their amicable divorce, their lives centered on Logan and his football career. I was their invisible tagalong.

Parked in front of Vera’s house, I close my eyes and chant my mantra, preparing to face the woman who doesn’t see me.

Stay calm, Maisy. Be nice.

I trudge through the yard and glance at the giant oak tree where I spent many afternoons on the swing Logan made from rope and a wood plank. It was the only nice thing he ever did for me. In the years following his death, the swing disappeared along with everything else that was mine inside the house.

One year I came to visit and learned Vera discarded my belongings without asking if I wanted to salvage anything. I was angry at first. Then I realized, other than the dolls I treasured as a kid, nothing was worth salvaging. Not in this house. And not in this town.

My annual check-ins are obligatory to the woman who birthed me. Some small part of me feels guilty about cutting myself off from a mother who lost her only other child. The larger part of me wants to rip off the bandage and walk away for good.

Another deep breath, and I shove the key into the lock and enter the little blue house of unhappiness.

“Vera,” I say, not expecting an answer as I close the door behind me.

Her voice comes from the kitchen. “Maisy?”

Wearing a pastel bathrobe, she’s seated at the table with a steaming mug clutched in her hands. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is a mess, and her silver roots need a touch-up. Grief has carved deep lines around her eyes and mouth, aging her beyond her fifty-three years, and her skin has taken on a sickly pallor from a lack of sun. She used to care about her appearance, but gave up on hair maintenance and skincare after Logan died.

Her thin eyebrows lift in surprise at the sight of me. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“Last-minute trip,” I say. Even if I had made my travel plans weeks ago, I wouldn’t give advance notice of my arrival. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work?”

“I’m not feeling well, so I took the night off.” She brings the mug to her lips and asks, “How long are you staying?”

“Just tonight. I’ll be gone before lunch tomorrow.”

She nods and continues sipping. Our conversation has reached its end, so I adjust the duffel bag on my shoulder and head down the hallway. She never asks how I’m doing or where I’ve been. I doubt she knows where I live or remembers I turned twenty-eight over the summer. We might as well be strangers.

In my old bedroom, which is now a guest room, I toss my bag on the bed and sigh. The space once filled with bold patterns and bright colors now resembles the rest of the house’s decor: grey and lifeless.

After using the restroom, I wash my hands and stare blankly at the mirror until a knock on the door startles me.

“Maisy,” Vera says. “Don’t let the water run. The bills don’t pay themselves.”

The bills don’t pay themselves. I often heard my parents use this phrase. They spent every penny they earned on football camps, uniforms, private coaching, and all the gear fanatic parents need to show their support. Meanwhile, I couldn’t forget to switch off a light or leave the stove burning for too long without being reminded of the damn bills.

I shut off the water and dry my hands before opening the door and slipping past her. “Sorry.”

She lingers in the hallway and rubs her lips together, like she wants to speak but doesn’t know what to say to me. My parents and I have nothing in common aside from the few traits I inherited from them. Vera passed down her big boobs, pouty lips, and stubbornness. Richard gifted me his hazel eyes, pointy chin, and propensity to bury emotions.

Even in appearance, our differences outweigh our similarities. I don’t have my mother’s ivory skin tone or my father’s rich bronze complexion. The freckles on my nose and cheeks are a genetic mystery, and neither of them passed down their tall height to me. At five feet even, I’m the shortest member of my family by far.

I’ve learned to work with what the good Lord gave me. My exterior trappings—the perfect makeup, bright clothes, and colorful hair—express who I am and how I feel about myself on the outside. I’m comfortable with my looks and confident in my style. Beneath the surface is where my insecurities steal power from me. So I use my surly personality to protect the vulnerable, lonely woman cowering on the inside.

After a minute of searching, Vera finds a neutral topic. “I saw Tatum on the news a few months ago. Is it true her label dropped her?”

“Yep. She’s coming to Walford, and I’m here to get things ready for her.” I unzip my bag and root around inside, pretending to look for something important.

“Does this mean you’re out of a job?”

“I have a career, Vera, not a job. And I already have something lined up in Austin starting next week.”

“Well, that’s good,” she says, fiddling with the belt on her robe.

A seedling of hope sprouts in my chest when I think she might ask for more details. She doesn’t. Instead, her gaze sweeps around the room like she’s never been in here before.

Too many seconds pass without us speaking, forcing me to break the awkward silence. “I noticed the front porch.”

Someone replaced the rotted planks, gave the railing a fresh coat of white paint, and re-stained the bench that had been broken once. Too bad my most—and last—vulnerable moment in life, which occurred on that bench, couldn’t be hosed off with a power washer.

“Jensen’s doing,” she says. Of course it was. “I don’t know how I would manage without his help. He offered to paint the front door after winter. I’m thinking red might be a nice color.”

My response is a disinterested hum. Her effort to make small talk surprises me, but I’m not at all interested in hearing about the man she’s discussing.

“You don’t need his help with everything. Hire a professional, and I’ll pay for it. I have plenty of money.” I unfold my pajamas and lay them flat on the bed to keep my hands busy.

“He offers. Jensen’s been a good friend to our family, and it won’t hurt you to show some gratitude.”

“He was Logan’s friend, not mine. Jensen and I were never close.”

The lie I’ve told myself for well over a decade leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. My stomach twists whenever I hear Jensen Holloway’s name, similar to the way Vera’s expression drops at any mention of Logan.

“At least I have someone I can rely on.” The resentful edge in her voice implies she’s upset with me, as if I’m the unreliable one in this relationship. Rich, coming from the most oblivious parent in the world.

“You rely on him too much. He’s not your son.”

Her tears surface as quickly as my regret. I may have grown up without love, but I’m not heartless. My need to provoke her for a reaction stems from a childhood spent overlooked by my parents. I want my mother to feel something for me besides indifference.

With a crestfallen expression, she turns to leave but stumbles and catches herself on the doorframe. Closing her eyes, she inhales a deep breath while steadying her legs.

I sit up straighter and frown at her near tumble to the floor. “What’s wrong with you?”

She presses her fingertips to her forehead. “Just a bit lightheaded. I’m going to lie down.” With stilted, careful steps, she disappears down the hallway.

Perplexed, I’m staring at the space where she stood when my cell phone buzzes. Swiping it off the nightstand, I open the group chat that never sleeps.

TATE

Do you think it’ll be cold in Texas this winter? How many sweaters should I bring?

Tatum wears the ugliest sweaters. I once stopped her from buying a brown one with a smiley face so she wouldn’t be mistaken for a walking poop emoji.

ME

None.

GRAHAM

Do NOT bring the orange one with the green stripes. It’s criminal.

ME

Wear a coat if you’re cold.

TATE

I’ll pack them all just in case.

GRAHAM

<GIF of drowning man yelling for help>

TATE

Maisy, did you make it to Walford okay?

ME

Yep.

TATE

Don’t sound so excited.

ME

<neutral face emoji>

GRAHAM

Oh, look! She’s smiling!

Tossing aside my phone, I fall back on the bed and scrub my hands over my face, not caring if I smear my makeup. It’s coming off soon anyway, and I don’t plan on seeing anyone else tonight. Well, I hadn’t planned on it, but the chat with Tatum reminds me not everyone will welcome her back to Walford with open arms. Not after she ghosted them a decade ago. A couple of people deserve a head’s up so her arrival doesn’t blindside them. Unfortunately, one of those people is the man I vowed never to speak to again.

“Fuck,” I whisper to the ceiling.

My conscience won’t allow me to sit by and let others suffer, even if I had no part in causing their misery. If I’m able to make someone’s life a little less problematic, I try. However, softening the blow of Tatum’s past catching up with her will place me directly in my past’s line of fire. Oh, the things I do for my friends.

Snagging my wallet and keys, I barge out of the house and drive to Main Street. Then I cruise around until a parking space becomes available in front of the Noon Moon Café. Since it’s a Friday night in early December, everyone who attended the football game will be inside Bruno’s Bar, my destination. Everyone will witness the moment I break my years-long vow of silence.

On the sidewalk outside the bar, I breathe deep and shake out my hands, mustering the courage to face Jensen. I’ve been able to avoid him for this long because I keep my distance from Walford. Yet here I am, strolling into his territory like willing prey.

As soon as I open the door, a pair of striking chartreuse eyes capture me in their sights. I spit a quiet curse, annoyed because the universe checked off the items on my wish list when it created Jensen Holloway, only to up the ante with an attractiveness that improves with age.

I haven’t seen him up close since I was fifteen. He looks like the handsome guy who smashed my heart into pieces, but now he’s more. A short beard covers his sharp jawline, and his dark, wavy hair flows past his ears. Tattoos decorate the mounds of hard muscle wrapped in a tight black shirt and jeans—muscle he’s added to his tall, broad frame since I last saw him. And those plush lips parted in surprise? I despise the unwelcome flutters the sight of them stirs in my belly.

The whole image of thirty-one-year-old Jensen does things to me. I’m ashamed to admit I want him to do things to me. Thankfully, my stubborn inner bitch sends me an important reminder and bolsters my contempt: He hurt you, Maisy. Give him hell.

2

JENSEN

“Why can’t we hold the special election before September?” asks Tom-Tom Lee, who lets us shorten his name to a single Tom. He waves down my new employee even though I’m standing three feet away.

A guy sitting farther down the bar answers the question Tom asks every Friday night. “Idiots rule, idiots’ rules.”

A collective murmur of amens follows the statement as all eyes shift to the drunk man at the end. Walford’s interim mayor and former high school principal, Larry Olson, hiccups. I should cut him off.

It’s a mystery to everyone how the town drunk became the stand-in when the previous mayor died of a stroke three months ago. Walford’s bylaws allow the citizens to call for a special election before the end of the current two-year term, but it won’t take place until September. We’ll have to survive under the nonexistent leadership of Mr. Olson until then.

Ainsley Monroe’s chestnut ponytail swings when she comes to a stop in front of Tom. She brushes aside the long bangs stuck to her reddish-orange lipstick and shouts, “What can I get you?”

Tom taps a finger on his empty bottle in response, dismissing her to continue his conversation with his buddies.

I hired Ainsley when she rolled into town before Thanksgiving with impeccable references and a plucky attitude. She’s young, but she’s a hard worker with enough exuberance to make up for my lack of verbal skills. I’m the type of bar owner who’s better at listening than talking, but my customers don’t seem to mind.

Leaning against the backbar, I fold my arms over my chest and enjoy the grumbles and banter coasting through my kingdom. I love owning Bruno’s. I’ve worked here since I graduated from high school, and I jumped at the opportunity to buy it when the previous owner, Gerald, retired.

A chunk of my parents’ life insurance money went into the many renovations that turned the smoky dump into a clean, high-end gathering place. I installed a small stage for entertainment, stained and polished the concrete beneath the old hardwoods, and replaced the mismatched tables and chairs with modern bar-height sets. The only two things I kept are the long brass and wood bar—which took a week’s worth of elbow grease to bring to a shine—and the name. Gerald named every pet bulldog he had Bruno. The bulldog is also Walford High School’s mascot.

Texas is football country, and school spirit flows thicker than blood in these parts. Unfortunately, our school’s football program took a nosedive a few years ago, so spirits remain low after tonight’s penultimate game of the team’s losing season.

“The town’s falling apart,” Tom grumbles to the old guard perched around my bar top. This group of grandpas spends every Friday night complaining and gossiping over a round or two of beer, and Tom’s next words get their geriatric veins pumping. “We need a new mayor and a new football coach.”

“They need to make Rock the high school coach.”

“Shame he’s not in the NFL right now. Bad luck, that injury.”

“He and Logan would’ve made us proud. Damn shame.”

I leave the old geezers to reminisce about the past and pop into the kitchen to catch my breath. The topic of Logan’s glory days resurfaces every season, but hearing it never gets easier. Especially since I’m the reason that he’s no longer with us. No one has outright blamed me for his death, but I’m responsible for putting their hero in the situation where his life ended.

“You good, man?”

I glance at my friend, Javier Barrera, who’s shaking a basket of wings over the fryer. “Logan,” I say.

At the mention of that one name, he nods in understanding. The two of us—along with our buddy, Trevor Evans—were with Logan on that fateful day at the lake. Four rowdy boys left for a Spring Break trip, and three of us returned home as changed men.

Trevor withdrew from everyone and buried himself in his college studies. Javi embarked on a spiritual journey which entailed world travel, meditative yoga, and a relentless search for his dream wife. And me? I hunkered down in my guilt and began repaying my debt to Walford.

My buddies and I struggle when hearing stories about Logan, but we can’t ask others not to keep his memory alive. The town remembers the exceptional football star. We remember the body we pulled from the water.

“Give them two minutes and they’ll be bitching about the mayor again.” Javi’s stack of chakra-bead bracelets clacks when he raises an arm and points at me. “And don’t let them talk you into doing anything. Your journey of self-care ends with rewarding yourself for your hard work, not rewarding others.”

As a life coach, he makes a hefty income from seminars, private sessions online, and royalties from the bestselling book he wrote. He only works at the bar when I need him, but I suspect the real reason he hangs around is to keep an eye on me. These days, his mission is to guide me on a self-care journey to manage some of my tendencies, like my willingness to help anyone who asks without question.

A splatter of grease lands on his tunic-style shirt when the basket lands in the fryer tank. Bruno’s offers a small menu—burgers, a club sandwich, wings, and fries—and I keep the kitchen open for a few hours a day. Unfortunately, I don’t have a cook right now, so Javi and I take turns manning the fryer and grill. He’s helped me with every aspect of renovating and running the bar since the day I bought it. If something happened to me, and I could no longer manage things around here, Javi could easily slide into my combat boots.

I nod, knowing he’s right about the upcoming topic change, and inhale another fortifying breath before shouldering the swinging door. “Put on a hairnet.”

He shoots a middle finger in the air, and I chuckle. Javi’s had the same buzz cut and baby-smooth chin since kindergarten. I’m certain we’ll never know what his dark hair looks like grown out in either area.

Sure enough, the guys are complaining about Mr. Olson when I rejoin them even though the man’s still sitting here. Several minutes pass when Brody Carpenter, one of my brother’s friends, strolls in wearing slacks and a button-down shirt like he’s returning from a business trip. The shaggy blond hair and suntanned skin, however, give him a washed-up-on-the-beach look. He’s a dichotomy: third-grade teacher and Walford’s most infamous manwhore.

He nudges Mr. Olson off his stool and claims the seat for himself. The mayor slams his empty glass on the bar and grumbles on his way out the door. He lives a block behind Main Street, so he’s able to walk home rather than drive drunk and endanger others.

Brody’s eyes lock on Ainsley and track her movements. He’s dropped by most nights since I hired her, and I worry his constant presence will discomfit her.

I pop him with my rag. “No.”

Hands raised in surrender, he says, “Look, but don’t touch. I know the rule.” The fake smile he flashes with his signature wink makes me want to punch him in his pretty face.

“New rule. No looking.”

The smile stretches into a real one. “You calling dibs on that, bro?”

I huff and rake a hand through my hair. “Grow up, Brody. And show some respect. If you mess with her or run her off, I’ll kick your ass.”

Something in my statement changes his demeanor, and his expression becomes solemn as he straightens in his seat. “Noted.”

“Good.” My narrowed gaze remains fixed on his for a second to confirm our mutual understanding. His shoulders slump, ceding the loss of our staring contest.

Brody’s not a bad guy; he has a bad reputation. Plus, he’s not the sharpest tool in the toolbox and gets away with behaving more immaturely than any of us should allow.

“What are you having?” I ask, ready to bury the hatchet.

“Water.”

I shake my head and snag a bottle from the fridge. Some days, he orders a drink and food. Others, he sips on water until closing. And I often wonder if he doesn’t like being at home alone. If he’s ever alone without a different woman in his bed most nights.

To my surprise, Brody leaves after finishing his water, and the conversation drifts from football back to the mayor. They’ll ping-pong back and forth between the two subjects all night, and I’ll only halfway pay attention.

“A mayor should be reliable,” one man muses.

“A mayor should be sober,” another guy says, lifting a pint of beer to his thin, wrinkled lips.

“I nominate Jensen,” Tom declares, banging a meaty fist on the wood.

Everyone goes silent, then a chorus of voices erupts with exclamations like “great idea” and “why didn’t we think of that before” and “the right man for the job.” Meanwhile, I’m standing in front of them, wide-eyed, with my stomach at my feet. Beads of sweat gather on my neck, and I pray for none of them to speak either of the magic words, sure to seal my fate.

Of course it’s Tom, the leader—the man with a ring of white hair shaped like the donut on his shop’s sign—who dooms me when he hits the secret passwords to gain full access to my brain. “We need you, Jensen. You’d be perfect.”

Need.

Perfect.

I swallow my instinct to grant their request for a savior and force out an appeasing response. “I’ll think about it.”

They congratulate each other as if they won the political lottery. Thankfully, the conversation returns to the matter of who should coach football.

Javi warned me not to let them talk me into anything. My insightful friend knows me better than most people, and he’s aware the lack of town leadership bothers me. Walford’s needs aren’t being met, and I have the power to rectify the situation.

You see, I’m a resolute man. And resolute men appreciate resolution. I like to see things through to the end, no matter if that end results in a schedule, a pattern, an expectation to be met, or a finite outcome. Words such as pending and open-ended and interim are like nails on a chalkboard to my ears. The desire to make other people’s lives less complicated and find solutions drives me forward, and my only acceptable stopping point is always perfection.

As a kid, I cared about the orderly state of my room and being the perfect son. As a teen, I strove to be the best football player and teammate. When I was eighteen and my brother, Jake, was fifteen, my parents died. I became his guardian and checked out books on parenting and finances at the local library so I could keep him on a successful path. Failure in any aspect of my life isn’t an option.

I recognize that my perfectionism masks a crippling fear of disappointing people. My troubles run deep, and I take great pains every day to combat them and keep them hidden from everyone, including my brother and friends.

Only one person knows the true depths of my fears, but she cast me out of her life when I profoundly disappointed her. So color me surprised when that very woman storms through the door of my bar like she’s on a warpath.

Hello, my elusive little birdie.

Maisy wedges herself between two gentlemen and slaps a hand on the bar like she doesn’t already have my undivided attention. “We need to talk.”

Need.

These are the first words she’s spoken to me in twelve years, eight months, and twenty days. I battle the urge to close my eyes and soak in the sound of her voice as it travels from my ears to the tips of my toes. It’s a little bit deep. A little bit husky. But the most accurate word to describe her low tone is sultry.

Matching her indifference, I sling the rag over my shoulder and fold my arms across my chest. “So talk.”

Huffing, she aims her eyes at everything but me, as if the sight of me will burn her retinas. “In private.”

I hum and rub my beard, assessing her. “My mother taught me never to go anywhere alone with a stranger.”

My petty comment sets her on fire as intended. And damn, how I love her fire. I adore the faint blush on her cheeks when she’s happy or a little embarrassed. But when she’s pissed? They turn a deeper shade, a muted magenta like the hue in her colorful curls. Even with the permanent scowl on her pixie face, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Tonight, nothing stands in way of my eyes drinking her in. Of imagining all the fantasies I can turn into reality if I ever get my hands on her delectable body. While her height may have stalled when she hit the five-foot mark, her tits and ass did not get the memo to stop growing.

But her looks aren’t even what I admire most when I think of her, which I do daily. The friend I remember and greatly miss has a sweet smile, a caring heart, and a wry sense of humor. She’s strong, fiery, and loyal to a fault. To me, she’s more than the pretty face and sinful curves the rest of the world admires.

To me, she’s the incomparable Maisy Donovan—thief of a young boy’s heart.

“Forget it,” she mutters before blowing out the door like the little cyclone she is. Because I’m weightless in her vicinity, I’m sucked into her powerful vortex and follow her to the silver Toyota parked across the street.

“Maisy,” I say, catching up with her.

She reaches for the door handle, but I place a palm on the driver’s window to prevent her escape. When I crowd her against the car and breathe in her familiar coconut scent, my skin vibrates with my last memory of being close to her.

“I miss you.” My deep voice coaxes a shiver from her.

When I brush the soft curls off her neck, exposing her skin—smooth and shimmery like the golden sands of a beach—she jerks away from me.

“Don’t,” she says, her tone sharp.

The fact that she doesn’t want me touching her kills me. What seems like centuries ago, I found little ways to physically connect. A swipe of my knuckles along her back in support. A teasing nudge on her chin. I even wiped a few tears away when I was around to catch them.

When she threw me out of her life, I hoped my banishment was temporary and she’d put aside her anger at some point. I began counting the days, praying she’d find it in her heart to forgive my mistakes and let me back in. I thought I’d have a chance to say all the things I couldn’t say the day I ruined our friendship.

Unfortunately, she left town after she graduated from high school and never looked back. She changed her phone number, made all her social media accounts private, and hid herself in a tight, protective group of people. She became inaccessible to me, wrote me out of history, but I never stopped counting the days.

“Birdie,” I plead, letting my eyelids fall shut and balling my hands into fists.

I ache to feel this woman. Her skin, her hair, her breath. Hell, a punch in the face would feed my insatiable longing for her.

“Don’t,” she says again, but the anguish in her eyes tells me everything she’s not saying aloud.

Please don’t touch me.

Please don’t call me birdie.

Please don’t miss me.

Clearing my throat, I step back and give her some breathing room. My best strategy for making peace with Maisy is to hand her all the power. I’d offer her the world in exchange for a few extra seconds in her presence.

With a little space between us, I allow my gaze to sweep her from head to toe, appreciating her confident style. The black leather motorcycle jacket, black leggings, and low-cut top. The floral Doc Marten boots and the diamond stud in her nose. She’s edgy, and all her rough edges fit mine perfectly. Like we’re two halves of a whole, ripped apart and desperate to find their way back to each other. If only she would accept the fate of us.

“What did you want to talk about?” I ask.

Golden-hazel eyes flecked with tiny green diamonds bounce between mine. My gaze drops to her mouth when she chews her bottom lip, considering her words. I sway on my feet, compelled to bend down and steal a kiss. She’d probably slap me if I did something so stupid, and I’d ruin any flimsy shot I have at reconciliation.

Suddenly, she blurts, “Tate’s coming home.”

The organ in my chest pounds a wild, staccato beat as my excitement skyrockets from the shocking news. If Tatum returns to Walford, Maisy might also return because they’re glued at the hip. She’ll finally be close to me.

I attempt to keep the glee out of my voice, playing it cool when I ask, “Really? How long is she staying?”

Maisy opens the car door and looks over her shoulder, melting me with her pretty eyes. “A few weeks, then she’ll move on.”

The step I take forward comes with a barrage of follow-up questions. “What about you? Are you staying in Walford? Can I see you again?” I’m not above begging. This brief interaction isn’t enough. I need more of her, anything she’ll allow.

She pauses with one leg in the car, offering me her stiff back and denying me another look at her beautiful face. “I’ll be gone first thing tomorrow.”

With that, she slams the door and drives away, leaving me on the sidewalk like an abandoned dog, hoping his owner will soon return. A few days later, my luck changes when Tatum Wakefield shows up in my bar and informs me that Maisy’s living in Austin for the next few months. She’s sixty miles within my reach.

Heeding Javi’s advice, I decide to embark on a self-care journey and earn myself the only reward I’ve ever wanted.

It’s time to catch a bird.

3

MAISY

The modern, three-bedroom home Graham rented for us sits in one of Austin’s secure, affluent neighborhoods. Surrounded by mini mansions, the house belongs to one of his friends who moved here from California several years ago and scooped up properties before real estate prices skyrocketed.

With Graham out of town for meetings, I have the house to myself for the week. I’m enjoying the downtime, a concept Tatum clearly despises. She’s bored in Walford, and we’ve been on a video call for over an hour because she declared it a virtual New Year’s Eve pajama party. It’s the middle of the day, but she’s wearing her favorite unicorn onesie. To make her happy, I threw on a satin pajama set that has a black rose pattern.

She gathers her long, honey-brown hair into a messy knot on top of her head. “When are you coming to see me again?”

An obnoxious sound echoes from my plastic cup when I suck the last of my strawberry slush drink through the straw. “I saw you three days ago.”

Tatum persuaded me to attend the festival Walford hosted on the Saturday after Christmas. I suffered through the nightmare to please her, and now I’m recovering from the festivities, which included another encounter with Jensen. I didn’t speak to him, reclaiming my vow of silence.

Yet, when he stared at me with his unrelenting gaze, all the sounds of merriment faded away, leaving only his voice in my head calling me birdie.

When I was nine, I went through a phase of wearing cute barrettes and headbands to keep my hair out of my face. The ones with birds were my favorite, so I wore them the most. Jensen gave me the nickname, which made me feel special even though he only used it in secret.

Hearing him call me by the old nickname a few weeks ago affected me more than it should have. Something quieted inside me, giving way to a long-lost sense of belonging. He felt too familiar. The drawl of his deep, gruff voice. The spicy, musky scent of his cologne. His intrusive presence overwhelms me. He’s too much, yet a small part of me craves more.

Tatum drags me from my thoughts and back to the topic of my next visit to Walford. For added effect, she throws in a pouty bottom lip and makes puppy-dog eyes with her baby blues. “You’re on a break from filming until next week, so you should spend it with me. It’s not like you’ll have to see your mom if you stay at Pam’s.”

I let her assume my mother’s the sole reason I avoid Walford. She knows nothing about me and Jensen. I’ve never told anyone about our secret friendship or how I used to believe in love because of him. I thought he viewed me as someone important, the same as I felt about him. However, after a few contentious minutes on a rickety porch—when he stomped all over my heart and proved my faith in him was misplaced—I no longer believe.

“I have things to do.” I ditch the straw, pop the lid off my cup, and gulp down the ice in the bottom.

“Like what? It’s not like you have a social life. Or a sex life.” She says the last part in a dramatic whisper.

I offer her a teasing smirk. “How would you know?” When she rolls her eyes, I add, “You have an unhealthy obsession with other people’s carnal activities.”

Her button nose crinkles with a quick shake of her head. “Ew. Carnal.”

“Let me rephrase. You have an unhealthy obsession with other people fucking.”

A blush surfaces on Tatum’s pale cheeks, and I chuckle at her discomfort. Sex talk embarrasses her, and I get a kick out of her prudishness.

In truth, tumbleweeds have been rolling through my deserted sex life for far too long. So there’s nothing to report to Tatum on that front. She believes I have an exciting, salacious love life, and I haven’t set the record straight.

I’ve never been in a relationship, and casual flings aren’t my thing. I prefer a partner with no strings attached, but those are hard to come by. The men I meet tend to cling to me before the first kiss, and I have zero tolerance for emotional entanglements when all I’m after is a decent tangle between the sheets.

Other than a years-long booty call with the roadie who claimed my virginity—just to get the deed over with—on Tatum’s first tour, I haven’t allowed a man to get past first base. My arrangement with the roadie was ideal. He never expected more than a hookup, and we had no contact between tours. Unfortunately, he didn’t join us on the last one, so I haven’t seen him in almost two years.

“I’m a curious person. And best friends are supposed to talk about stuff.” Tatum waves a hand, but honestly, I think she’s fanning her heated face. When I don’t respond, giving her a blank stare, she shifts onto her stomach and grumbles. “Fine. What are your plans tonight?”

This is my first New Year’s Eve alone since high school. With the recent changes in my life, I should prepare for long periods with only myself as company. I’ll count this week as a practice run.

I hold up the TV remote and say, “Partying like a rock star,” then wince at my insensitive choice of words.

Tatum’s pop star life got the better of her, and she’s dealing with the fallout. Thankfully, she’s unbothered by my comment and lets it skate right past her.

“You used to be fun,” she complains, resting her chin in her hand.

I scowl, offended by the accusation. “When have I ever been fun?”

“In Rio?”

“We swore to never bring up Rio. What happens at Carnival stays at Carnival.”

“Your naked boobs happened at Carnival.” In a classic Tatum move, she grins and shimmies her narrow shoulders.

“I honored the meaning behind the festival: overindulgence.”

“You overindulged everyone with your big boobies. I thought Marcus’s carotid artery was gonna burst open.”

Marcus is Tatum’s head of security. Translation: he’s a stick-in-the-mud and wouldn’t know a good time if it hit him in the face with a baseball bat. I adore him regardless.

My cell phone pings with a text message. I glare at its location on the coffee table, so far out of reach, but retrieve it anyway.

MIGGY

Pic please.

Miguel Espinoza, who I dubbed Miggy, is Graham’s ex-boyfriend and one of my dearest friends. Despite ending their relationship a year ago, he asks me to send daily photos of Graham in secret.

ME

He’s in Cali.

MIGGY

Where? Why? For how long?

ME

I’m not doing this. CALL HIM.

“Who are you texting?” Tatum asks. She has an overwhelming fear of missing out.

“Miguel.”

“Tell him I said hi and that I miss him.”

I don’t need to look at the screen to know she’s smiling. She does so freely and easily. The girl has a bigger heart than her slender frame should be capable of hauling around.

ME

Tate says hi and to CALL HIM.

MIGGY

Witches.

“Miguel says hi,” I mutter, tossing my phone on the rug before glancing at the laptop.

Sure enough, she’s grinning from ear to ear, and her joy reaches out and tugs at my own lips. “Gosh, I hope they get back together soon. Our polyam fam isn’t complete without Miguel.”

I bite my lip to suppress the laughter brewing in my chest. Tatum often misuses words and phrases, which I find hilarious considering she’s a songwriter. Sometimes I correct her. Other times, like now, I sit back and enjoy her naivety.

“Did you hear back from Marzan?” she asks, changing the subject.

Now this brings a genuine smile to my face. Marion Kazan a.k.a. Marzan directs artistic and controversial music videos. He’s familiar with my work since he directed a few of Tatum’s videos in the past. When his team contacted me with an offer to join some upcoming projects as a makeup artist, I cried in Tatum’s face while she screamed for joy in mine.

I let the production team know I’m tied up with Graham’s movie until March, hoping my delayed availability wouldn’t ruin the opportunity for me. For the next forty-eight hours, I couldn’t eat or sleep while waiting for a response.

Shifting onto my side, I prop myself on an elbow. “Yes, I did. Marzan said I have the ‘it’ thing he’s looking for. He’s willing to go with his backup choice for the late January project and let me jump on board in March.”

“Oh my gosh, Maisy, that’s awesome!” She squeals and kicks her feet. “I’m so freaking happy for you!”

Tatum’s excitement coasts through my veins as she cries happy tears for me. It’s impossible not to match her level of enthusiasm, especially knowing she’s genuine in her support.

“Thanks. I’m so ready, Tate.” I swipe my cheek, surprised by my own tears of joy. “This is my chance to break out on my own. I’ll miss working with you, of course, but I need this.”

Her expression carousels through a plethora of emotions until she settles on pride. “The world has no idea what’s coming. A boss babe with magical brushes and a palette of colorful insults, like a rude fairy godmother.”

“Well, we’ll see about the magical brushes. You never know what crazy visions will flow from Marzan’s brain. I may not even need my makeup kit. Remember when he wanted you to dress as a cock and asked me to paint your face with a wet effect?”

“It was a rooster!” she exclaims, slapping a hand on the mattress.

“The concept was literally called ‘cock-tease.’ You were a cock.”

Flapping a dismissive hand, she says, “Whatever. At least he changed his mind to the Venus flytrap instead.”

Again, I smother my amusement at her innocent mind. Poor, sweet Tatum.

She narrows her eyes. “Stop looking at me like that. You’re always making fun of me, and I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

“Good, because I’m ready to start the next episode of the show I’m watching.”

With another eye roll, she sighs. “Fine. Call me tomorrow.”

“Later.” I end the call and press play on the remote control, but my attention drifts to everything except the television.

The job with Marzan is a dream come true. As a makeup artist new to freelancing, I’m lucky to have projects on my schedule after filming for Graham’s movie ends. Like Pam suggested, I’ll seize every opportunity that comes my way because I’ve spent too much time relegated to the background.

Over the years, I’ve noticed two types of invisible people. Those who choose to disappear, hiding from the world around them. And those who long to shine but aren’t given a choice because they’re born under the imposing shadow of someone else. Growing up, I fit squarely into the latter group. My light flickered in the corner of my brother’s godly shadow, forgotten and unseen. Being born after Logan—my parents’ and Walford’s pride and joy—I had no choice but to accept my role in the family and the town.

Logan Donovan’s little sister.

Vera’s other child.

Crazy Maisy, his friends called me because of the colorful curls, vibrant clothes, and bold makeup I wore to gain attention.

However, one boy never made fun of me. He noticed me. He was nice to me. But much like my existence, his kindness toward me lived in the shadows.

Maisy, 7; Jensen, 10½

“Give it back, Logan! I’m telling Mom!” I yell from my chair at the kitchen table, hands clenched into frustrated fists.

“Like she’ll believe you,” he taunts, knowing he can do no wrong in my parents’ eyes. Even when he misbehaves, they never punish him or make him apologize.

With the doll head I got for my birthday gripped in his hand, he races into the living room and hurdles the couch before rounding the coffee table with the wonky leg.

“Go long, Jensen!”

Jensen inches closer to where I’m sitting and blocks my view of Logan. The plastic head wobbles as it sails through the air, its yellow nylon strands whipping around. Jensen catches it and fakes a move like they do in the football games on TV. Then he gracefully spins and sets the toy on the table.

“Hey! You’re no fun,” Logan whines from behind him.

“Let’s go out back and throw a real ball. Dolls are for girls. Are you a girl, Logan?” Jensen’s teasing puts a scowl on my brother’s face.

“Heck no. Let’s go. I’ve been working on my spiral.” Logan runs outside to the backyard where he and his friends play in the summer heat.

Jensen looks over his shoulder at me and grins like we’re sharing a secret.

“Thank you,” I whisper, giving him a shy smile in return. With hope blooming in my chest, I say, “Boys can play with dolls too.”

His weight shifts from one foot to the other, and his gaze softens. “Nah. Boys always ruin nice things.”

After he walks away, I slump in my chair, wishing I had a friend to play with. Someone nice, like Jensen.

Boys ruin things, a fact Jensen proved after Logan’s funeral. He obliterated my heart, so I cast him out of my life for good. In the months that followed, I felt utterly lonesome until Tatum came along during my junior year of high school. She’s the first and only friend I’ve ever made on my own.

I wasn’t forced into her life like I was with the other Walford kids, which is common in a small town, and no one introduced us. We shared a class together and developed a close friendship in the back of the classroom. When she invited me to join her in California, I didn’t hesitate. I abandoned the memories of my family and Jensen to the past and looked to the future.

Now I’m on a path toward success. If I allow Jensen to invade my life, I risk getting knocked off course. I’ll lose sight of my goals while dabbling in silly daydreams about a boy and a girl destined to be together, which I stupidly believed once. I’ll backslide into being the hopeless romantic who wrote Mrs. Jensen Holloway in all her notebooks, thinking one day he’d rescue me from my oblivious family like some fairytale hero.

Unlucky for him, I’m no longer a distressed damsel in need of rescue. I’ve become my own hero.

4

JENSEN

JAKE

Are you helping me install floors tomorrow?

ME

Yep. I’ll be there at 2:00.

JAKE

Bring beer.

ME

<thumbs-up emoji>

I set my phone on the table at the Noon Moon Café, where I’m having breakfast with my buddy, Trevor. He works from home but likes to relocate his workspace to the library, the coffee shop, or the café. Because my cooking skills begin and end with cereal and spaghetti, I join him for meals when I can.

“Gina has a friend,” he says without glancing up from his laptop. His job has something to do with software, which sounds boring as hell.

“I don’t want to meet Gina’s friend,” I say between bites of scrambled eggs. His grey eyes drift upward to meet mine, and I shrug. “I’m not interested in dating.”

Trevor and his wife, Gina, have been setting me up on dates for years. I indulged them for a while, but put my foot down after one woman proposed marriage on the first date.

He adjusts the ball cap covering his brown hair and leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “How long has it been? A year?”

I offer him a blank stare instead of an answer.

Despite his expression of disbelief, his voice lacks intonation. “Longer than a year?” He shakes his head. “You’re not getting any younger, man. And I know you want the wife, the kids, and the dog. You can’t have that life if you don’t get out there and date.”

“Maybe that life isn’t in the cards for me. I’m too busy for dating or relationships. I have the bar,” I lie.

The last and only relationship I had ended because my ex-girlfriend complained about me working nights. She knew going in that I owned a bar. After seven months of her subtle digs at my choice of career, I ended things between us. Partners should build each other up and support one another, not take cheap shots to destroy each other’s foundations.

As a witness to my parents’ loving and supportive marriage, I set the relationship bar pretty high for myself at a young age. Yes, I want the wife and the kids and the dog, but my standards are damn near perfection. An unattainable goal for any woman, save one. Gina can throw all the available women in Texas at me, and it won’t make a difference. I met my damn near perfect years ago, and she’s perfect for me.

Trevor studies me with narrowed eyes, but I don’t falter under his scrutiny. It takes someone far more threatening than a brainiac who wears practical sweaters and sneakers with his jeans to ruffle my feathers.

“Who is she?” he asks.

Like me, Trevor isn’t a big talker, so silence is a comfortable third wheel when we hang out together. That is, until he catches the smallest hint of deception, at which point he becomes relentless in his pursuit of the truth. The man is too smart for his own good.

“There’s no one.” I pluck a napkin from the moon-shaped holder and wipe a drop of ketchup off the table.

The café has an astrological theme, with dark blue and gold decor and a mural of the moon phases painted on the wall. Despite the name, the owners only serve breakfast and lunch.

“Then go on a date with Gina’s friend,” he says. “One date.”

“Nope. I don’t have the time.” Because I’m too busy chasing Maisy.

“You’re a terrible liar, Jenny. Who’s the girl? I need her name, age, and occupation.” He rests a finger on the touchpad of his laptop, poised to conduct an internet search.

“Don’t call me Jenny. And there’s no woman. If I ever find one, you’ll be the last person to know.”

Sighing, he returns his focus to his beloved keyboard, clacking the keys at a ridiculous speed and ending our morning chat. I finish my last strip of bacon, wash it down with a second glass of orange juice, and throw some cash on the table. Trevor and I tip our chins at each other, and I leave him to his boring computer job.

After spending the morning in my office, paying bills and ordering stock for the bar, I move on to my next task on today’s list. The frigid January air bites at me as I hustle to my Jeep parked behind Bruno’s. Because my body temperature runs hot, I refuse to wear a jacket over my T-shirts, but the recent cold front tests my limits.

“Hey, Jensen! Got a minute?”

I glance over my shoulder when Lydia, owner of The Drip, calls out to me. She’s bundled up in a puffy coat and gloves, stuffing a trash bag in the dumpster behind her coffee shop. Cursing to myself, I shove my hands deep in my jeans pockets to keep them warm and head her way.

“What’s up?”

“I heard you’re running for mayor. Please tell me it’s true.” The blinding-white smile on her face is the only reason I suppress an annoyed groan.

I swear the old men in this town are the worst gossips, spreading rumors they hope will become truths. Everywhere I go, someone makes a comment about me being the next mayor, and the pressure weighs on me.

Fighting a shiver against the cold, I force a grin and shake my head. “No guarantees. The fellas were just tossing around ideas.”

“Well, you have my vote.” She squints when a gust of wind blasts her face and flattens the tips of her spiky, bleached hair.

I draw up my shoulders against that same wind assaulting my bones. “It’s a big job. Not sure if I’ll have the time.”

She flaps a gloved hand. “Oh, phooey. Being mayor is the easiest gig in town. All we need is someone we respect who can settle disputes and show up at places sober. You’re perfect for the job.”

Need.

Perfect.

“We’ll see,” I tell her, walking backward to escape the cold and the temptation to say yes. “Hey, I’ve gotta run. Stay warm, okay?”

“Alright. Tell Vera I said hello. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”

My smile tightens. “Will do.” Leaving her with a curt nod, I jog to my Jeep before I freeze to death.

Does everyone in town know my schedule? I check on Vera once a week after lunch since we both work night jobs and sleep late. In the early years, I swung by her house more often because she was alone after Maisy left. However, when Vera began erasing signs of Maisy’s existence, I lessened the frequency of my visits, unable to watch the memories of my girl fade to black.

My girl.

Our recent interactions suggest Maisy has never been and will never be my girl. When I saw her at the Christmas festival, she outright ignored me. Wouldn’t even look in my direction. It’ll take drastic action on my part to shock the stubbornness out of that woman if I want back in her life.

Maisy may not want to admit it, but she’s meant to be mine. If I can find an opening, I’ll crash through that iron will of hers and get her to talk to me. Then we can build the future we’re meant to have. One with us together.

I bound up Vera’s porch steps and rap on the door, but she doesn’t answer. Her car sits in the driveway, which means she’s home, so I check the door and find it unlocked. I’m not one to let myself into people’s houses, but she’s been sick off and on for a while. My gut tells me something’s wrong, and I always listen to my gut.

She’s napping on the couch with a blanket covering her, and the screen of the muted TV flickers. I pause in the entryway, wondering if I should leave, but a mess on the kitchen floor catches my eye. I frown at the shattered mug and pool of liquid. Vera’s intolerant of messes, and it’s unlike her to not clean up a spill.

Hovering near the couch, I hesitate before whispering her name. She doesn’t respond, but she’s breathing, so I leave her alone. Once I’ve cleaned up the mess and put away the broom, I flip on the hall light and proceed with the ritual I carry out whenever I visit. With Vera sleeping, I can take my time for once.

Dozens of photos in mismatched frames line the hallway. Most of them show Logan at different stages of his football career, ending with him holding the trophy when he led his college team to a championship title. I’m in several of the photos, along with Javi and Trevor, but my eyes linger on the handful of frames displaying Maisy’s face.

Her baby picture. Her kindergarten graduation photo, where she gives a shy smile to the camera. There’s one of her sitting alone in the stands at a football game. She’s focused on her cell phone, uninterested in the game, but the stadium lights capture her glow. The last picture of Maisy is her high school graduation portrait. I found it stashed in a box when I organized Vera’s garage, so I had it framed and hung it on the wall.

Four photos. That’s the measure of Maisy’s importance to Vera.

If Logan wasn’t my closest friend, I would’ve given up on the woman long ago. The part of me that sticks around out of guilt shrinks with time, but another part of me holds firm because she’s my only link to Maisy. So I visit every week, hoping one day I’ll catch a break that leads me back to my girl.

A long groan draws my attention to the living room. Vera rests one arm on the back of the couch as if to pull herself up, but her eyes remain closed.

“Hey, Vera,” I say, shuffling closer. “Came to check on you. It’s Tuesday.”

“Jensen?” Her groggy voice cracks. “I can’t…” She lies back in defeat, shoulders sinking into the cushions. The tears trickling from the corners of her eyes put me on alert.

I sit on the coffee table I repaired not too long ago. “Vera?”

When she opens her eyes, her unfocused gaze drifts in my general direction but doesn’t fix on me. My level of concern rises even more. Something worse than the seasonal cold she claims to be battling is at play here.

“Vera, do you need help?” I ask.

Pursing her lips, she summons the courage to relinquish her stubborn pride, then nods once. God, she’s just like Maisy.

“What can I do? Do you need an ambulance?”

“I can’t lift my legs. And I—” A whimper escapes her as embarrassment pinches every corner of her tired face. “I wet myself.”

Fuck. I’m not equipped to handle this situation, but I’ll find a solution. I always do. “I can call an ambulance for you, or I can call Lucy Harrison, Rock’s wife. She’s a nurse.”

“No ambulance,” she says, closing her eyes again. An ambulance means contacting emergency dispatch, and her coworkers and boss will learn about whatever’s going on here.

“I’m calling Lucy then,” I say, sliding the cell phone from my back pocket.

Twenty minutes later, Lucy knocks on the door with her infant daughter, Marcella, in tow. I explained the situation over the phone, and between ending the call and her arrival, Vera managed to sit up with my help. Both of us were careful not to shift the blanket covering the source of her shame.

“Thanks for coming,” I tell Lucy as she peers around the inside of Vera’s tidy house.

Outdated furnishings decorate the space, similar to my parents’ house where I live. The difference between our homes is that mine shows evidence of my parents’ life and love. Vera’s home reminds me of a cold mausoleum, devoid of love’s warm remembrance.

“Is she in any pain?” Lucy whispers. Her family moved from Mexico to Texas when she was young, and her voice carries a faint accent.

“Doesn’t seem to be, but she’s not saying much.”

Her dark brown gaze holds mine for a beat before she nods, understanding she’s about to face a patient with wounded pride. She hands Marcella to me and drops a diaper bag to the floor. I take Lucy’s coat with my free hand while her daughter tugs at my beard.

Gathering her black hair into a low ponytail, Lucy enters the living room in nurse mode. “Hey, Miss Vera. I’m Lucy. Let’s get you freshened up.”

With Marcella settled on a padded mat with toys, Lucy and I help Vera into the bathroom and get to work. She tends to Vera’s needs in private, and I load the soiled linens and clothes into the washer. I send Javi a quick text message asking if he can stay at Bruno’s until I return. Thankfully, he can.

An hour passes, and I’m relaxing in a burgundy armchair with the auburn-haired Marcella asleep on my chest when someone pounds on the front door. I check my watch, noting the school day has ended. With football season over, I know who’s on the porch.

Rock’s nostrils flare when I open the door with his daughter in my arms. “Where’s my wife?”

Because he’s never been a fan of my friendship with Lucy, I seize this opportunity to goad him. “In the bedroom, getting cleaned up.”

His head turns a dangerous shade of red, more pronounced atop the solid white Walford Bulldogs tracksuit he’s wearing. The man has trouble finding clothes to fit his huge thighs, so he defaults to athletic wear.

Rock lived with me after he graduated from college and until he married Lucy, which is how she and I became friends. They’re opposites in every way imaginable. She’s a petite sweetheart with compassion and a ready smile. He’s a six-foot-five ginger giant with no personality, and the only things that put a smile on his freckled face are bloody mayhem and his family.

Smirking, I pass Marcella to her fuming father. Despite her being eight months old now, he tucks her into one long, muscled arm like a football and shoulder-checks me as he enters the house. I chuckle and close the door as Lucy wanders down the hallway, stopping to study the photos on the wall.

“This is Maisy’s house?” she asks. At my obvious confusion, she gestures at a photo and explains. “I met her at the festival, and Tatum showed me pictures of them together on tour.”

I forget Lucy and Tatum are getting to know each other now that Tatum’s home. It’s strange having all these different branches of my life intertwine.

“She grew up here,” I answer.

“She’s so beautiful.” Lucy’s expression is full of wonder.

I’m filled with the same wonder whenever I look at Maisy. Her beauty paints the soul with vibrant colors and shimmering light, impossible to ignore. Ever since she left me, my life’s been dull and colorless.

Because I can’t talk about her without emptiness overtaking me and ruining my mood, I stick to the matter at hand. “What’s the verdict with Vera?”

Lucy joins me in the living room where Rock posts up behind her like a sentinel guarding his queen. “I helped her to bed, so she’s comfortable for now.” She glances at Rock, who hasn’t taken his angry eyes off me. “Can you give us a minute alone, big guy? I’ll be right out.”

“No,” he says. The breadth of his vocabulary is narrower than mine.

Lucy crooks a finger at him. “Come here.”

She whispers in his ear, and a red flush creeps up his neck from whatever she’s telling him. I’m sure I don’t want to know. These two are freaks in the sheets and everywhere else. I’m aware of their preferences because Lucy spent many nights with Rock when he lived with me.

“The double-ended one?” he whispers hopefully, but he’s incapable of whispering with his deep bass voice, so I hear everything.

When Lucy nods, the corners of his mouth twitch, his face’s equivalent to a kid hyped up on sugar at the county fair. He bundles up Marcella in her tiny coat and blanket, then tosses me the middle finger on his way out the front door.

“You’re a saint,” I tell Lucy, shaking my head.

A grin lights up her face. “He’s not so bad if you know how to handle him.”

I raise my hands, throwing up a barrier against her ongoing efforts to treat me like a bestie. “Keep it to yourself.”

She giggles, but the humor fades when she brings us back to the topic of Vera. “Losing control of bodily functions is never a good sign, and I have a feeling it’s been going on for a while. I also think she has trouble seeing.”

“I noticed that earlier. It’s like she was looking through me.”

Nodding, she chews the corner of her lip. “She should definitely see her doctor. From what little I know of her symptoms, she may need to see a neurologist too. I can call my dad and find out if he has any openings for a consultation, depending on what Vera’s primary doctor says.”

Lucy’s dad owns a neurology practice in San Antonio, a two-hour drive from Walford, which means the time spent driving there and back, plus the appointment, will take up most of a day. A day I don’t have.

“Should Vera be driving?” I ask.

If her legs don’t work, and her sight is failing, anything could go wrong if she got behind the wheel. It’s not a risk I’m willing to take after my own parents died in a car crash.

“No. Someone will have to take her.”

Shit. I rest a hand on a hip and scratch my beard, running all the options through my head while meeting Lucy’s sympathetic stare. She’s never voiced her opinion on the issue, but she’s aware of my tendency to spread myself too thin.

My schedule is the least of my problems though. Long ago, Vera shut herself off from Walford to wallow in grief. She doesn’t have any close friends or a support system. Aside from me and her coworkers, she hardly interacts with people, and she won’t allow just anyone to know her business. She’s too damn stubborn and proud. Just like Maisy.

“I’ll figure it out,” I say.

“Okay. Let me know what else I can do to help.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

We bump knuckles because I hugged her once, and Rock threatened to dig my grave. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s watching us through the window as we speak. There’s possessive, and there’s James Rockford Harrison III. But Lucy revels in his behavior, provokes it even, so I keep my mouth shut.

After she leaves, I remove the cushion covers from the dryer and situate the living room. On the end table, Vera’s phone vibrates with a text message. I can’t read the entire conversation, but the part displayed in the notification is enough to get my heart racing.

MAISY

I’ll pick it up tomorrow afternoon.

Finally, my weekly visits with Vera have paid off. Ever since Maisy moved away from Walford, I’ve tried catching her when she sneaks into town, but she evades me every time. I usually don’t learn about her appearances until she’s long gone. But tomorrow, I’ll be watching and waiting.

Reading the text again, I smile to myself as a triumphant voice declares victory in my head.

Caught you, birdie.

5

MAISY

“I can’t live on potato chips alone. My body needs fresh vegetables,” Graham says.

He wads his empty chip bag into a ball and tosses it on the table. Because of the tight filming budget, the only way he can afford to feed the cast and crew is by stocking his trailer with sandwich ingredients and chips. Lots of chips.

Sighing, he adds, “If we keep this up, I’ll have to start running again. And you’re coming with me.”

My nose scrunches at his mention of exercise. “Gross. Don’t force me to end our friendship.”

His amber eyes remain glued to my face while he takes several swallows from his water bottle and smacks his full lips. No man should have lips as luscious as Graham’s, but they’re part of his Hollywood appeal.

We met when he was cast as the love interest in Tatum’s first music video, and the three of us became inseparable. Tatum and Graham bought houses next door to each other in California, and we lived as one big family, along with Tatum’s security team and Miguel. I miss those days.

“Are you still heading to Walford today?” Graham asks.

Licking a glob of mayonnaise off my finger, I nod. “Yep. Right after we get done with this exquisite lunch.”

The chip bag hits me in the face. “Be grateful I’m feeding you.” He ruffles his sandy-brown hair and sighs. “Wish I could go. I wouldn’t mind poking around there a little more. The town’s way better than you made it out to be.”

Last week, he made his first trip to Walford and returned the next morning with the awful idea to live there someday. I’m on a mission to knock that notion right out of his mind.

“It’s the worst place in Texas. Pick somewhere else.”

As he rolls his eyes, our cell phones vibrate.

TATE

Help me decide what movie to watch next.

“Oh, fuck me.” My head hangs at the reminder of how Tatum tortures herself when she’s sad. She indulges in a marathon of the sappiest, most heartbreaking romance movies known to womankind.

Graham claps his hands together and hoots with laughter, aware of how much I despise romance or anything involving tears. “I take back my wish. This one’s all you.”

“You suck.”

“And I’m the best at it.” He waggles the eyebrows I trimmed for him yesterday.

ME

Pick something where the men have fangs.

So I have a thing for vampire movies…sue me. They involve romance sometimes. And the prospect of being bitten turns my blood into molten lava.

TATE

I have Robert Pattinson on my list.

GRAHAM

Watch the one with Emilia Clarke.

I glare at him for suggesting such a devastating movie, then I pound my thumbs on the phone screen.

ME

Forgot to tell you Graham’s not coming today. He’s still coming down from the ED pill he took last night.

An exaggerated gasp comes from across the table. “You’re a runt with a capital C!” Graham shouts.

We both attack our screens like they’re video game controllers and we’re in a heated game of Mario Kart. We’re known for engaging in fierce battles of wits and insults over text.

ME

And he called me a Crunt, so clearly his dick’s broken.

GRAHAM

Please tell Maisy to see a doctor. She’s being insensitive about my fish allergy.

<GIF of a fish holding its nose>

“Good one,” I mutter with a smile tugging at my lips. Few people can make me laugh, and Graham is one of them.

TATE

I’m in the mood for some Gosling. Good luck with your problems down under.

“She’s got jokes this year,” he muses. “This is good, right?”

Tatum’s going through a difficult time, and we want to be there for her. Unfortunately, our lives are changing, pulling us in opposite directions. We’ll have to find different ways to support each other now that we’re living apart.

Graham would love to join me on the quick trip to Walford, but he has a video conference with studio executives interested in his film. He feels guilty about his busy schedule, but Tatum’s a selfless person and would never ask him to put her first.

“This is good,” I say. “And I’ll make sure it stays that way.”

I shrug on my white faux-fur coat and gather our trash to toss in the bin outside his trailer. He reaches the door first but stops with one hand on the handle.

Looking down at me with a softened gaze, he says, “Whatever it is about Walford that makes you run away, I want you to know I’m proud of you for setting your troubles aside and being there for Tatum. You’re a bigger person than you realize. And you’re a great friend.”

“Well…” I glance around the simple trailer to avoid his tender eyes as pressure builds behind my own from the compliment. “I can’t be there for her if I’m still here with your sappy ass.”

He draws me into a hug, but I can’t hug him back because my hands are full of empty chip bags and water bottles. My friends joke about me not being a hugger, which is true for reasons they don’t understand. It’s not that I don’t want to show them affection. The truth is, I don’t know how. I never received much physical comfort growing up, so I’m awkward about hugging and cuddling.

“I’m only sappy because I love you,” he says. “You make me so sappy.”

“You’re such a weirdo,” I murmur into his button-down shirt.

His chest bounces against my cheek when he laughs. “I am, but you love me anyway.”

I really do.

Most people are still at work when I arrive in Walford, which means I can pop into The Drip unnoticed and grab Tatum a hot tea as a comfort offering. She loves tea for reasons I’ll never understand. Water flavored with plants and flowers is gross.

At the end of Main Street where the road bends, I park next to Menchy’s Hardware Store. The choice is strategic, putting me on the opposite end of the strip from Bruno’s Bar. When my feet hit the sidewalk, Menchy rushes out of his store with his apron secured tightly around his waist and reading glasses perched on his nose.

Franklin Menchy, who goes by his last name only, monitors the happenings in town. Either he’s nosy, or he’s cautious. The jury’s still out. With his weathered umber complexion and shock of grey hair, he looks to be in his sixties or seventies, but no one knows his actual age. He’s a quiet man who keeps to himself, which is why his approach surprises me.

“Maisy.” He looks me over with a kind smile. “My, my. Look at you, all grown up.”

I zip my coat to trap what little warmth I can and say, “Hey, Menchy. How have you been?”

“Good, good. Just keeping an eye on things.”

An awkward pause hangs between us because I don’t know what to say. We’ve never had a conversation that I can recall.

“So…” He hesitates, and I tense up, prepared for what’s coming. “How are you doing?”

For a moment, I’m stunned because he didn’t ask about Vera. So stunned, I repeat his words in my head to confirm he’s asking about me.

“I’m great.”

He nods, rocking back on his heels. “Good, good. Well, I’ll let you be on your way. Don’t be a stranger. Stop in and say hello to Old Menchy once in a while.”

“I’ll do that,” I say, eyeing him warily.

Another quick nod, and he spins on his heel and marches into his store.

Menchy never engages in small talk with people, reserving his brusque communication skills for anyone who falls out of line by his standards. Needless to say, our interaction baffles me.

Stuffing my hands in my coat pockets to protect them from the biting chill, I lower my head and stroll toward The Drip. A presence forces me to look up, and my steps falter, eyes widening in alarm.

Jensen strides toward me with a determined expression on his bearded face and a black hoodie covering his hair. My panicked gaze darts to the coffee shop less than half a block away as I consider my odds of reaching the door before he reaches me. His long legs eat up the brick pavers between us, and I’m too late to act. In a blink, he grabs my shoulders and walks me backward into the narrow alley between the antique store and the donut shop.

“What the—”

He slams his mouth onto mine, and I go stiff, frozen from the shock of his unexpected kiss. When he presses harder against my mouth, shoving his tongue along the seam of my closed lips and demanding entry, he earns my quick surrender. Pathetically quick. I part my lips and welcome him in, allowing the longing I’ve felt for him all these years to wrap around us like a blanket of hopeless submission.

Jensen groans in victory and lifts me off the ground, taking us farther into the shadows. My dangling legs wrap around his waist when my back hits a brick wall. Using his hips to pin me in place, he thrusts his fingers into my curls and yanks on the roots. I rip his hood off and do the same, sliding my hands into his thick, luscious waves and fisting them until he grunts from the pain.

We’re chaotic and messy, all teeth and tongues, biting each other’s lips and stealing air from each other’s lungs. He smells incredible—like spice and musk and dirty dreams—and I want to drown in his scent and never come up for air. Reflexively, I sigh into his mouth, drawing a rumble from his chest.

“Do I have your attention now, birdie?” His ragged whisper vibrates against my stinging lips.

“Shut up.” I dive back in, pouring more aggression and anger into our frenzied kiss.

How dare he bulldoze me like this? How dare he kiss me without permission? I’m furious with him, but I can’t make myself put an end to this madness.

My teeth sink into his full bottom lip so hard his breath hitches. He squeezes two handfuls of my ass and grinds his pelvis, dragging a deep moan from my throat. In retaliation, I bury my sharp nails into the back of his neck and rub my core against his belt buckle, grateful I wore leggings today. My body craves the friction.

“God, I miss you so much. Please stop running from me. Give me a chance to make things right.” His gruff tone warms my insides, but his hurried speech stops me cold.

In the chaos of lust, I’ve forgotten the vow I made to myself long ago. This man will never be in my life again. He had his chance and made his choice.

Chest heaving, I reluctantly turn my head away, denying him once again. “Put me down, Jensen.”

“Maisy,” he breathes, his voice cracking. “Please.”

“Put. Me. Down.”

He rests his forehead against my cheek, panting hot breaths along my jaw and neck. “I can’t take this anymore. Haven’t you punished me long enough?”

I squirm against his hold until he relents, helping me slide down his firm body. Once I’m on solid ground, he paces and rubs his beard without taking his eyes off me.

My stare is fixed on the brick wall behind him when I say, “I don’t know what you want from me.”

When he spoke these exact words to me years ago, he lied. Jensen knew what I wanted from him. The request I made back then was crystal clear. After all this time, however, I’m uncertain of his intentions. Any type of relationship with him, friendly or romantic, is out of the question. I won’t become vulnerable for anyone again, especially him.

Frustrated with his lack of response, I meet his intense gaze and search for truth amid the emotional chaos brewing in his eyes. “Say something, Jensen. Say anything. Use your words.”

With a defeated sigh, he shakes his head. “You know I’m not good with words.”

I step toward him as if he’s the smaller person here. I’m so pissed off right now, I feel massive compared to him. “That’s bullshit. You’ve had years to think about what you would say to me. Fucking years. And you choke yet again.” I laugh in his face, although nothing about this situation is funny. “Typical. You know, for someone so big and strong, you sure do scare easily.”

“Because I can’t—you don’t—I’m not—dammit!” Fumbling to put his thoughts into words, his volume and distress rise before he regains control with a steadying breath. “You know this isn’t easy for me.”

I do. And I’m a terrible person for using his perceived weaknesses against him. Still, I have to protect my heart.

Tossing up air quotes, I say, “Then tell me, in one simple little ‘Jensen’ word, what you want from me.”

“Anything!” he explodes, raking a rough hand through his hair. He yanks at the strands, and his eyes fill with anguish. “Fuck. I want everything from you, Maisy. But give me five minutes of your time.”

“Why?” I ask, challenging him. “So we can sit in silence? Stare at each other while I try to read your mind?”

He holds out his hands, palms turned up as he begs. “Five minutes. Spare five fucking minutes of your life for me.”

For longer than I should allow, I lose myself in his pleading eyes and so desperately want to give him those five minutes and more. But I opened my heart to him once before, asking for his honesty, and he ruined me with a deadly combination of lies and silence.

Jensen would hold too much power over me if I were to give in to him. My future’s on the line—success is within my grasp—and I won’t let anyone in this godforsaken town slow me down. So I shake my head, offering him the only thing I can: rejection.

“I don’t have anything left to give you. Not even one more second.” When I turn to go, he grabs my arm to stop me. My eyes dart to the offending hand grasping my elbow before I glare at him. “Don’t touch me like you have the right. We aren’t friends anymore. We aren’t anything.”

Releasing me, his face twists in agony like I’ve gutted him with a jagged blade. My rioting heart aches as well. Despite my anger, it’s difficult to walk away and surrender him to all the places where I tell myself he belongs. In the shadows. In the past. In my dreams.

I’m near the end of the alley when he calls out to me, stopping me in my tracks. “Vera’s sick. She’s been sick for a while but won’t tell me what’s wrong. It’s not a cold or the flu like she claims. It’s serious.”

With my back to him, I study the concrete beneath my red Doc Marten boots and ask, “How do you know?”

“I went by her house yesterday. She wet herself while she was sleeping on the couch. And her balance has been off, like her body doesn’t work right.”

I noticed that too, the day she stumbled in the guest bedroom. She was acting strange, and Vera would never miss work for a common cold. Only a serious illness or injury would keep her at home.

Jensen continues, the sound of his voice drawing closer. “She needs help, Maisy. More than I can give her. I’m trying to find her a doctor, but I can only do so much. She needs you. I nee—”

“See?” I cut him off, glancing over my shoulder. “You’re capable of stringing words together after all. Gold star.”

The last thing I see before striding away is crushing dejection, an expression he wears whenever we cross paths. I notice it on his face because I’m the one who keeps putting it there.

6

MAISY

With Tatum’s tea growing cold in the cupholder, I cruise around town, debating on whether I should go support my friend or check on my mother first. Jensen knows of my flimsy relationship with Vera, so he must have real concerns about her health if he thinks she needs my help.

If she’s sick, I’ll face two battles: an internal one because I’ll feel obligated to care for her, and an external one because the woman who birthed me is the most stubborn person on the planet. But Vera gave me life—the least I can do is check on the quality of hers.

Parked in the driveway, I flex my fingers on the steering wheel and inhale a deep breath through my nose, then let it flow between my lips. Stay calm, Maisy. Be nice.

She shouldn’t be surprised to see me. In our short text conversation yesterday, I told her I’d drop by and pick up my mail. Still, coming here never gets easier. Nor does the trek up the porch steps, slipping the key into the lock, or walking into the gloomy house.

Chilly air greets me because Vera refuses to pay a few extra dollars to run the central heating. Wrapped in a blanket on the couch, she watches a home decorating show on TV and doesn’t acknowledge me. Not that I expect her to. History has proven the chances of her engaging with me are slim.

I remove my coat and boots, a sign that I’m planning to stay for a while. Stay calm, Maisy. Be nice. “I heard you weren’t feeling well.”

“I’m better.” The tired words travel through the room on her raspy voice.

“You’re not.” I move closer, rubbing my arms for warmth. “Jensen said you need a doctor.”

Her gaze drifts my way but doesn’t land on me. I narrow my eyes and assess her, noting something isn’t right. Her pupils look strange, and the slight movements of her eyeballs indicate they’re not settling on their target.

“Can you see me?” I ask.

“Of course I can. Don’t be silly.”

Her tone isn’t cruel or biting, but I flinch at the word I associate with her dismissal of my feelings. Without meaning to, Vera wields that throwaway word like a sword, cutting me deep every time.

“Of course you’re coming to Logan’s game. Don’t be silly.”

“Are you sure those pants go with that top? They look kind of silly together.”

“There’s no reason to cry. It’s just a silly doll.”

As a child, when Logan destroyed one of my dolls, like an annoying brother does, I would become unbearably upset. Vera never admonished him, and she’d laugh off my reaction as being silly. She never stopped to consider why my dolls held such importance to me. They were my only friends. My only escape. My warm make-believe in this house of cold reality.

If anyone cared enough to realize that fact, they would’ve understood why I’ve loved working for Tatum all these years. Not only is she my best friend who accepts me as I am, she spent the last nine years as my living doll. I could dress her, style her hair, do her makeup—all with full creative control because she trusted me to make her look and feel amazing. She offered me purpose and escape, and none of it was make-believe. I’m good at what I do, and I’m determined to prove my talent to the world.

But the woman sitting on my childhood couch doesn’t care. If she cared about my career, she’d ask about it. If she cared about my love for my dolls, she would’ve saved them for me when she cleared out my old bedroom. Still, I come home every year because I care that she lost a son.

Long seconds of silence pass between us after her unwitting, invisible slap. I never speak up for myself for fear of upsetting her, which is why I refuse to cower before anyone else. No one gets to make me feel small the way Vera Donovan does.

Stay calm, Maisy. Be nice.

“My mistake,” I say.

She changes the subject, jarring me from my mini emotional meltdown. “Are you sleeping here? If so, grab an extra blanket. I’m not turning on the heat.”

“No. I have somewhere to be.” While putting on my boots, I make one last attempt at kindness. “Do you need me to do anything before I go?”

Based on her sigh, my persistence exasperates her. “I’m fine, Maisy. You can go.” She grabs the remote and turns up the volume on the television, drowning me out.

Minutes later, my car idles beside the curb at Pam’s house, where Tatum expects me. My head spins from the encounters with Jensen and Vera. They’re extreme opposites on the want spectrum. One wants my time and attention; the other wants nothing to do with me.

My instincts tell me to stand in the middle and not move in either direction. The middle ground is safe, far from the heartbreak waiting on both ends of the spectrum. I know what to expect from Vera, and I’m well-trained in shuffling around in the neutral zone where she’s concerned. Jensen, however, is a wild card. The kiss today proves as much.

The kiss.

I press my fingers to my lips and flatten my other hand on my belly. Desire thrums as my mind replays what happened. He overwhelmed me—overpowered me—in the dark depths of the alley. The scary thing is I let him. What’s worse, I liked it.

7

JENSEN

“We’re out of Budweiser, boss,” says Charlie Raines, who looks panicked and sweaty when I slide behind the bar to check in with him.

He’s new to bartending and only works part-time. I haven’t had the opportunity to train him, much less prepare him for tonight’s madhouse.

“There should be two more kegs,” I say, certain I put in the order.

His dark blond curls flop when he shakes his head, and his glasses slide down his nose. “Nope. Javi and I both checked. We’re out.”

Shit. Did I forget?

I scratch my beard and assess the situation, glancing around to see who drinks that brand of beer. “Only the old guys are drinking Bud. Give them Bud Light on special. If they complain, tell them to come to me.”

Nodding, he pushes up his glasses. “Okay.”

“Good man.” I clap him on the back. “You’re doing great.”

“Thanks.” He exhales in relief before scurrying toward a customer who’s waving us down.

I’ve never had this many people packed inside my bar. To be honest, I’m a little overwhelmed myself. We host karaoke once a month, but the air in Walford shifted after Tatum’s return. An energy sparked in the community with her homecoming, and wherever she goes, the people follow.

People here love her, but not because she’s famous. They love her because she’s sweet, generous, and never exposed Walford as her pre-fame stomping ground. The town promises sanctuary to those who need it, but its protection is only offered if privacy goes both ways.

Tatum’s posse, while few, takes up a lot of space. Her massive bodyguards—dressed for combat in military cargo pants and tight black tees—lean against the wall behind her, their diligent eyes sweeping the bar for threats. It’s impossible for these guys to blend in, but they aren’t the reason everyone is abuzz tonight. No. It’s the Hollywood royal sitting at Tatum’s table.

Graham Kingston. The world’s biggest movie star and the man who won’t keep his manicured hands off of Maisy.

Maisy’s here—in my bar—looking like my wettest dream in red leather pants and a black sweater cut low in the front, her magnificent cleavage on display. I haven’t seen her since our kiss. If she snuck in and out of Walford in the past month, she moved right under my nose.

While working the floor, I steal glances at her. A few times, our eyes meet, which means she’s keeping tabs on me too. She’s aware of my presence and whereabouts. The worst thing about tonight is watching her smile at Graham. God, I love her smile. I want it aimed at me; it’s been too long.

When we were kids, we teased and laughed together often. However, the older Maisy got, the less she smiled until she stopped altogether. I’ve seen pictures of her with Tatum over the years, and Maisy never wore a genuine smile in a single photograph. Not one.

I want to believe she’s unhappy because I’m not there to brighten her day like I used to be. This belief is easier to swallow than the likelihood that I’m the person who robbed her of the ability to feel genuine happiness.

Catching a break between demanding customers, I approach her table. And what does she do? She runs away, leaving me to chat up Tatum and the actor in the green button-down who has everyone’s attention.

While I’m bummed about not talking to Maisy, I earn a consolation prize. Tatum offers to put on a show at Bruno’s, which will be great for business. She hasn’t performed in Walford in over a decade, and people will arrive in droves to hear her sing.

The second our chat ends, I make a beeline for the bathroom to trap a flighty bird. Only, when I get to the hallway leading to the restrooms, a long line of women blocks my path. Guess I’ll add ladies’ bathroom expansion to my research list. Since my mother didn’t raise an asshole, I stop myself from barging through the line. Instead, I spin on my heel and stride toward the bar.

I’m stopped seven times during the twenty strides it takes to cover the distance. Twice, I’m asked if the election rumors are true. Two other times, older women offer to set me up with their granddaughters. The other three people complain that Ainsley hasn’t returned with their drinks.

I peer over the crowd, craning my neck in all directions while searching for my employee. When I don’t spot her anywhere on the floor, I change trajectory and slip into the kitchen, cursing because the chances of Maisy leaving the bar increase with every minute that passes. And I want to talk to her before she escapes again.

Ainsley’s tucked in the corner by the cubbies where the staff keep their personal effects. With puffy pink eyelids, it’s obvious she’s been crying. I keep a safe distance of ten feet because she’s a female employee and I’m not an idiot. Despite being frustrated with the Maisy situation, overwhelmed by the number of customers, and pissed about the pressure to run for mayor, I gentle my tone toward the upset girl.

“You okay, darlin’? Did something happen out there I should know about?”

With an adamant shake of her head, her ponytail swings. “No. I just needed a minute. We’re slammed tonight.” Her dark eyes remain pinned to her beat-up white sneakers as she lies to me.

Ainsley’s been working here for three months, and I don’t know a thing about her other than she’s in college. She only shares information about herself if it pertains to her job, like needing Wednesdays off so she can attend a night class. There’s a small university half an hour away from Walford, and I assume she’s enrolled there.

I’ve never asked because I’m not one to pry into anyone’s business, but people open up to me because I own a bar. Being a good listener comes with the territory. However, Ainsley keeps her secrets, personal life, and past locked up tight. The only person she interacts with, albeit reluctantly, is Brody. His name coming to mind piques my curiosity but also puts me in protective mode.

“Has Brody done something?”

Her brown eyes snap to mine. “Why would you think that?”

“He’s always showing up, watching you like a hawk,” I say, unable to hide the accusation in my tone. “If he’s making you uncomfortable, and I need to put a stop to it, say the word. He’ll be out of your life by tomorrow.”

Brody doesn’t pursue women for anything beyond a good time. For all I know, he has one night only tattooed on his dick as a message to all the ladies, which is why his constant presence in Ainsley’s orbit confuses me. Plus, he’s nine years older than her. My mind can’t wrap itself around the thought of him taking advantage of a twenty-year-old college girl, but there have been several recent moments when I’ve wondered if any of us know the real Brody.

Ainsley supports this theory when she narrows her eyes at me. “Brody’s not who you—”

“Am I supposed to sink this ship alone?” Javi says while pushing through the swinging door. “Get your asses out here. People want to drown in liquor now that Rock and Lucy’s duet ended. It was a nightmare.”

“All your negative energy is hindering my shadow work,” I tell him with a frown, feigning disappointment. “I’ll have to start from the beginning.”

He’s been preaching to me about the benefits of shadow work, which entails identifying all my worst traits and accepting them as part of my true identity. Yeah, I’ll pass. I’m more than familiar with my grey areas and prefer to keep them hidden.

Javi flips me off on his way out. Ainsley trails behind him, eager to end my line of questioning about Brody. When they’re gone, I revel in a moment of solitude, ignoring the loud music and louder conversation pressing against the door.

Remembering Maisy’s on the other side of said door, I shove it open and enter the fray. Tatum and her bodyguards are gone, leaving Maisy and Graham behind, and he’s trying to help her into her coat.

She’s drunk, swaying and laughing while he works her arm into a sleeve. Someone calls my name, but I’m already stalking toward my girl, annoyed that this good-looking rich dude gets to touch her and take her home and I don’t. As I reach their table, she rises on her toes and kisses him on the jaw. My teeth clench together, so it’s difficult to speak.

“Need some help?” I ask, wishing I didn’t have to address Graham. Wishing I could be the one helping Maisy. Hell, I would’ve never let her get this drunk. At this point, she’s sagging against his chest, half asleep.

“I’ll carry her if you can grab her bag and phone,” he says. I want to carry her.

“Sure.”

He scoops Maisy into his arms. I snatch her purse and phone off the table, then I follow him outside and down the sidewalk.

“Isn’t he pretty?” she slurs, smiling with glassy, hooded eyes as she talks to me. “He wants to fuck me. Most guys do.”

Graham chuckles, but I’m not laughing. Red paints everything in my field of vision because she’s looking right at me but talking about him and other guys.

“He’s such a good kisser. A smooching god. I bet he has a mega dick.”

The smile on her face is so big and beautiful, it’s painful to witness. Seeing happiness touch her face because she’s thinking of another man hurts more than I ever imagined it could.

She tries to whisper in Graham’s ear, but every slurred word reaches me. “Do you think he’ll show it to me?”

He sets Maisy on her feet, and I’ve stopped moving altogether, barely breathing at this point. Is she talking about me? My heart rate spikes. Alcohol acts as a truth serum, and Maisy’s had plenty tonight to loosen her tongue. She’s still smiling at me, and I wish to all things holy she wasn’t drunk right now. I wish I could reach for her and care for her, and she’d remember calling me pretty. And hell yes, I want to fuck her, but I want so much more from her than sex. I want everything.

“Come on, little Maisy. Let’s get you in the car,” Graham says.

She juts out her bottom lip and whines. “I don’t want to leave. I want to see J’s dick.”

Hearing the nickname she used to call me causes my racing heart to slam against my rib cage. The guys I grew up with called me Jenny when they were being assholes, but they never shortened my name to an initial. Only Maisy did. It’s been so long since she’s addressed me by that nickname, and it feels so fucking right.

Graham opens the door of a silver sedan parked at the end of the sidewalk. The car must be a rental they share, because I’ve seen both of them driving it. If Maisy had a car, I wouldn’t put it past myself to place a damn tracker on it. That thought tears my gaze from her gorgeous face to the phone in my hand. The locked phone.

If there’s anyone I know better than myself, it’s her. I tap the screen and enter my birthday as the passcode. The phone unlocks, and I’m internally pumping my fist, thrilled she didn’t forget about me like she pretends.

Staring at the apps, the inner voice that aims to please everyone and be perfect in every way says, “Don’t do it.” The voice slithering through my grey area, however, reminds me this could be my big break. In the past, I tried to do right by Maisy, but following the rules cost me everything. Cost me her. So I say…

Fuck the rules.

While Graham struggles to situate her in the passenger seat, and she ponders aloud about my dick, my thumb flies over the phone screen. My phone buzzes in my back pocket as I lock hers. Just in time too. Graham shuts the door and turns to me with a serious expression on his face, all his earlier friendliness gone.

“Do you two have a history?” he asks in a stern tone. A protective tone.

I hold out her belongings, my pulse racing when he checks the phone before dropping it into her purse.

“Not really,” I say.

He rubs a hand across his mouth and studies me for a few seconds too long. The mere power of his thinking face reduces me to an antsy, anxious mess, but I’m an expert at hiding my discomfort.

“You know, there’s no difference between acting and lying. It’s all playing pretend, and some people are better at it than others.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Don’t ever try your hand at acting.”

Graham rounds the car to the driver’s side. As he opens the door, I blurt, “Are you with her?” Fucking really, Jensen? Are we in middle school?

A wicked smirk slashes his face, sharp enough to flay me open, and my stomach tumbles to the curb. “Every night, friend. And believe me, you’re missing out.” He winks before climbing in the car and driving away with my girl passed out next to him.

Overheated, I pace on the sidewalk for several minutes while trying my hardest to get images of Graham and Maisy out of my mind. Once my body temperature regulates itself, and the frigid night air reminds me it’s the dead of winter and I’m in a T-shirt, I rush back inside.

For the first time since I bought Bruno’s, I have no desire to work. The next two hours pass at a slow crawl, and Javi side-eyes me whenever I snap at a customer. After everyone leaves and we lock the doors, I head to my office to proceed with my nightly ritual. Or I plan to, but Javi waltzes through the door and plants himself in a chair.

My office isn’t fancy. There’s a black desk and a bookcase with some awards on display. A second door, which leads upstairs, remains locked at all times. It’s off-limits to everyone but me.

Sighing, I drop into my rolling chair and wait him out. He links his fingers together on his stomach and twirls his thumbs in circles while staring at me. He’s in thinking mode, and for Javi, that can sometimes last for ages.

We make quite the pair as friends. I’m a home-gym rat who enjoys heavy metal, tattoos, and a black wardrobe. He’s a hippie who wears earth tones and claims his naturally tan skin should only be inked by rays from the sun gods.

After waiting too long, the life guru speaks. “She got in your head.”

The aching head he’s referring to falls back. I count the ceiling tiles and blow out a long breath. “She’s always in my head.”

“Something happened. You haven’t been this worked up since…”

Since she banished me.

“Yeah, I know. You don’t have to remind me.” I scrub a hand along my jaw, and my gaze drifts to the faded mandala on Javi’s favorite shirt. He’s had it for years. “She’s been in town a lot. Everything was easier when she wasn’t around.”

His thick eyebrows shoot up. “Was it?”

No.

I’m in a lose-lose situation. When Maisy’s out of reach, I feel empty. Helping people and keeping busy fills the void, which creates a host of issues because I spread myself too thin. Javi’s been trying to coach this behavior out of me, but I refuse to put in the work.

On the other hand, when Maisy’s within reach and shunning me, my mind narrows to a single point of focus. Her presence and my need to fix our relationship consume me, and everything else falls by the wayside.

“You’re on edge.” He leans forward and pins me with a cautioning stare. “Don’t go there again, man. You have a lot more to lose this time around.”

My business, he means. I was nineteen when Maisy banished me, and my mind went to a terrible place. A dark pit. The few people who noticed me spiraling thought I was taking Logan’s death hard. That may have been part of the reason, but the primary cause of my descent was Maisy cutting me off a week after the funeral.

Mentally, I crashed because I couldn’t get through to her, and I ended up getting fired from my low-level job at Bruno’s. My boss had enough of my tardiness, absences, and shitty attitude. Thankfully, no one else in town wanted the job, and he hired me back two months later after Javi rescued me from the pit.

“I’ve got it under control,” I say, assuring him.

The skeptical looks he gives me says he disagrees. Standing, he runs a palm across his buzzed head. “I’m here if you need me.”

Need.

I nod to appease him, but we both know I won’t speak up.

After he leaves, I flip to the oldest key on my keyring and unlock the door to the stairs. Most tenants in these old buildings use the second floor for storage or extra workspace, but I use mine to relax and get out of my head. The staff thinks the upstairs area has rotted floors and asbestos, worthy of being condemned by the zoning board. In truth, it’s my hideout.

Using the flashlight on my phone, I check the coverage of the blackout curtains, making sure no one outside can see the glow from my lamp. With the curtains in place, I settle into the papasan chair and eye the stack of journals on the ottoman. I used to spend most days journaling while hanging out up here, but I stopped writing down my thoughts and dreams on my thirtieth birthday. I’ll be thirty-two soon, and one thing hasn’t changed since my first or last journal entry.

I’m still waiting for a stubborn girl to forgive me for breaking her heart.

8

MAISY

My head protests the amount of alcohol I consumed last night. Lying on my back, I kick off the covers and stretch, allowing the cool air to wash over me. Goosebumps surface along my exposed skin, which is a lot considering I sleep in panties and a tank top.

Why did I drink so much? After all the years of tending to Tatum during her binges and cleaning up the trail of damage she left, I should know better than to get carried away.

“So stupid,” I whisper to myself.

“I agree.” The bed shakes when the man next to me with the smooth baritone chuckles.

My head lolls to the side, and I glare at Graham. He’s propped on an elbow—hair mussed and chiseled abs on display above turquoise boxers—like he’s in a freaking magazine spread.

“Good morning, my little starshine,” he coos.

“Did you sleep in here again?” Glancing at the window, I’m met with the grey haze of early morning. Too early. Either my alarm hasn’t gone off yet, or I forgot to set it.

“I did, but only because I thought you might puke.”

“Did you take off my makeup?” I ask, patting my face.

He cocks a haughty brow. “Do I look like an amateur?”

“Thank you.” I close my eyes to hide my vulnerability because I don’t like being seen without makeup. My closest friends may have seen the me underneath countless times, but I feel exposed and raw without foundation at least.

“You’re welcome. Now tell me why you drank so much and how long you’ve been in love with Jensen Holloway.”

My eyelids pop open. “Come again?”

“Don’t deny it. You took a twenty-minute nap in the car, then you prattled on about his sexy face and his mega dick for the rest of the ride home.”

“I’ve never seen his dick. It could be tiny for all I know.”

“You were the one grinding on it in a dark alley, so you’d know better than anyone.” Graham’s smug face begs to be punched.

Flinging an arm across my eyes, another groan escapes me. “Oh my god. I told you?”

“Yes. That and so much more. Drunk Maisy’s an open book, unlike my best friend, Moody Maisy, who tells me nothing.”

“Remind me to never drink again.”

“Done.” He scoots closer to me on the bed. “Spill the beans, toots. Tell me all about the man who wears the tightest jeans on the market.”

“You’re infuriating, and there’s nothing to tell. It’s history.”

“Your nipples have been threatening to stab me in the eyes since I spoke his name, so I’d say it’s recent history.”

“I’m cold, asshole,” I grumble, reaching for the covers and drawing them to my chin. Graham waits with an eager grin, so I curl onto my side and tuck my hands under my cheek. “Fine. If you must know, I had a crush on him growing up, but I grew out of it and moved on. The end and get the hell out.”

Lying down flat, he mirrors my position and softens his voice to a near whisper. “That was such a lovely story filled with lies and denial. Please continue.”

I bark a laugh, then wince at the hammering in my skull. Graham brushes the curls out of my face and strokes his knuckles along my cheek. The tender gesture forces my eyelids to shutter, and I’m grateful his teasing has come to an end. He knows where I draw the line between having my buttons pushed and being pushed too far. Any conversation veering toward my past is too far in my book.

“You can talk to me. Nothing leaves this room.” His earnest tone promises safety and silence.

As I contemplate opening up about Jensen for the first time, I hold Graham’s gaze and recall a strategy game I used to play with my Nana when I visited her. The game pieces were little glass stones stored in velvet pouches. His eyes remind me of the amber stones.

Now that I think of it, Tatum’s eyes are the same color as the blue stones. I picture Jensen’s eyes when I remember the rare, light green stones. My grandmother was a big believer in signs, fates, and foreshadowing, so maybe she was on to something. But maybe not. I believed in fate with regard to Jensen, and boy, was I wrong.

“I used to believe I was born just for him.” I whisper the confession, trailing my finger along Graham’s arm and pulling strength from him as I lay myself bare. “Like, why else would God give me to a crappy family in a crappy town? I had to have some reason for existing. And I truly thought I was made for him.” My sniffle clues me in to the fact I’m crying, so I attempt to laugh the pain away. “It was a stupid, romantic notion dreamed up by a stupid, silly girl.”

“Hey.” He laces our fingers together and squeezes my hand. “Please don’t call my best friend stupid. She’s not. She happens to be smart and funny and beautiful, inside and out. And more importantly, she’s in love.”

I scoff. “You can’t be in love with someone you don’t know anymore. I stopped talking to him thirteen years ago. We’re different people now than we were back then.”

“I think he would disagree. He asked if you and I are together, and he looked devastated when I said we are every night.”

My eyes go wide before I break into a laughing fit, making my headache worse. “Oh god,” I breathe. “I would’ve loved to see his face.”

Graham grimaces. “Nah. I felt pretty bad afterward. He was crushed. I’m all for weaponizing someone’s jealousy to give them a shove in the right direction, but this was different, Maisy. A lost man never knows which way to go. And judging by his face last night? That guy is a very lost man.”

His comments sober me up, chasing away the traces of amusement until all I hear are Jensen’s pleas.

“Haven’t you punished me long enough?”

“Spare five fucking minutes of your life for me.”

Unable to witness the sympathy for Jensen on Graham’s face, I roll to my back and rub my forehead to ease the tension building there. The question I should ask myself is whether Jensen is lost because of me or if he’s lost without me. For all I know, it’s neither. Something else could be going on in his life, and Graham is misreading the situation.

No matter the reason, I can’t risk finding out. Opening myself up to Jensen means opening the door to a world of heartbreak, and I won’t risk the fall again.

Done with this conversation, I change the subject. “How much time do I have to get ready?”

We returned to Austin after last night’s awful karaoke performances because we have to be on set early today. I wish I had followed Graham’s responsible lead and passed on the liquor.

“Not long.” He checks the time on his cell phone and rolls off the bed, landing on his feet. “Grab a breath mint and a bra. We leave in twenty.”

The skinny twenty-year-old in my makeup chair has a baby face and short brown hair parted neatly on one side. He’s likely never met a whisker, and I’m not surprised Graham cast him to play a young high school kid.

“You look like shit today. Ow—”

Harmon Mahon, an unfortunate name, presses a finger to the corner of his eye. I’m not at all sorry for stabbing him with the eyeliner pencil.

“Never tell a woman she looks like shit.”

“Sorry. I meant to say you look tired.” He throws up his hands when I glare at him. “What am I allowed to say?”

“Saying nothing works well for most men.”

He runs his palms along the plastic bib he’s wearing to protect his plaid shirt from makeup powder. “Are you this nice to all the actors?”

“Only my favorites,” I say, keeping my hand steady as I touch up the corner of his lower eyelid.

He smirks. “So I’m a favorite.” When my sarcastic comment registers, he loses the smirk and grumbles. “I’d hate to see you when you’re in a bad mood.”

“Yes, you would. Now be quiet and sit still so I can finish.” I swap the pencil for a tube of lipstick and a lip brush.

“I hate lipstick,” he says without moving his mouth, unable to form the consonants. “It makes my throat scratchy.”

All of my makeup is hypoallergenic, so the scratchy throat is his problem, not mine.

“You’re not supposed to eat it. Pucker up and let’s get this done.”

As I’m putting the final touches on Harmon’s makeup, my cell phone buzzes. I turn my back on him, dismissing him from the trailer, and unlock the screen.

TATE

I’m doing the show.

ME

What show?

TATE

At Bruno’s in two weeks.

Dammit. She’ll expect me to be there, and I won’t be able to make excuses if Graham decides he wants to go. Fingers crossed, he won’t.

GRAHAM

Yes! Comeback kid! I’ll be there!

<GIF of screaming fangirl>

Dammit. Again. And why is Graham texting from the set? He should be working right now.

ME

Sounds fun.

TATE

Uh oh. Maisy said the F-word.

She’s either lying or gravely ill.

GRAHAM

I heard there’s a mega virus going around.

TATE

Really? I haven’t heard anything about it.

ME

<neutral face emoji>

I’ll be at your show.

TATE

Yay! Stay healthy, guys.

<masked face emoji>

I drop the phone on the vanity table and bend at the waist to rest my pounding head on my forearms. The door to my trailer pops open.

“Harmon, you’re up!” Graham’s assistant shouts before the door swings shut with a bang. The sound echoes in my throbbing brain.

Rolling my head to one side, I peek at the makeup chair to find Harmon staring at me. “You’re still here,” I say.

“Yep.” His knees sway lazily back and forth, as if he doesn’t have somewhere to be.

“Get out.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says before rushing out the door.

I let out a long sigh, miserable from the hangover and wondering what deity cursed me with countless reasons to drag my butt back to Walford.

9

JENSEN

“A little higher on the left,” Tom says.

I raise the corner of the new sign for his awning a fraction of an inch. My biceps burn from holding the plastic monstrosity in the air while balancing on a ladder. We’ve been at this for a while, and my body’s stiff because it’s the end of February and too cold to be outdoors.

“That’s too far. Down a little,” he instructs.

Wrangling my frustration, I lower the corner to the starting height from half an hour ago. I’ve held the sign in this exact spot at least twenty times.

“Perfect!” he shouts, as if I didn’t already know. “Now everyone will stop calling my bakery a donut shop.”

“You’re the one who left the donut on the building for twenty years after you bought the place,” Lydia says from below me while holding the ladder.

I stand on my tiptoes to screw the sign into place. Thankfully, I’m steady and light on my feet for a guy my size, a trait developed from years of running drills on the football field.

Tom makes a harrumph sound. “It’s a bakery, and now everyone will remember.”

“You still sell donuts,” Eddie points out. Tendrils of cigarette smoke snake through his nostrils. The skinny military veteran co-owns the Noon Moon Café with his wife, Sonja, and he takes countless smoke breaks each day.

“And pastries, cakes, and muffins,” Tom reminds us.

I climb down the ladder and stand beside the group on the curb. Any activity on Main Street, no matter how exciting or mundane, becomes a spectator sport, drawing all the business owners out of their stores.

We cross our arms and stare at the sign. No one says a word because we’re not brave enough to suffer Tom’s ire should we crack jokes about the giant pink muffin displayed above his shop. What’s worse, he was going for a tan shade so it appears baked, but the paint came out looking more like peachy flesh.

“Looks good,” Menchy says. He tilts his head to one side and rubs his stubbled chin. “Adds character to the street.”

Lydia turns away to smother her giggles with a glove. The muffin sign has to be the tackiest thing any of us have ever seen.

“I need to get back to my kitchen.” Eddie crushes his cigarette butt on the edge of a trash bin and tosses it inside. He waves over his shoulder as he strolls away.

“Same here. My muffin’s getting cold,” Lydia says, snickering.

I chuckle and shake my head. “You’re terrible.”

She leans in, keeping her voice low so only I can hear. “That sign’s terrible. Who approved it?”

“No telling. I thought we had a zoning board to vote on signage.”

“My money’s on the drunk idiot. That’s why we need you, Jensen. Save us all and put your name on the ballot.”

Need.

My pulse races, battling against the pressure to answer the town’s plea for help. “I still have time to decide.”

“Don’t take too long. We’re counting on you,” she says. “Oh, that reminds me. Have you signed up as a vendor for the May festival?”

“I haven’t yet, but I will.”

At every festival, I set up a beer cart on the street and prop the bar doors open, allowing people to wander in and out while we host trivia contests, karaoke, and other entertainment.

“Can you manage the raffle box this year?” she asks. “We’ll set up a table next to your cart, and you can put your sign-up sheet for karaoke on the table too.”

“Sure, I can do that.”

She gives my arm a friendly squeeze. “Fantastic. See you later, honey.”

“See ya.” I join Menchy, who’s gathering the tools he let us borrow. “I’ll help you carry everything back to your store.”

He grunts. “Much appreciated.”

“Yoo-hoo!” a shrill voice sings.

“Christ,” Menchy whispers, busying himself with the tools, his movements hurried.

Evelyn Truman saunters our way with her ancient miniature poodle tucked under an arm. The dog’s shaking like a leaf. “Hello, Menchy,” she purrs.

Ms. Truman, once widowed and twice divorced, flirts with every eligible bachelor in town, cycling through them with the seasons. She targeted me last summer, and I barely escaped with my life. Her overpowering perfume almost suffocated me whenever she shoved her cleavage in my face. Her target for the winter is Menchy, much to his dismay.

“Evelyn.” He dismisses her with a curt nod and says to me, “Grab that end of the ladder.”

We set about our task, leaving Evelyn and Tom behind to admire his muffin. Once Menchy and I put everything away in his hardware store, I step outside. The business owners have all retreated to their shops, and Evelyn’s gone.

Jake and Tatum stroll down the sidewalk with their arms linked and their heads close together. Aside from his lean build and darker shade of green eyes, Jake’s a replica of me with shorter hair and no beard, though his jaw usually has stubble because he can’t be bothered to shave every day.

They were high school sweethearts, but their relationship ended ten years ago after she moved to California and ghosted him. While I’m happy they’re working things out, I’m also worried. Jake moves fast and has no brakes where Tatum’s concerned, and she wrecked him once already. Unbeknownst to him, I know the reason she ended things without warning. My involvement in their breakup is an unfinished piece of business and a betrayal that haunts me to this day. When—not if—Jake finds out, I could lose my brother’s love and respect.

“Where are you two headed?” I ask, trying to appear nonchalant.

This is the first time I’ve faced them together since Tatum returned to Walford, and her anxiousness is feeding mine. She toys with the long braid draped over her should, a subconscious habit revealing her discomfort.

“Coffee shop,” Jake says.

The way he reverently mentions coffee in his raspy voice brings a smile to my face. He’s been a coffee drinker since he was thirteen, an addiction he shared with our dad. Knowing Jake, he’s already downed a thermos and two mugs of it today. I have no idea how he stands still after consuming large quantities of caffeine.

“How are things going with you?” I ask Tatum.

“Good. I’m finally settling in here.” She forces a smile, which Jake notices, drawing her to his side with an arm around her shoulders.

Tatum’s going through a rough time with her music career hanging in the balance. It must be stressful being a famous pop star who’s hiding in a small town after a public meltdown. On top of that, she’s keeping a devastating secret from Jake. That’s a lot for one person to handle.

Because I have my own secrets and can’t help myself, I ask, “And Maisy? Is she coming to see you soon?”

Sorrow washes over Tatum’s face, and I curse myself for causing her mood shift. “I hope so. She said she’s coming to my show next weekend, but we’ll see. I miss her.”

As do I, Tate. As do I.

Sensing her distress over being separated from her friend, Jake says, “Come on, baby. Let’s get you some tea.” Guiding her away, he tips his chin at me. “See ya later.”

“See ya.”

I linger with my hands buried in my pockets, watching them enter The Drip, their favorite hangout from back in their school days. Maisy and I never had a special place. We didn’t run around together or socialize in the same groups, but we weren’t purposely hiding our friendship. If anything, neither of us made our connection public because we, ourselves, didn’t understand its meaning.

Our strong bond thrived in the background, but Maisy deserves better than secrets and shadows. The problem is she never believed she was worthy of better. I want to prove her wrong. If she’ll open herself up to me again—heart and soul—I’ll show her what unbound love looks like. I’m willing to beg for the opportunity to prove I’m still the person she had faith in once upon a time. All I need is one chance to right my wrongs. Then our wandering souls can rest.

“You good, bro?” Brody startles me out of my daze, stopping inches away from me.

I rub my beard. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“Well, you might want to get out of the street.” He points at my unlaced boots.

I’m standing in the street about three feet from the curb. When I step onto the sidewalk and head toward Bruno’s, he walks alongside me, matching my stride.

“What were you thinking about?” he asks.

“My to-do list,” I lie, my gaze locked on my destination.

His head bobs in my periphery. “I bet you have a long list.”

“Yep.” I side-eye him then check my watch. “You and Rock meeting up?”

Once football season ends, Brody and Rock meet at the bar after school. Their dates often coincide with the nights Lucy works a shift at the hospital in a town about thirty minutes away from Walford.

“Yes, sir. Fries with my guys.”

“It’s one guy. And don’t call me ‘sir.’” Stealing another peek at him, I notice he cut his shaggy hair, styling it neatly to one side.

“Cool.” He’s quiet for all of three seconds before he asks, “Want to talk about her?”

My steps falter before coming to a full stop. “Excuse me?”

“Obviously, you’re thinking about a woman. You’ve got that look.”

I cross my arms. “What look?”

He slips his hands in the front pockets of his khaki pants and shrugs. “The lost-puppy look.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re describing yourself.”

“And I’m almost one hundred percent sure I saw you sneaking out of that alley”—he points to the alley in question—“with a curly-headed bombshell who has fuckable knockers.”

I fist his shirt and yank him nose-to-nose with me as a growl leaves my chest. “Don’t disrespect her, Brody. You might get away with being a pig toward other women, but you don’t talk about her. Ever.”

His big grin tells me I played right into his childish hands. “I knew it.”

“Hey!” The deep, booming voice comes from nearby. We turn our heads to find Rock barreling toward us so fast his ass must be on fire. He gestures between me and Brody with a stiff finger. “What is this?”

“Nothing.” I release Brody with a shove. “This idiot has a death wish.”

A deranged grin spreads across Rock’s freckled face. “My money’s on Brody.”

I jerk my head back in disbelief and retrieve my buzzing phone from my back pocket.

LUCY

My dad can see Vera for a consult next month. Have her call and confirm the appointment. I’ll drive her there if you can’t.

When the phone number to the doctor’s office pops up, Brody peers over my shoulder and asks loudly, “Why is Lucy texting you?”

Two things happen at once thanks to that shit-stirring asshole. Rock lunges for my phone with murder in his eyes, and I duck while throwing an elbow into Brody’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. While he catches his breath, Rock and I are engaged in a schoolyard tussle on the sidewalk.

“Boys!” Menchy barks from across the street.

We freeze. I’m palming Rock’s face while his knee hangs in midair, his cheap shot to my nuts disrupted. Meanwhile, Brody’s standing to the side, casually scrolling through my text messages. When did he get my phone?

“Give me that.” I snatch the phone out of his hand and give him another shove.

Jake needs to find new friends who act their goddamn age. These two are always causing trouble. They’ll still be putting each other in headlocks for no reason when they’re eighty years old. Idiots.

A scowling Menchy marches our way while tightening his apron strings. “What the hell are you boys doing? Families are walking around here. Kids.” He waves an arm toward the one kid standing a block away, not paying us any attention.

We mumble our apologies, though Rock doesn’t seem the least bit apologetic. His clenched jaw and fiery eyes indicate he isn’t finished with me.

“Do better. Act like men, not barbarians.” Menchy’s searing gaze peruses each of us from head to toe.

“Yes, sir,” we say in unison.

Satisfied with our response, he stomps back to his hardware store where he keeps a watchful eye on Walford.

I’ve done nothing to earn a reprimand since I was a little kid. A sour knot forms in my gut from the disapproving and, worse, disappointed look on Menchy’s face. My anxiety level spikes, and my hand twitches with the need to tug at my hair and self-soothe. I rake my fingers through the strands in consolation, hiding my vulnerability from Rock and Brody.

People believe I’m unflappable. In truth, my insides flap like a motherfucker when I’m overcome with strong feelings. But I’ve learned to control my impulsive reactions to them to avoid curious stares or probing questions. Somehow, Brody found the one button that, when pushed, forces me to shed my cool demeanor. Maisy.

I rest my twitchy hands on my hips and inhale slow breaths, my gaze fixed on my boots. “Lucy’s helping with Logan’s mom,” I say with a practiced calm. Steady should be my middle name since I don’t have one. I’ve been mastering steadiness since I was a boy.

Sadly, the use of Logan’s name instead of Maisy’s garners more respect in this situation. When dealing with someone as volatile as Rock, who was a college football star himself, I have to be strategic in my efforts to lower the tension.

I lift my head and meet his stare in challenge. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Fine,” he says, cracking his knuckles.

Rolling my eyes, I walk away, but the buffoons trail behind me because we’re all headed for the same place.

Rock’s belief that I need permission to talk to Lucy, or vice versa, is preposterous. He’s a caveman by every definition of the word, but I won’t tolerate his jealousy and temper tantrums if they’re directed at me. Lucy’s my friend, and I won’t cower to her brutish husband.

Once we’re inside Bruno’s, they place their orders, and we go our separate ways. While I prep their drinks behind the bar, they chat away like nothing happened outside. But something did happen. Brody called me out about Maisy. I wonder how much he saw that day, what he suspects is happening between us, and when he’ll open his big mouth to others.

I’ve never made my thoughts or feelings about Maisy obvious or acted openly flirtatious or affectionate with her. The fact that Brody—who meets my unflinching gaze—suspects something bothers me. Mostly because his suspicions, should he share them with anyone else, could become rumors. And rumors will push her even farther away from me.

I need to be more careful. Apparently, people in Walford are paying close attention.

Speaking of attention…I pull out my phone and check the tracking app. It’s a habit now, a source of comfort. When the blinking dot shows Maisy on the film set or at the house she’s renting, I’m relieved she hasn’t flown too far away. Still, she’s not close enough.

10

MAISY

After dropping off Graham at Pam’s house, where we plan to have dinner before Tatum’s show, I check on my mother. It’s been over a month since I last saw Vera, and I don’t know if her health is improving. I’m not even aware if she’s seen a doctor yet. Whenever I ask, she gives clipped responses and steers the conversation away from medical-related topics.

Walking into her kitchen, I’m met with a shocking scene. She’s huddled in a corner against the cabinets, crying.

“Hey,” I say. Approaching with caution, like she’s a wounded animal, I step around the counter into the U-shaped kitchen. “Why are you on the floor?”

She thumbs the tears from her cheeks. “I tripped. Just give me a minute.”

I scan the area around her and squat down to pick up the pieces of a broken plate. One piece has a spot of blood on it. “I’ll get the first aid kit,” I say, laying the shards on the counter.

Neither of us speaks while I patch the cut on her hand. It’s been years since my mother has touched me or I’ve touched her. Her skin’s cold, and I’m concerned the arctic temperatures inside the house exacerbate her condition—whatever it may be.

Vera remains in the same spot after I put everything away and sweep up the dish fragments. “You can go now.”

“Do you need help getting up? Can you walk?” I lean the broom against the refrigerator to deal with later.

“I’m fine,” she insists without looking at me.

Her stubbornness masks her wounded pride, so I pray to the universe for patience and offer my help again. “Don’t you need to get ready for work? Maybe you should call in sick tonight. Where’s your phone?”

I search the countertops and table for her phone, but it’s not there. Vera picks at her fresh bandage, refusing to cooperate or meet my gaze.

An exasperated sigh escapes me. “I don’t have time for this, Vera. Tell me what you need me to do, then I’ll do it and go.”

The promise of my departure puts her at ease, which is just sad. For some reason, she’s upset with me seeing her like this. It’s obvious she needs help, but she won’t accept it from me.

Her head falls against the cabinet. “Call Jensen or Lucy.”

“Lucy?” I ask, the confusion evident in my tone.

“She’s a nurse.”

“Yeah, I know who she is. I didn’t realize you did.”

Angry eyes meet mine head-on, the impact as blunt and powerful as her next words. “You’re never around long enough to learn anything about me.”

My jaw hits the floor, and my temper hits the ceiling. What is she implying here? Is she honestly saying I’m to blame for our lack of a relationship? After years of her ignoring me, she has the audacity to accuse me of being negligent. The nerve. For the first time in my life, I lose my shit and yell at my mother.

“Are you serious right now? I’m never around? You ignored me my entire childhood. All you cared about was your precious son and his football career. You’ve never shown a lick of interest in me, and you wonder why I never stick around? God, you really are—”

Strong arms surround me and lift me off the ground. I kick against the barrier at my back, already knowing who it is.

“Put me down!” I shout.

Jensen hauls me toward the front door. “You’re yelling at a scared woman who’s lying helpless on the floor. Think about what you’re doing.” His calm voice caresses my ear, only pissing me off further.

“Fuck you, Jensen. Put me down!” I struggle against him, attempting to jab him with an elbow, but he holds firm.

“Shh. You’re okay, birdie,” he soothes. “I’ve got you.”

“What are you—? Don’t you fucking shush me, asshole!” I buck wildly, growling in frustration because he has the upper hand physically. “Let me go!”

He sits on the refurbished bench—the one where we ended—with me in his lap. “Let it out.”

“What?”

It’s then I realize I’m crying. God, I’ve cried more in the last three months than I have in my entire life. What is wrong with me?

“You’re okay,” he says, rocking back and forth like I’m a baby in his arms.

“Who cares if she’s scared? What about me? She never cared about my feelings.”

“I know, but you’re not her, Maisy.” He brushes the curls from my face. “Don’t let her drag you down to her level.”

I stare at his tattooed forearm pressing down on my thighs, keeping me in place. “What did I ever do to her? Other than being born, which I never asked for.”

“Listen to me.” He pinches my chin, bringing us eye to eye, and I shrink under the intensity of his gaze—bright enough to overpower the breadth of the sunny March sky. “You’re a gift she doesn’t deserve.”

Pushing against his chest with my shoulder, I say, “Stop. Don’t say things like that.” I can’t bear it.

“It’s true,” he insists.

I rub the space between my eyes, clearing Vera’s bitterness and Jensen’s nonsense from my head. “What are you even doing here?”

“I check on her sometimes. Thought I’d stop by before Tate’s show tonight. It’s a good thing I did.”

“You have better things to do. Like getting ready for the show. It’s gonna be huge.”

He touches his forehead to my temple, and his breath dances across my cheek. “I’m right where I need to be.”

“Jensen.” My sigh sounds more like a whimper.

“I mean it, Maisy. Nothing on this earth is more important than you.”

“Let go of me. Please,” I beg.

Exhausted, I give him a weak shove to escape his physical hold, though we both know I’m speaking of his emotional one. As expected, he doesn’t budge.

“Five minutes,” he whispers in my ear. “Just five.”

I’m irritated that he showed up here, shut down my tantrum, and now has the audacity to demand his five fucking minutes. I pull back so I can look him straight in the eye while delivering a cutting truth.

“Five minutes may not seem like much to you, but believe me, it’s a long time. And it goes by painfully slow when your heart’s being broken. I would know. We sat in this exact spot when you did it the first time.”

His eyelids collapse shut under the weight of his regret. “Birdie.”

The way he groans my name sounds dangerous and tempting, made worse because he’s squeezing my inner thigh and smells like a sinful mistake. I need out of this situation. Now.

“I want to make everything right between us,” he says.

“There is no us, Jensen. There never was.” My unyielding tone forces him to loosen his grip, allowing me to break free. I rise to my feet and retreat several paces to safety. “I need to go. Tate’s waiting for me.”

“I’m waiting for you, Maisy,” he calls as I slip into the car. The engine drowns out anything else he says before I slam the door and speed away.

“Oh my gosh! Were you crying?” Tatum asks when I lumber into her bedroom at Pam’s house.

Bypassing her outstretched arms, I fall face down on her bed and let out a long groan. “Apparently, I’m a crier now,” I mumble into a pillow. Shades of blue decorate her small room, a choice I’ve never understood since her favorite color is purple.

A heavy weight drapes across my back, squishing me into the mattress. The weight smells an awful lot like bergamot and a pain in my ass.

“Get off me,” I grumble to Graham.

“I’m comforting you,” he says. “Like a sexy weighted blanket.”

“You’re suffocating me.”

“Maisy.” Tatum’s voice drips with concern. She joins us on the bed and snuggles next to me. “Was it your mom?”

I turn my head and meet her blue gaze. “Isn’t it always?”

Graham whispers in my ear, “You smell like a man. It’s a distinct smell. Like a unique blend of muscles and mega—”

“Get off!” I yell, pushing up with my butt as hard as I can.

He laughs and rolls to the side, sandwiching me between him and Tatum.

“What? What did I miss?” She darts her eyes between us, eager to be in the know.

I flip over and pin my glare on Graham, who winks and smiles devilishly. “Nothing. Graham’s being a crunt.”

“Can we not make that a word?” she asks, crinkling her nose.

Moving on to a different topic, I eye her tank top and panties. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

We have a couple of hours until her show, but I’ll do anything to keep the attention off me. The last thing I want right now is to delve into what went down at Vera’s house.

“Why were you crying?” she counters. Dammit.

I sit up and shrug, pretending the encounter with Vera doesn’t bother me too much. “Vera pissed me off. Turns out, I’m an angry crier. Who would’ve thought?”

Tatum narrows her gaze at me, not buying the lie or my blasé attitude. But she knows me well enough to sense when I won’t budge if she pressures me to talk about certain subjects.

She sighs in resignation. “Help me find something to wear.”

Graham and I squeeze into the tiny closet with her. Every sweater she owns hangs from the rods, testing their weight-bearing capacity. It’s a mess of colors, patterns, and materials even I can’t wrap my mind around, and I’m someone who loves bright and bold aesthetics.

While examining the disaster, Graham bobs his head like he’s preparing himself for the challenge of picking out a shirt. “Margarita time?” he asks me.

“Yep.”

The sound of her whining follows us to the kitchen where Pam’s cooking. Graham gets to work mixing strawberry margaritas, and I dive into the appetizers.

“Want to fill me in?” he asks in a soft voice so Pam won’t overhear. She’s busy swapping out the cookie sheets in the oven.

“Nope.” I reach over and push the button on the blender to stop him from asking more questions.

We stare at each other until he puts an end to the whirring noise and says, “Just so you know, friends often ask friends for advice. That’s how friendship works.”

He pours the drink mixture into a huge plastic cup, filling it to the brim. We’re staying the night at Pam’s after the show, assuming Tatum will sleep at Jake’s and her bed will be free, so neither of us has to drive. Although, we do have to leave early in the morning, so I’ll keep my partying at a minimum.

“Friends also know when to back off.” Stealing his drink, I toss a cheese-filled jalapeño in my mouth and sit at the kitchen table, ready to put the entire day behind me and enjoy Tatum’s first hometown show in over a decade.

Graham joins me at the table, setting down his smaller cup with a straw poking out of it. He leans over and taps a finger on the end of my nose.

“You don’t have to do life alone,” he whispers. Then he licks my cheek and, laughing, scoots his chair away before I can smack him in retaliation. Lovable jerk.

He’s right. I know he is. But I won’t be the annoying, needy friend who makes everything about herself. If I hang my burdens around other people’s necks, they’ll grow tired of me, and I’ll end up alone anyway. Yes, my outlook on relationships derives from childhood insecurities, but facts are facts: unconditional love is a lie. So I move about in the background and make myself useful to keep my place in our group. I can handle my problems just fine on my own.

“Tequila shots?” I ask, hoping he’ll join me in forgetting the day.

He gives me a pointed look and a reminder of our conversation after karaoke night. “You made me promise to keep you dry.”

I smirk and raise my cup in the air. “Make no mistake, my friend. Around you, I’m dry as a desert.”

Grinning, he bumps his cup against mine. And just like that, my troubles with Vera and Jensen disappear.

11

JENSEN

“Earth to Jensen.” Javi reaches across the bar and snaps his fingers in my face. Leaning on my elbows, phone in hand, I slide my gaze from the screen to his amused expression. “You spend a lot of time on your phone. Anything exciting you’d like to share with the class?”

“I’m the class,” Trevor states dryly, raising one hand while typing on his laptop with the other.

“Doing some research,” I lie.

Javi chuckles and shakes his head. “You and your research lists.”

“Information is power.” I slip my phone into my back pocket and pick up the dirty glasses I had intended to grab before my phone distracted me.

“Are you blackmailing people now? Bar life isn’t good enough anymore, so you’re doubling as a secret agent?” Trevor asks.

“Something like that,” I mutter before firing a question back at him. “Why are you here?”

“Gina took the kids to church with her parents. Thought I’d get some work done.”

“On a Sunday? You could be working at home, enjoying the peace and quiet,” I say.

“I’d much rather hang with my boys.”

Javi points to the laptop on the bar. “But you’re working.”

“But I’m here,” Trevor responds, as if his reasoning makes perfect sense.

I roll my eyes and resume the group activity everyone, except Trevor, showed up to do: party cleanup. Tatum’s show was a success. A stressful, lucrative event I’ll never host again. My staff was so exhausted by the end of the night, I sent them home and told them we could deal with the mess this morning.

Javi follows as I push through the kitchen door with the glasses in hand. “My abuela’s birthday party is next month.”

“It’s on my calendar,” I say.

“Don’t forget. She’ll be disappointed if you’re a no-show.”

Bristling from the unspoken accusation, I dump the glasses in the industrial sink and face him, hands on hips. “Since when do I forget things?”

“You tell me,” he says. Meeting my challenging stance, he plants his feet wide and folds his arms across the suede vest he’s wearing. It has fringe, for fuck’s sake.

Annoyed that he’s bringing up my mistake from the last karaoke night we held, I turn my back on him and yank open the dishwasher. “It was one keg. And that was a month ago. Get over it.”

“And the wings we ran out of last night? Who forgot to put in the order for extra?”

Me.

Sighing, I cram the last glass into the top rack and slam the door shut, close to losing my temper. Not because Javi’s poking at my weak defenses, but because I’m weak, consumed with the blinking dot on my phone. Every day, a thousand times a day, I pray the dot moves toward Walford. And when it’s here, like yesterday, I pray it never leaves. But the dot relocated this morning and now blinks proudly in Austin.

Because I was busy working last night, I didn’t talk to Maisy, so I’m in a shitty mood today already. The last thing I need is more of Javi’s prodding.

Facing him, I add a hard edge to my tone. “I have a lot going on, especially with trying to help Vera. Who else is gonna do it? You? Trevor?” I ask, waving an arm toward to the door where Trevor sits on the other side.

“She’s not your responsibility, man.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t see anyone else stepping up. She has no one.”

“She has Maisy,” he argues, which only adds fuel to my fire.

Rather than yell at my friend, I control my raging emotions and grit my teeth. “None of us have Maisy.”

He clamps both hands on my shoulders, his eyes sweeping over my face like he’s searching for cracks. The cracks are there if you know where to look for them, and Javi usually knows. Thankfully, he nods as if confirming I’m still whole and drops his hands.

“You own a business,” he says, reminding me of my priorities. “Your attention is needed here.”

Need.

“I’m aware.”

“Good. Keep your head on straight and put Maisy out of your mind. She’s not coming back, man. There’s no sense in getting your hopes up every time she blows through town. Even if she decides to help with Vera, she’ll never stay. She’ll show up, do the bare minimum, and flee again.”

Leave it to Javi to sour my mood further with hard facts. Refusing to hear more, I push past him and exit the kitchen. I stride toward the stage where Danny Foster packs up the video equipment from last night’s show. He and his friends from the school’s AV club ran a live feed to neighboring businesses because my bar couldn’t accommodate the huge turnout. Curiously, Danny’s friends are nowhere in sight.

“Where are your buddies?”

My voice startles him. He jolts upright and sweeps the blond bangs off his forehead. “Um. They slept in.”

“They left you to do this alone?” I glance from him to the pile of cords and equipment. “How long will this take?”

He gives me a helpless shrug. “Maybe an hour? It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, kid. Hold people accountable.”

“Yes, sir,” he mumbles, cheeks flaming red as he resumes his work.

Whether he’s affected by my short lecture or the embarrassment of being ditched by his so-called friends, I’m not sure. I heave a sigh, resigned to be stuck here all day. My to-do list is a mile long without adding everyone else’s jobs on top of it.

“Tell me how I can help you get this done faster.”

Relief floods his brown eyes when they meet mine. “Thanks.”

An hour later, Danny and I are still working when my phone rings. Pam Wakefield’s name flashes on my caller ID, and my gut delivers an ominous feeling. She has few reasons to call me, and none of them are good. I’m smart enough to put two and two together and conclude this phone call is about Tatum or Jake, likely both of them. And my bad day’s about to get a whole lot worse.

I’m sitting on the weight bench in my garage, wishing I could work out. Lifting weights or running on the treadmill helps me deal with stress, and I’m stressed out at maximum levels right now. Usually, I throw on a metal playlist and grind until my muscles tremble. Today, I’m sulking in the quiet because I can’t move my arms, much less lift them with added weight.

After Pam’s phone call yesterday, Jake kicked my ass. My little brother beat the shit out of me, and I lay there and took it because I deserved his wrath after betraying him. I’ve kept Tatum’s secret—the reason she disappeared from his life—for ten years. My silence cost him dearly, and he may never forgive me. I won’t blame him if he doesn’t.

Lucy patched me up, assuring me I don’t have any broken ribs, but my body screams when I move. And I can only see out of my right eye because the left one is swollen shut. For a man who’s never been in a fight, Jake unleashed his rage on me. Again, I deserved every punch and more.

Afternoon sunlight streams through the small windows in the garage door, providing the only source of light in the dim space. With slow, careful movements, I peel off the dressing covering the butterfly stitch on my eyebrow and toss it on the floor to deal with later. Lucy told me to replace the dressing each day for the first two days, so I’m following her instructions and being the perfect patient. However, I’m flying blind, attempting to nurse myself with one functioning eye and no mirror.

Javi’s managing the bar…again. After I limped out of Jake’s house yesterday, I called him, claiming I had a family emergency and needed him to cover for me. He pressed me for information, but I refuse to share Jake and Tatum’s story with anyone, even him. I didn’t tell him about my injuries either. If he saw me right now, he’d turn into a mother hen and try to sleep over or coach me through this ordeal. I don’t need or want his silver linings. For a day or two, I need to be left alone to wallow in my guilt.

When was the last time I had a vacation? Never.

As I’m poking around my face to determine where to place the fresh dressing, the doorbell rings. If it’s Javi, I’ll be pissed. I could wait the person out and pretend not to be home, but my Jeep’s in the driveway.

It takes a full minute to rise from the weight bench and limp to a window. A familiar silver car sits behind my Jeep. Any other day, Maisy showing up on my doorstep would excite me. She hasn’t been to my parents’ house since she was fifteen. But I prefer not to let her see me like this, and I damn sure don’t want her coming to me out of pity.

On my way to the front door, I remember I’m only wearing athletic shorts, barefoot and shirtless. I snag the T-shirt off the recliner and hold my breath through the agony of getting dressed. Slipping the shirt over my neck and left arm is a difficult feat, considering most of the damage occurred on my left side. I give up on trying to stick my right arm through the sleeve. With how long I’m taking to answer the door, Maisy might run away before I open it. Knowing her, she’ll get impatient, or regret coming here altogether, and bail.

To my relief, I spot her through the narrow window. I inhale as deeply as I can before opening the door. And what do I find? Her back, of course. Today, that back is cloaked in a cutoff sweatshirt above a pair of high-waisted leggings showcasing her perfect ass. I summon all my inner strength to suppress the moan building in my chest. The torture of having her close and not being free to touch her surpasses the physical agony coursing through my battered body.

She spins around and jerks back with a sharp gasp. “Holy shit! What happened?”

When she traces the bruises on my exposed ribs with gentle fingers, I’m forced to call upon every ounce of willpower I possess to keep from whimpering. Not only from the pain the mere ghosting of her fingertips causes, but because she’s touching me. Intentionally.

“Jake,” I say through clenched teeth, extreme longing, and the worst torment I’ve ever experienced.

She hasn’t directed the worried expression on her face at me in ages. And she doesn’t show sympathy often, reserving it for people she cares about. I’m overcome with relief that I’m still considered worthy of her compassion.

People think Maisy is cold-hearted and apathetic, but they don’t know her like I do. In truth, she’s an empath locked in a steel casing her parents forged. I witnessed the construction of that impenetrable casing over many years. In the end, my Maisy’s sweet disposition became buried under a sharp tongue and an allergy to vulnerability.

As she showers me with a moment of care, I close my eyes and revel in the feeling of my Maisy touching me. Her apathetic mask has slipped, and I’m grateful she doesn’t realize it.

“You didn’t deserve this,” she chokes out as those soft, shaky fingers hover near my eye and lip, like she’s willing my injuries to heal from her proximity alone.

Her despair hits me straight in the chest. What does it say about us that my physical pain causes her heart pain, which brings me heart pain because she’s hurting for me? It’s a vicious cycle we’ve been stuck inside forever because we’re so attuned to one another’s feelings.

Disregarding her comment about what I do or don’t deserve, I gingerly move aside as a gesture of invitation. For the first time in thirteen years, Maisy’s size five-and-a-half shoes step into my parents’ house, and her presence ushers light into the dark space.

12

MAISY

Jensen’s house reminds me of a time capsule. Stepping into the entryway is like stepping into the past. Outdated wall paneling darkens the living room. Bookcases display family photos, trinkets, and his mother’s collection of trade paperbacks from her favorite authors. Christine Holloway was an avid reader and enjoyed many genres of fiction. She was also one of my favorite people to grace this planet, always ready with an encouraging word or a warm hug. The only noticeable differences in the house are the hardwood floors in place of the carpet and a few pieces of newer furniture. Otherwise, little has changed.

I glance at Jensen, who moves slowly while shutting the door behind me. When Tatum sent me a text message saying the shit hit the fan between her and Jake, I didn’t realize Jensen was “the fan.” The swelling, cuts, and bruises on his face look downright painful. And his ribs? God, it’s hard to believe he’s standing upright, much less walking around.

“Why don’t you go sit down and let me take care of you?” I ask, battling the urge to reach for him. He’s too big for me to carry, but I’m damn close to trying.

“If I sit down, I can’t get back up.” He attempts to cross his arms to portray aloofness—he can’t. Wincing, he lowers them back to his sides.

His T-shirt cuts across his chest, only covering his left pectoral muscle and shoulder, like he couldn’t work his right arm into the shirt. Black ink spreads across much of his torso in various patterns and images. Only black. Not a single drop of color aside from the damage Jake inflicted.

Even with the blooming discoloration, Jensen’s matured body surpasses all standards of beauty, with a drool-worthy Adonis belt and lickable abs. I bite my lip and turn away before I’m tempted to run my tongue along the grooves between each one, causing him more pain.

Toeing off my shoes, I ask, “What can I do?”

“Why are you here, Maisy?” Defeat rings through his question.

“Tate told me what happened, and I thought you might need a friend. Neither of us were aware of this,” I say, waving a hand at his injuries.

“A friend.” His tone is dismissive, but his eyes burn with longing—chartreuse rings of hope crying out for me.

“We used to be friends,” I say. “Let me be one, just for today, and cook you a meal. Have you eaten?”

He responds with a subtle shake of his bowed head.

I nod toward the kitchen, keeping my voice light. “Come on. We’ll put some food in you.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be right back.”

With my heart lodged in my throat, I watch him shuffle down the hallway, his steps rigid and body stiff. Then I drag in a fortifying breath and scrounge through the sparse kitchen cabinets and refrigerator, finding the ingredients for spaghetti and not much else.

He returns with his shirt fitting properly and a bandage on his eyebrow. Each groan he’s unable to stifle when he sits at the island punches me in the gut. I want to take away his pain and heal his wounds—the ones inside and outside—but I don’t have magical powers. Hopefully, a home-cooked meal will be enough to lift his spirits.

Observing me as I move about his kitchen, he says, “I didn’t know you can cook.”

I chew my lip, unsure which direction to take this conversation. My instinct to strike low and harsh battles my instinct to be open with him like old times. I go with the first option, but deliver my strike with a gentle blow.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I say, glancing at him while stirring the sauce.

He absorbs my statement for long seconds before asking, “Who taught you?”

“I taught myself. Someone had to feed me when Vera quit her parenting job.”

“I would’ve fed you,” he says, his voice just above a whisper.

“Judging by your empty cabinets, I doubt that.” Wiping my hands on a towel, I avoid meeting his gaze. “I don’t want to talk about the past.”

“The past is all we have together. It’s all you left me with.”

“And you need to let it go,” I say, stripping all emotion from my tone. I dish our food onto plates, pour us each a glass of water, and sit next to him. “Eat up.”

We eat in silence, and I try to focus on anything other than his struggle to raise the fork to his mouth. I would offer to feed him, but we need to maintain boundaries.

“How’s the movie going?” he asks.

Unused to people outside my friend circle asking about my life, I fail to hide the flicker of surprise in my eyes. “It’s good. We’ll be done in a couple of weeks, then it’s back to California.”

I sneak a peek at him from the corner of my eye and notice his tightened features. The same tightness grips my stomach. Our visceral responses to each other have never been the issue. The verbal responses, or lack thereof, are what broke our bond.

After a few hesitant beats, he asks, “What happens next?”

Next. Choosing to ignore the double meaning behind his question, I opt for the safe route and stick to the discussion regarding my career.

“I have a project in Philadelphia later this month. It’s a four-day shoot for a music video. Then I wait until the next gig comes along.”

Jensen sets his fork on his plate and reaches for his water. He spins the glass on the counter three times before bringing it to his lips. I hold the bottom and lift it higher for him.

His throat flexes with each swallow. “Thanks,” he says.

I clear my own throat and take the glass from him before stacking our dishes. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m proud of you, Maisy.”

My hands still at his whispered words. The sincerity in them draws my gaze to his, and my eyes burn as I fight back tears.

His voice breaks with emotion when he adds, “Really proud.”

We stare into each other’s glistening eyes, lost to faraway moments in a shared timeline. A time when we felt like the only ones in the room as we nurtured the invisible tether binding us.

Now we are the only two people here, light-years apart and living in opposing worlds. He’s planted firmly in Walford, his path ending at a self-constructed roadblock. I’m untethered and adrift, forging a new path for myself in the great big world. Yet somehow, we’re both lost.

“I’ll clean this up, then we’ll get you to bed,” I say, closing the shutters and blocking the light shining on our peaceful moment.

A shaky, pained sigh leaves his chest before he nods and makes his way to the bedroom.

The cherry-stained furniture, which belonged to Jensen’s parents when they slept in this room, hasn’t moved in over twenty years. Each piece claims the spot assigned to it when they first purchased the king bed, long dresser with mirror, and matching nightstands. Even the floral wallpaper his mother hung remains, a gross violation when paired with his solid black bedding and curtains.

He sits on the mattress as I prepare the bed for him. When I pull back the black duvet, I hold in a surprised gasp at the sight of the pillowcases. They can’t be a coincidence. Coincidences don’t exist between us, a fact I try my best to ignore.

“They’re satin,” I say, maintaining my composure as I complete my task.

When I was thirteen, I embarked on a mission to tame my curls and conducted hours of online research. Sleeping with a satin pillowcase was one of many solutions I tried, and one of the few that helped.

The tips of Jensen’s ears flush a deep red, a sign of embarrassment, and he adjusts his hair to cover them. “They keep my hair from getting frizzy.”

Instead of mentioning the obvious—his lifelong observance of me—I tease him. “I never realized you were so vain.”

“I have amazing hair. It deserves special treatment.”

“You do have fabulous hair.”

“So do you.”

God, his reverence turns me inside out. I need him to dial back the way his voice drops lower when he says something sweet. It’s too much.

Fighting through the pain, he reaches up to brush my curls aside and cups my face in his hand, and I let him. “Come home to me, Maisy. Please.”

“Jensen.” I groan his name, allowing my eyes to fall shut for a second as I relish his touch. “Don’t ruin this by begging for things I can’t give you.”

“I’m sorry.” He strokes my cheek with his thumb once, twice, three times before pulling away. His apology has layers and could cover a multitude of transgressions, but I’m not in the right headspace to examine the deeper meanings.

“Let’s get your shirt off and get you into bed.”

“No,” he says quickly. “I’m fine sleeping in it. Taking it off would hurt too much.”

My brain trips over his strange phrasing, but I drop the issue.

Grunting and groaning with every movement, he slides between the sheets and settles onto his back. Jensen’s a stomach sleeper, so this position isn’t comfortable for him even without the bruised ribs.

“What else do you need before I go?” I tuck an extra pillow beside him in case he tries to roll over.

He wraps his long fingers around my wrist. “Stay with me. Please. I don’t want you driving this late at night. It’s not safe.”

Sighing, I avoid looking him in the eye, afraid of the desperation I’ll find there. I could lie and tell him I’m staying at Vera’s or Tatum’s, but neither of them needs me. Tonight, Jensen does. His need wafts from him, stronger than the spicy cologne lingering on his bedsheets. Plus, he’s a worrier, and I won’t cause him more worry after what he’s been through in life.

“Okay. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Please,” he whispers with a gentle squeeze on the wrist I haven’t yanked from his grasp. “Be here with me. Just for tonight.”

No one sees the wounded and vulnerable side of him. Only me. He may not express his exact needs through words, but I somehow know because I know him. Once upon a time, we communicated through the silence stretching between us, even from afar. We felt each other on a deeper level, and his unspoken cry for help tonight tugs at me in a familiar way.

Maisy 14½; Jensen, 18

A crowd gathers in the hallway lined with lockers as students peer over the shoulder or head of the person standing in front of them. Being small has its advantages, so I twist and turn through the gaps until I reach the front. My cheeks flame with humiliation as I take in the scene.

“Stay away from her,” Jensen growls. He has Peyton Riggs pinned against a locker by the throat.

“It’s just a stupid dance,” Peyton chokes out.

“Stop!” I shout.

A hush falls over the crowd. Few of these people have heard me speak because I keep to myself, so the power in my voice surprises them.

Jensen looks at me without releasing my date to the upcoming spring dance. He must see the hurt in my eyes because his hold on Peyton loosens. “Maisy—”

“Let him go,” I say, cutting him off. “And mind your own business.”

“Yeah. It’s not like you’re her brother. And Logan’s fine with it,” Peyton argues.

Jensen’s nostrils flare like he’s preparing to unleash a ball of fire straight into Peyton’s face. “Oh yeah? Did Logan hear the shit that came out of your mouth?”

Peyton pales, fear flashing in his eyes.

“What?” I ask, realizing I don’t have a clue what I walked into.

He huffs and shoves at Jensen. “Forget it, man. She’s not even worth it.”

My breath hitches, and tears well in my eyes. I thought Peyton was different from the other boys…nicer. It’s the only reason I asked him to the dance.

Jensen, nose-to-nose with the younger boy whose feet aren’t touching the ground, drops his voice dangerously low and says, “She’s worth more than a million of you, you piece of shit.”

Unable to bear further humiliation, I sprint to the nearest bathroom. It’s all too much. The public rejection. Peyton’s scorn. Jensen’s meddling and wrath. It’s not the first time he’s interfered in my dating life, causing boys to run the other way. Logan’s my brother, and he couldn’t care less about the boys I like.

I’m hiding in the stall when the creaky door and sure footsteps announce his arrival. He never just lets me go.

“Birdie.”

“Go away.” Between sniffles, I wipe my nose with toilet paper.

His feet shuffle under the stall door until he’s facing it straight on, then something thumps against the metal, likely his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

I scoff. “No, you’re not. You got what you wanted, right? You win.”

“That’s not true. You’re the winner here. Trust me.”

“What did he say?” I ask.

“What?”

“Peyton. What did Peyton say?”

Jensen sighs. “I’ll tell you if you open the door and let me see you.”

“No.” There’s not a chance in the world I can face him as he deals another blow to my self-esteem. It’s nearing extinction already.

Teenage boys, and most girls, are the worst. If they’re not whispering inappropriate comments about the size of my growing boobs, they’re using me to gain access to Logan. I had hoped to find a little freedom to explore my individuality in high school, a laughable notion now that I have a semester of ninth grade under my belt. Logan’s the most popular kid on campus, and I’m nothing more than his unremarkable sister.

A growl of displeasure comes from Jensen before he says, “Peyton had a bet going with his dickhead friends. They bet he couldn’t—”

“Never mind. I don’t want to know,” I say, holding back the sob stuck in my chest.

He blows out a forceful breath, relieved he doesn’t have to repeat what he overheard. “You deserve respect, birdie. Never give assholes like Peyton a second thought. And never settle for less than a guy who’ll worship at your feet.”

A laugh punches through my quiet cries. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

He doesn’t laugh. In fact, he says nothing for a few seconds. “I mean every word.”

Silence hangs between us, littered with unasked questions and uncertain paths forward. He may have crossed a line, but neither of us will find out for sure.

“I have to get to the gym,” he mutters. With football season over, the players hang out in the weight room after school.

His shoes disappear, and the door swishes as it opens and closes. I count to three, then exit the stall and yank a paper towel from the holder to wipe the mascara smudged beneath my eyes. After taking a few deep breaths and telling my reflection in the mirror that I’m worthy of love, I leave the restroom, thankful the hallway is mostly empty as I aim for the parking lot. Because I missed the bus, I mentally prepare for the long walk home.

At the double doors leading to the gym, two police officers and the principal, Mr. Olson, are talking to Jensen. Sensing me, he turns his head, and every cell in my body goes on high alert. Shock and devastation mar his features, leaching all the color from his beautiful face. Swaying on his always-steady feet, he’s nanoseconds away from collapsing. I can feel the message he’s sending me with his tortured eyes. “Help me, birdie. I need you.”

I drop my backpack and run to him as fast as my legs will carry me, catching him as his knees hit the tile.

Battered and broken after what happened with Jake, Jensen lies in his dead parents’ bed. Because he hides his weaknesses from everyone, he’d be alone in his suffering if I hadn’t shown up tonight. Aside from his parents, I’m the only person to see him fully exposed that I know of, and I can’t deny him the peace of mind he seeks from me.

Relenting to his request for me to stay, I lock up the house and turn off most of the lights. After a quick trip to the restroom, where I decide against removing my makeup, I climb into bed and face him with my cheek on the soft satin pillow.

“Can I ask you something?” His words drag with exhaustion.

Despite the moonlight and the streetlamp outside casting a glow across his profile, I can’t tell if his good eye is open. I wonder if he’s staring at the ceiling while I stare at his swollen left eye.

When I hum my affirmative response, he asks, “Do you think about me?”

Every day for twenty-eight years.

“You were a big part of my childhood. I don’t have many memories that don’t include you. So yeah, when I think back on that time in my life, you come to mind.”

“I come to mind,” he murmurs. For a thoughtful minute, only the sound of his shallow breathing fills the room. Then he whispers, “Sweet dreams, birdie.”

I often dream of you, and those dreams are the sweetest.

“Good night, Jensen.”

13

JENSEN

Maisy left town. She left me. The morning after she spent the night, I woke up to a cold, abandoned space next to me in the bed. More than a week has gone by, and I haven’t seen or heard from her.

After her fallout with Vera, and with Tatum fleeing to California when everything went sideways with Jake, Maisy has no reason to be in Walford. I’m not reason enough. Nevertheless, I watch the dot on my phone. She’s in Austin now, but she might as well be a million miles away.

I wish I could count the situation with her as my only source of stress, but that’s far from the truth. My brother hates me. Javi’s frustrated with my increasing forgetfulness. My fellow business owners won’t stop hounding me about running in the damn mayoral election. Plus, I’m making mistakes and shirking my responsibilities left and right. Worst of all, I’m letting people down, me included.

“There’s a nurse I work with at the hospital. She’s—” Lucy grimaces when I cut a sharp glare her way. “Sorry. I just want to see you happy.”

“I’m happy.”

Why do people insist on playing matchmaker? Am I wearing a sign that says, “Lonely. Send wife ASAP,” or something?

“You’re full of crap,” Lucy says, nudging my knee with hers to avoid jolting my upper body.

We’ve been sitting in the waiting room at her dad’s medical office for over an hour while Vera gets examined. The receptionist lady keeps stealing glances at me. I have the face of an amateur boxer who somehow survived ten rounds in the ring with a seasoned professional.

Much of the swelling has gone down in the past week, but the bruises persist in various stages of discoloration. I removed the butterfly stitch Lucy applied to my eyebrow, and I can breathe better thanks to the lessening ache in my ribs. All in all, I’m healing…on the outside.

“Are you ever gonna talk about her? Or will you go on pretending no one knows?”

I gaze sidelong at Lucy. She’s sitting with one leg tucked under her on the small sofa we’re occupying. Her black leggings, long grey sweater, and ponytail are a casual departure from her usual put-together style. Apparently, she dressed for comfort knowing we’d be here a while.

“Knows what?” I ask.

“Maisy.”

I swear, if Brody opened his big mouth to Rock, he better find somewhere safe to hide in Walford.

Relaxing back on the small couch, I cross my arms and ankles to appear at ease. Steady. “What about Maisy?”

“Jensen.” Lucy sighs, shaking her head. “At Vera’s house this morning, you stared at the photo wall for a long time. You’ve been helping her for years, and not out of the pure goodness of your heart. And you’ve glared at Maisy’s Instagram post at least fifty times since we got here.”

I squirm in my seat, uncomfortable under her keen observation. “So?”

“So…those are examples from today alone.”

“I look after them for Logan. Don’t read too much into it.”

“Oh, well that makes sense,” she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. She jerks her chin at the cell phone in my hand. “For what it’s worth, she’s even prettier when she smiles. And her boyfriend is very handsome. They make a cute couple.”

A scowl must’ve slipped onto my face because Lucy giggles at me. Maisy’s Instagram post from last night has been tormenting me all day. She rarely uses social media. So when the notification appeared on the fake account I created to follow her, I immediately looked.

The close-up photo of her and some guy with prominent dimples, smiling with their cheeks pressed together, almost had me throwing my phone across the room. I’m trying everything to get a few minutes of her time and rebuild our connection. Meanwhile, she’s running around with Graham and Dimple Face and god knows who else.

I side-eye Lucy, who looks pleased with herself for getting a reaction from me, and wonder if I should ask for advice. A woman’s advice. She’s my closest female friend, and she’s married to a man with the emotional range of a rock. Pun definitely intended. By all logical reasoning, Lucy’s an expert on dealing with closed-off people.

Steadying my breaths, I focus on putting the right words together in my mind. How can I explain the connection Maisy and I have to Lucy? How do I make her understand the stakes and what Maisy means to me?

I clear my throat as if preparing for a grand oration. Then I speak the first words I can conjure with absolute certainty. “She’s mine.”

The tips of my ears burn, and Lucy presses her lips together, shaking her head as her shoulders quake with amusement.

Finally, she controls her reaction enough to insult me by saying, “You sound like Rock.”

I scoff, affronted by the comparison. “I’m nothing like Rock. Dude’s a caveman.”

With raised eyebrows, she asks, “Oh really? Have you ever in your life thrown a woman over your shoulder?” Maisy, when we were teenagers. “Carried her out of a room while she cursed and yelled at you?” Maisy, many times. “Kissed her as a way to exert your dominance in the relationship?” Maisy, two months ago. “Been so jealous or overprotective, you wanted to smash someone’s face in?” Movie-star Graham and Dimple Face are my most recent targets in a long line of guys.

Shit. I act like a caveman. What’s worse, I’m so bad with words I probably sound like one too. “Maisy mine. Me love Maisy.”

I drag a hand through my hair and sag my shoulders in defeat. Then I do the one thing that goes against my nature: I ask for help. “What should I do, Lucy? How do I get a woman who’s afraid of being hurt to listen? To hand over her heart to the guy who broke it?”

“Have you told her how you feel?” she asks.

“She won’t let me. I ask her for five minutes, and she shuts me down every time. She’ll only listen to me if I don’t talk about my feelings. Even then I’m lucky if she grants me a few seconds to speak.”

Lucy turns her body to face me on the couch. “Look. When Rock got injured and knew his football career was over, he shut me out. Well, he tried to. I showed up at his apartment—”

“I don’t want the details.”

“—and gave him no choice but to accept facts. We talked through how his plans had to change but also how great the future could be if he opened himself up to other possibilities.”

Speak of the devil…the cell phone in her lap lights up with a text message from Rock, his hundredth today. The message preview says, “Kiss it better, Nurse Mama.” She swipes the screen, and I hiss and slide a protective hand over my crotch when the attached photo opens.

“Pretend you didn’t see that,” she says, stuffing the phone beneath her thigh.

I’m rocking side to side with sympathy pain. “I can never unsee that. Why would he do that to himself?”

“Because I told him to.”

“Forget I asked,” I say with a full-body shudder. “Back to Maisy.”

“Right. Anyway, I didn’t give Rock a choice. I went cavewoman on him and metaphorically threw him over my shoulder. He had a good long cry, then he made the conscious decision to embrace a different future than the one he planned. And now he’s happy.”

I would never describe Rock as a happy man. Perhaps he’s a bundle of joy on the inside. Also…

“Did you say he cried?”

“You’re missing the point. Paint a picture of the future for Maisy. A better future that involves the two of you together. If she can envision being safe and happy with you, she’ll come around.”

“What if I never see her again?” My stomach twists at the thought of Maisy never returning to Walford. I ball my hands into fists, battling the urge to self-soothe.

“Do you have her number? You could try calling her.”

Maisy changed her phone number after she moved to California, but I convinced Vera I needed it in case of an emergency. Somehow, I’ve managed to go all this time without calling or texting Maisy, a herculean feat worthy of Nobel prizes.

“I do, but I doubt she’ll answer.”

Lucy squeezes my hand, and I glance around the waiting room in case Rock jumps out from behind a plant and tries to pummel me. “Don’t give up,” she says. “It’ll be worth the wait.”

The wait. Thirteen years I’ve waited and wondered and dreamed. But mostly, I’ve replayed the day on the porch—the day I fucked up—on repeat, wishing I could’ve been brave. Wishing I could’ve found all the words she wanted to hear and take back the words she didn’t deserve, including the lies I told.

Regret sucks the soul dry when you’ve lived with it as long as I have. I committed a crime against the nature of us, and Maisy sentenced me to the harshest punishment possible: a lifetime of love in solitary confinement. Now I’m begging her pardon.

For the next half hour, I consider all the options and ponder the best way to paint a picture of the future. An honest, perfect picture to convince Maisy of our inevitable forever. Imagining our ideal partnership and way of love is the easy part. The problem lies in my shitty presentation skills.

As I’m about to download the Pinterest app because I’m that desperate, Dr. Garcia escorts Vera into the waiting room. He’s a sharp-dressed man with dark eyes similar to Lucy’s and silver strands peppering his neat black hair. Unfortunately, his unreadable facial expression tells us nothing.

Vera’s walking well enough on her own today, which I interpret as a positive sign. But then I catch the subtle look Dr. Garcia gives Lucy. So subtle, I almost miss the slight downturn of his mouth. With his vast experience, he likely has a diagnosis in mind, one he won’t share until it’s confirmed.

He addresses Vera but speaks loud enough for me and Lucy to hear. “I will contact you to schedule a follow-up appointment after you complete the bloodwork and imaging I’ve ordered. Be patient. This journey may take longer than you hope. Once we reach a conclusive diagnosis, we will discuss treatments and a management plan.” Dr. Garcia pats her on the arm. “You and I will be seeing a lot of each other in the near future, Vera. Take care of yourself, and don’t hesitate to call my office if you have questions.”

I’m hung up on the phrase management plan, meaning Vera will never recover. She’ll have to live with whatever afflicts her forever.

“Thank you,” she whispers. Her dazed eyes linger on Dr. Garcia’s face before she turns and walks out the door toward the lobby of the medical building.

Lucy and her dad carry on a hushed argument in Spanish. His tone becomes firm at the end, shutting down whatever she’s asking.

She sighs and says, “Let’s go, Jensen,” then trails after Vera.

I shake Dr. Garcia’s hand and thank him, ignoring the way his eyes sweep over my bruises. When I catch up with Lucy, I ask, “What did he say?”

“That he couldn’t discuss anything with me. I may be a nurse, but I’m not her nurse.”

“What do you think is wrong?” I keep my tone low so Vera won’t hear me. My meddling wouldn’t please her.

“I don’t want to speculate,” Lucy replies. “We’ll wait for the official diagnosis and hope Vera fills us in. Like my dad said…patience.”

With a sigh, I rush ahead to hold the door open for the ladies. The day has dragged by. The appointment took longer than expected, and now we face a two-hour drive back to Walford. Looks like I’ll need Javi’s help at the bar once again.

14

MAISY

The baby-faced man sashaying my way grins like he’s about to stir up a heap of trouble. He already tricked me into taking a picture with him last night, then he had the gall to share the photo on my Instagram account with the caption “Miggy + Angel 4Ever.”

Miguel plops down beside me with a bag of gummy worms in hand and drapes a leg across my lap. “What do you think?” he asks, twirling his foot in circles.

With close-cropped dark hair and deep dimples in his round cheeks, he could pass as a giant toddler. Despite being thirty-four years old, his youthful porcelain face reminds me of a cherub, and he calls me his angel. But make no mistake, there’s nothing cherubic about Miguel Espinoza. Mischievous should be his first name and Egomaniac his last.

I press my lips into a flat line and squint at the green moccasin he’s showing off. It has gold threading and matches the bow tie he’s wearing today. “I promised not to lie to you after your kilt era.”

With narrowed eyes, he says, “You swore a blood oath to never bring that up again.”

Miguel found himself trapped inside the last kilt he designed. When he modeled it for me, he employed an army of safety pins to secure the yellow and brown monstrosity around his waist. I pricked my finger while freeing him, at which point he made me swear to forget his kilt phase ever happened. Hardly a “blood oath.”

“This situation calls for the reminder,” I say. “You’re a repeat fashion offender.”

“And you’re a sourpuss with an angelic face. Like Lucifer’s sister.” He hisses while yanking his foot away like I burned him with hellfire. Dramatic little prince.

Miguel’s an architect—a brilliant one—but he’s determined to become a fashion trendsetter. I admire his tenacity, but his execution leaves much to be desired. Over the years, he championed kilts, suspenders, and those old-school thermal underwear with the butt flaps, which he called “free-jamas.” Now he hopes coordinating moccasins with bow ties will become the hot new trend.

Disregarding his comparison of me to the devil’s sibling, I change the subject. “Where’s Graham?”

“He’s in the shower, where I would much rather be than here with you.” The droopy gummy worm he stabs in my direction isn’t the least bit threatening.

I steal the candy from his fingers and stuff it into my mouth. “No one’s keeping you here.”

Miguel’s responding smile lacks humor, and I wish I could take back my snarky comment. He spent a year apart from our group, and I can imagine how lonesome that time was for him. Studying him a little closer, I notice the stress lines around his eyes. Being separated from Graham was hard on him. He presents a lighthearted disposition to the world, but he internalizes his pain, allowing it to fester until he shuts down. A method of coping I’m more than familiar with.

“How are you feeling, Miggy? Be honest.” I squeeze his thigh in encouragement.

He lets out a long sigh, the playful mask slipping from his face altogether. “I’m surprised. Wary. I was starting to believe this day would never come and thought about moving on.”

The melancholy in his voice tugs at my rigid heartstrings. Like me, Miguel hides his vulnerability. Beneath the sarcasm and dramatic antics lies a sensitive man who loves deeply and longs for fathomless love in return.

His decision to end the relationship with Graham a year ago didn’t come with an ultimatum. Miguel chose to put himself first because he felt Graham wouldn’t. Not that anyone faults Graham for his reluctance to make their relationship public. The movie industry and, more specifically, his former agent were the culprits pressuring him to hide his true self. People surrounding Graham—the ones who were supposed to protect him—convinced him his career would end otherwise. His indecision cost him Miguel instead. Tragic.

“Being apart has been as hard on him as it was on you. But I knew he would come around because he loves you too much to let you go.” I grab his hand and lace our fingers together. “And I’m glad he did, because y’all belong together, and you both belong with me.”

“Thank you, angel. I’ll admit I’m worried he might change his mind, but I hope not. My heart won’t survive another break.”

“I’m confident he won’t.”

“I won’t,” Graham says from behind us.

Startled, our heads snap toward the kitchen where he leans against the wall with tousled wet hair, wearing nothing but a pair of burgundy boxers. He clearly has an aversion to clothes. Miguel and I sigh in appreciation as he prowls toward us with a smirk and a wink. His lithe, toned body is a true work of art.

His flirty expression falls away when he takes the bag of candy from Miguel and tosses it aside. Sitting on the coffee table with Miguel’s knees caged between his long legs, he links their fingers together and kisses each of Miguel’s knuckles while gazing into his eyes with pure adoration.

“You’re stuck with me, darling, until the end of time. And the whole world will know I’m proud to be yours.”

A small sob escapes Miguel before they meet halfway for a kiss, their hands cupping each other’s cheeks in mutual possession. My eyes and nose sting as I witness the loving exchange between my friends. The hopeless romantic buried deep within me fights against my jaded, hardened surface. I’m certain I’ve won the battle until the men break their kiss, and a grin overtakes Graham’s face when our eyes meet.

“Does something smell bad?” he asks, referring to my pinched facial expression.

I swallow the lump in my throat and feign boredom. “I’m trying not to sneeze and ruin your sappy moment.”

“Liar.” He chuckles and steals another kiss from Miguel before rising to his feet. “I’ll get dressed, then we need to finish packing. California awaits.”

We return to California tomorrow, where I’ll spend two nights before flying across the country to Philadelphia for the music video shoot. We have access to the Austin house for a few more days, but neither of us have a reason to come back once we leave. I could skip the California leg of my trip, but Tatum’s there right now. I miss having everyone gathered in one place and want to spend at least one night with us all together.

Rounding the couch, Graham plants his hands near my shoulders and leans over to whisper in my ear. “You can have this too. Just let go of the bullshit.”

I tilt my head back and gape at him. He only curses when he’s trying to get a point across or he’s in a heightened emotional state. We have an upside-down staring contest for a few seconds before he drops a sloppy wet kiss to my forehead.

“Gross,” I grumble, wiping his slobber off my skin as he laughs his way to the bedroom.

Miguel rests his head on my shoulder with a heavy sigh and puts his feet on the table, ankles crossed. We gaze at his ugly shoes in silence and process the whirlwind of emotions that blew through the house moments ago. The muted TV plays in the background, an accompaniment to the quiet until my buzzing cell phone pops our bubble.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

Hey, this is Jensen. Took Vera to the doc today. She’ll have another appointment soon. I’ll let you know when.

Dumbfounded, my thumbs hover above my cell phone screen. Several questions form in my head, jumbling my thoughts before I can communicate them.

How did you get my number?

What did the doctor say?

Why do I want to see you again?

Instead, I brush the open-ended questions aside, knowing they’ll lead to further conversation with Jensen, and do what I do best. Shut him down.

ME

Thanks.

A row of dots appears and disappears several times, and I’ll bet anything he’s as anxious typing and deleting his responses as I am waiting for one. When the dots disappear with finality, I toss my phone on the coffee table and rub my forehead.

Spending the night with him was a mistake. I’ve spent the past week trying to convince myself I didn’t enjoy being with him, taking care of him, lying next to him while listening to his ragged breathing as he slept fitfully.

Torture. That’s the word I’m looking for to describe how I felt the whole night before sneaking out at sunrise. Thinking about that night seems pointless now that I’m unsure when I’ll be in Walford again.

In my head, I groan in frustration. With Vera’s mysterious health problems and Jensen worming his way into my life, I have mixed feelings about Marzan’s project. I want to explore this career path more than anything, but the timing sucks. I also have reservations about being alone on the East Coast while my friends carry on with their lives on the other side of the country.

What if I’m unable to hold on while their world keeps spinning? What if I fall off and everyone forgets about me and moves on? I often joke about Tatum’s unhealthy fear of missing out, but I’m the one afraid to blink because I fear my friendships will vanish just as fast. Shut up, Maisy. Your friends love you and want you around. God, my insecurities about relationships run deep. I blame my parents.

“What if I add tassels?” Miguel asks, his sudden cheerfulness cutting through the sullen atmosphere.

My gaze slides to his. “I’ll disown you.”

“Your life would be boring without me, angel. Admit it.”

“Only if you admit the moccasins are a tragedy.”

He bares his teeth and hisses at me again without losing his composure. A smile tugs at my lips, and I elbow him in the ribs. I couldn’t be happier that he’s back with us, where he belongs.

Marzan is a dick. A leather-duster-wearing, ass-grabbing, narcissistic dick of epic proportions. The minute shooting wrapped today—the first day on set—I couldn’t wait to get out of the nondescript warehouse on the outskirts of Philadelphia. I mean, seriously? Everyone flew here yesterday expecting some inspirational filming location, not an old warehouse with busted windows and rusty metal like you’d find in any city in America. It makes no sense to drag us all to Philadelphia when the band and most of the crew live on the West Coast, including Marion Kazan a.k.a. Marzan. Pretentious prick.

He was always nice to me when he directed Tatum’s music videos. I may have landed this gig because of my connection to her, but I thought my skills captured Marzan’s attention. Boy, was I wrong.

Turns out, the “it” thing he admires about me is my ass, which he made the grave mistake of grabbing. Twice. I wrote off the first inappropriate touch as an accident, but the second grab earned him a very clear piece of my mind delivered by my very sharp tongue. Screw complaining to union reps or whoever drags their feet while dealing with allegations. I can take care of myself.

It won’t surprise me if I don’t have a job anymore. And you know what? Good riddance. If he didn’t hire me for my talent, I don’t want to be here. And if that grabby fucker tries to blackball me in the industry, well, I’ve got friends in high places who can squash his career like an annoying bug.

“Asshole.” Grumbling, I throw back a second tequila shot.

The crew invited me to join them at a sports bar two blocks from our hotel. Philadelphia Eagles paraphernalia covers the space from floor to ceiling, and I’m thankful the professional football season ended already. I can’t imagine how rowdy this bar becomes on game nights. For a Wednesday in the off-season, the place is packed.

“Cheers to that.” Tasha, a wardrobe assistant, lifts her mojito in the air. “Lady, you don’t mess around. The new asshole you ripped into Marzan will be gaping for months. Months! I think I fell in love with you a little bit.”

Her wide mouth stretches into a grin, and I smile in return. It feels good to put men like Marzan in their place. But having another woman—or an entire crew—witness my lambasting and cheer me on feels great. Like my reaction to being groped is validated and supported. I may never see these people again, but I’m confident they’ll have my back if the incident becomes a scandal or impacts my career.

“Thanks,” I say. “I have a pretty firm no-touching policy.”

A burly guy on the lighting crew leans across the table and speaks above the noise. “I’ll be telling my daughter what happened today and how you gave that skinny prick four feet of fuck you.”

“Five feet,” I correct, flashing him five splayed fingers.

“Whatever. You have a big bark and big-ass bite.”

Everyone at the table laughs, including me, but I’m playing off the incident with manufactured nonchalance. On the inside, I’m drowning in disappointment. My high hopes for this project were dashed the second Marzan put his grubby hand on me. Sure, I could’ve held my tongue or let his behavior slide, but that’s not who I am.

I care a lot about the price I might pay for speaking up: my job and my reputation. But I care more about being treated with dignity and respect.

Do I want to be that woman who’s labeled as high maintenance, known for complaining or making a fuss over “nothing?” No. But I won’t stand by and allow men to get away with inappropriate behavior. If they want to turn the tables and make me out to be the bad apple rather than take responsibility for their actions, fine. I’ll be the martyr so the next woman or the one after her doesn’t suffer at the hands of entitled men. I’ll proudly wear the scarlet letter A for agitator all damn day if even one man gets the message I’m trying to send. Hands. Off. Asshole.

Right when I’m getting fired up again, my cell phone buzzes.

TATE

How was the first day? Did you kick ass?

Yes I did, Tate.

Yes. I. Did.

ME

It was fine.

TATE

Don’t downplay it. Call me and tell me everything!

And you can tell me about that kiss again.

<ten kissy face emojis>

I made the mistake of telling Tatum about the kiss that happened with Jensen in the alley. Now she sends love-related emojis at every opportunity, much to my displeasure. My strategy for extinguishing her interest in the matter includes blatant disregard and outright denial. She’ll get the message and drop it eventually.

Noting the late hour on my phone’s clock, I wrap up my night. My friends on the West Coast don’t always respect time zones, so I need to make a slew of phone calls if I want to get into bed early and enjoy uninterrupted sleep. Otherwise, my phone will buzz nonstop throughout the night.

ME

Heading to the hotel now. Will call soon.

I shrug on my coat and sling my favorite rose-pattern tote bag over my shoulder. In honor of the short walk to the hotel, I toss back one last tequila shot for the road. “I’ll see y’all in the morning if I don’t get escorted off the property.”

The group at the table laughs, though their amusement sounds strained, like me being denied access to the set could be a real possibility. We say our goodbyes, and I exit the rowdy bar to the sights and sounds of a bustling urban night.

My hotel sits two blocks away. I spot it ahead and make quick strides among the lights and honks and noxious city fumes. In less than one block, I’m dragged into a dark alley for the second time in my life. But this time, the man isn’t Jensen. This time, I fight back.

15

JENSEN

“Jensen.”

I’m a fucking mess, freaking out as I watch the unmoving dot on my phone’s tracking app. That dot should be in Philadelphia for a few more days, but it appeared in Austin late this morning.

“Yo! Jensen.”

My gut’s been fussing at me all day, warning me that something isn’t right. But how can I reach out to anyone, notify someone of my concerns, without exposing what I’ve done?

A hand touches my wrist, and my gaze travels up the person’s arm until it lands on Ainsley’s worried face. “Are you okay?” she asks.

My eyes linger on hers for a second, and I conduct a quick self-assessment before snapping out of my daze. I release the strands of hair in my fist and straighten from my slumped position against the bar. “Of course.”

She jerks her chin toward the opposite side of the bar where Tom waits with an empty pint glass and a frown. “I’ll handle this while you check on the stock we got in this morning,” she says.

I convey a silent thank you with my eyes and make a beeline for my office. Ainsley’s ability to come up with a convincing lie on the spot is both impressive and worrisome, and now I wonder how many times she’s lied to me.

An hour passes with me hiding in my office before Tatum answers my prayers, giving me the green light to investigate the dot in Austin.

TATE

I need a huge favor. Can you check on Maisy? She went back to Austin early, and she’s not responding to anyone. We’re worried.

ME

Sure. Address?

I pretend to be clueless even though I’ve had Maisy’s address memorized for months. What I didn’t have, until now, was the passcode to unlock the front door. Keys in hand, I’m hightailing it toward my Jeep while calling Javi to let him know I need his help at the bar tonight.

When I let myself into the house where Maisy’s staying, all the lights are off. Nothing but silence greets me, but she has to be here.

“Birdie?” I call out, making my way through the house and checking each room.

My first few gambles don’t pay off, leaving the last door down a short hallway. The bedroom is tidy except for an open suitcase with clothes scattered on the bed and floor. A faint light glows beneath another door to what I assume is the bathroom. I twist the knob and push the door open, my gut swirling in a frenzy.

Maisy lies on the tile floor, curled in a ball, her small form made visible by a night light. She’s afraid of the dark.

“Birdie,” I whisper, crouching beside her. She doesn’t move or make a sound, so I reach up to flip on the light switch. And screw my gut for sensing when something’s wrong. At the sight of her, a sharp pain seizes my chest, a panic I’ve experienced before.

Maisy, 10; Jensen, 13½

“Throw the can.”

“This is dumb,” Logan complains.

“Just throw it,” I say, sick and tired of his whining.

He rears his arm back and launches the can of spinach with the rope tied around it, his aim and trajectory perfect. The can sails over the limb of the oak tree in his front yard, and I easily catch it.

“Good throw,” I mutter.

He scoffs. “Only the best from the best.”

I roll my eyes because he’s full of himself when it comes to football. “Go grab the board.”

As I tie loops at each end of the rope, using the method I learned online, Logan retrieves the wood plank leaning against the tree. I check on Maisy, who’s riding her bike at the end of the street. She has a doll propped inside the basket on the front because she carries a doll everywhere.

“Here.” Logan shoves the board at my chest. “Let’s get this done and go to the field.”

Since the start of summer break, we’ve spent most days at the middle school football field, playing tag football and flirting with girls. Logan would spend his nights sleeping on the field if he could. He’s obsessed with the sport.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” he says.

“To keep her from bugging us,” I lie, testing the knots to confirm they’re secure.

Whenever Maisy asks for a swing set or something to play on outdoors, Vera says no without giving a reason. All kids deserve to play in the sun, especially Maisy, and this crappy tree swing is the best I can do with no money and limited handyman skills.

“Good point,” Logan says.

Maisy annoys him, which I’ve never understood because she doesn’t bother us. She stays in her bedroom or plays with her dolls in the corner of the living room. Alone.

When I glance down the road to check on her again, a car careens around the corner with music blaring from inside. Everything happens in slow motion. The car jerks to avoid her bicycle but clips the front wheel. My feet are moving before I even realize I’m pounding pavement, running to her like my life depends on it. She flies off the bike and lands in someone’s yard. I’m on her in seconds.

“Birdie,” I choke out, scooping her into my arms. An unbearable pain rips through my chest, like an invisible weight crushing me, and my frantic voice doesn’t sound like my own. “Are you hurt? Tell me where you’re hurt. I can fix it.”

Wide eyes stare at me, the shock of what happened holding them captive. “I-I think I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” I set her on the grass and run my shaky hands all over her arms and legs, searching for injuries.

She nods. “Yeah.”

“Jesus.” I fall on my butt and scrub my hands along my face. My heart’s beating all out of whack, and I can’t slow it down. “You scared me.”

A small hand grips my arm. An even smaller, trembling voice says, “I’m sorry, J.”

Before I can say she has nothing to apologize for, the driver asks, “Is she good?”

I glare at the teenager who doesn’t have the decency to get out of his car and check on her. Asshole. Hopping to my feet, I rush up to his window and wave my arms in fury. “Slow the fuck down through here. You could’ve killed her!”

“Chill, man.” He peers around me. “She looks fine. Are you okay, girl?” he asks Maisy.

“Don’t talk to her,” I hiss, stepping to the side to block his view. He swallows hard because, yeah, I’m thirteen, but I’m as big as him and way more pissed off.

“Sorry.” He rolls up the window and speeds away like a maniac despite hitting a kid on a bike minutes ago. I memorize his license plate in case I need it in the future. Then I hang my head and inhale calming breaths like my dad taught me to do when my feelings get too big. Especially the ones I have trouble processing, like worry, fear, frustration, and anger. He says I care too much, and sometimes that makes me care too hard.

“Jensen.” Maisy’s whimper snaps my attention back to her.

When I spin around, expecting to find her in pain from a hidden injury I overlooked, I’m met with concern in her eyes. She’s worried for me when she was the one almost killed.

“I’m okay,” she reminds me with a watery smile. She hugs the doll that flew off the bike along with her.

Blowing out a harsh breath, I let go of my hair. My scalp tingles from the release, and I nod. “Okay. I’m okay too.” Am I?

As I carry her damaged bike toward her house, she walks alongside me, not a scratch on her. She may be physically unharmed after the incident, but her little heart will break if her mom refuses to repair or replace the bike. I examine the bent wheel. Maybe I can fix it somehow.

“Are we gonna finish this?” Logan yells from down the street, waving the board in the air. My too-big feelings of frustration and anger simmer because he didn’t come check on his sister.

When I look at Maisy to gauge her reaction to his negligence, her smile has morphed into a giant grin. I’ve never seen her smile so big.

“He’s making me a swing?” She squeals with joy, and the hope and happiness gleaming in her pretty eyes knocks me back a step.

A shift occurs deep inside me. A forceful movement that awakens a strange feeling. In this moment, I realize I’ll do anything in my power to keep her safe. To make her happy. To see her face overcome with joy simply because it makes me happy. Perhaps that’s always been the case. Maybe the soft spot I have for Maisy is something a little more solid. Something with chambers and vessels and a rhythmic flow. Something that beats with purpose when she’s around. And I think Maisy Donovan snatched that something right out of my chest.

Despite the fear gripping my gut from this terrifying and confusing discovery, I offer her an easy smile of my own along with a lie to keep hers in place. “Yeah. He’s making you a swing.”

She squeezes her doll and runs ahead of me. Heart racing and stomach twisting, my gaze remains fixed on her back as she flies into her undeserving brother’s arms.

Prepared for the worst, I lean over Maisy so I can get a look at her eyes, which proves difficult with her nose inches from the wall. Bracing myself on one hand, I sweep aside the hair covering her face.

She stares straight ahead with a severe scowl, like she’s angry with the entire world. Not at all what I expected to find. However, I shouldn’t be surprised. My girl doesn’t break easily.

Wearing an oversized T-shirt and cotton panties, she grips a large tote bag to her chest in a protective hold.

“Birdie, baby. What happened?”

“Boys always ruin things,” she says, but hearing her usual monotone doesn’t put me at ease.

Whether she’s angry or excited, Maisy reveals little emotion through voice alone. Her eyes communicate what she’s feeling, and I need to see them to assess her true state of mind. Unfortunately, she’s lying too close to the damn wall.

“I’m picking you up,” I declare, springing into action.

“No.”

“Yes. You need me to hold you.” I need to hold you.

Not giving her a chance to argue further, I lift her into my arms and settle on the floor with my back against the wall. With the bag wedged between us, she folds into me like a limp rag doll instead of coiling with her usual tension.

She closes her eyes when I sweep the curls away from her skin to get a better look at her injuries. There’s a large scrape along the left side of her face, an irritated spot on her nostril where she removed her nose ring, and a fresh bruise on her swollen cheekbone. Thankfully, everything appears to be superficial and should heal with little to no scarring, which she’ll be pleased to learn. From the gritty dirt and dried blood in her hairline, I can tell she hasn’t showered since whatever happened took place. She must’ve taken the first flight available after the incident.

“Talk to me, my beautiful girl,” I say, coaxing her with a gentle tone.

“Don’t use that voice with me,” she snaps. “Don’t treat me like a victim.”

“Okay. You’re not a victim.”

“Damn right. I still have my bag.” She squeezes the bag tighter against her chest.

A picture forms in my mind as I piece together the clues. To say the conclusion I reach relieves me, considering all the other horrific scenarios whirring through my head, is a huge understatement.

“Maisy, were you mugged?”

She scoffs and says, “Obviously not.”

I continue my subtle inspection of her visible injuries. Several scrapes and bruises mar her hands and legs, like road rash, but her arms appear to be untouched.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

“Tate sent me. She’s worried because you’re not answering your phone.”

“How did she—? Ugh.” She buries her face in my chest, mumbling against my shirt. “I forget we share our locations. Marcus’s stupid rules. Fucking dictator.”

From what I’ve learned, Marcus is in charge of Tatum’s security and runs a tight ship in their little group. He also despises my brother after Jake exposed Tatum while she was hiding from the paparazzi. The whole situation was a disaster, and Jake earned himself the title of public enemy number one in Marcus’s eyes.

“Marcus seems like a laid-back guy,” I tease.

The corner of Maisy’s mouth lifts. “Not even close.”

Feeling more confident about the progress I’m making, I give in to my true nature—to my need to care for her.

“Let me tell you what’s about to happen.” She stiffens in my arms, but I forge ahead, grazing my fingers along her back in soothing strokes. “I’ll run you a bath and wash your hair. Then I’ll tend to your wounds and tuck you into bed. It’s your choice whether I stay the night, but I will not leave until I know you’re okay. Understood?”

She hesitates before nodding.

“Good girl,” I say, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. When I tug the bag from her arms, she releases it without protest. “I need you to do something for me first.”

“What?”

Resting a knuckle under her chin, I say, “I need you to look at me, birdie.” I need to see your eyes.

With another nudge from me, she tips her face up and meets my gaze. My stomach clenches at what I find, but I force myself not to look away. The last time despondency dulled her eyes—the day on the porch when she lost all hope—I was the reason for it. Back then I looked away like a coward. Never again.

Someone put the hopelessness back in her eyes, but I refuse to let it claim her. She has more fight inside her than any person I’ve ever known, and I’ll remind her of her strength until she grows tired of me singing her praises.

“I’ll fill the bath, then leave you to get undressed and scrub yourself. Okay?”

She nods again, and I realize it’s her way of submitting while trying to maintain control. We’ll work on changing that. I’ll need her verbal consent in certain situations, but this isn’t one of them.

While she soaks, I dig through her suitcase in the bedroom, gathering the items to wash her hair. Shampoo. Conditioner. Wide-tooth comb. I also retrieve a plastic drink pitcher from a kitchen cabinet.

When I return to the bathroom, she’s sitting in the large tub with her uninjured cheek resting on bent knees. I dip a hand in the water to test the temperature, then flip on the taps to add warmer water.

“I’ll wash your hair.”

“I can do it,” she says on a sigh, as if all the fight has left her.

“Let me.”

I offer her a hand towel to cover her breasts and kneel beside the tub and get to work. First, I thoroughly wet and shampoo her hair, careful to keep the product away from the open wounds. Once the suds are rinsed out, I massage conditioner into her curls from the roots to the tips. Her eyelids grow heavy, and her head becomes pliable in my hands when her neck muscles relax.

“How do you know what to do?” she asks. Her tone carries no judgment or suspicion, only exhaustion.

“Vera used to wash your hair in the kitchen sink.” I work the comb through her curls starting at the ends, careful not to tug too hard when I encounter a difficult tangle.

“You have a gentle touch.”

“Because I can’t stand it when you suffer.”

“Hmm.” A sad smile forms on her bare lips, and her gaze sweeps across the fading bruises on my face. “We seem to hurt for each other, don’t we?”

“We do, but we also feel each other’s happiness. We’ve never had any control over the connection between us, birdie. It’s always been there. Stop trying so hard to fight what’s meant to be.”

She considers me, her hazel stare penetrating my every living cell. “Don’t tell me you, of all people, believe in fate.”

“I believe in us. Nothing else.” Before she can respond, I say, “Tip your head back.”

Refilling the pitcher several times with clean water, I rinse the coconut-scented conditioner from her hair. I’ve never been to the ocean or a tropical beach resort, but I imagine those places smell like Maisy. Sweet, light, refreshing.

With the conditioner rinsed out, I ask, “What’s next? Do you want me to use any products or—”

“I can take it from here,” she says.

I sense our night together is nearing its end, so I ask the question I already know the answer to. “Have you decided if I should stay or go?”

She avoids my gaze and runs her hand along the surface of the water. “I think you should go.”

With a finger beneath her chin, I tilt her head up, begging her to read in my eyes what she doesn’t want to hear from my lips.

I don’t want to leave you.

Let me be here for you and hold you in my arms.

Trust me.

Instead, I throw one last, desperate Hail Mary and say, “I still have to treat your wounds and tuck you in.”

“You’ve done enough. Thank you.” She blinks away the tears welling in her eyes. “Be careful driving back.”

Sighing, I grab a towel from the shelf and place it on the edge of the tub. “Are you sure you’ll be okay alone?”

Her sad, watery eyes shred me when she says, “Aren’t I always?”

She’ll never admit she doesn’t want to be alone, and my skin prickles with the urge to scream loud enough to rattle her obstinate brain. Thanks to a lifetime of observation, and lots of trial and error, I’ve learned to choose my battles with her, and this isn’t a battle I’ll win.

“Call me if you need me for anything, no matter the time of night or day.”

She nods, and before I step away, she adds, “Promise me you won’t tell Tate what happened.”

Incredulous, my shoulders droop at her request. “What should I say when she blows up my phone, Maisy? I won’t lie.”

“Tell her I’ll explain everything when she’s back in Texas.”

Bending down, I bring us face to face and force her to meet my gaze. “Promise me you’ll be honest with her about what happened and how you feel. Lean on someone if you won’t lean on me.”

“I will. I promise,” she whispers, her soft breath touching my lips.

I press a lingering kiss to her forehead, squeezing my eyes shut when she chokes back a sob, then reluctantly walk away. To make her believe I’ve left, I open and close the front door with a loud thump. Sinking to the floor in the dark hallway, I rest my head against the wall and stretch out my legs. Then I wait and listen as she moves about the bathroom and bedroom, getting ready for bed.

I listen for the cracking sound of each new fissure when my heart breaks in sync with her quiet sobs. Maisy cried in secret when she was younger, but if I knew she was upset, I never let her cry alone. I’d wait a few feet away in case she ever needed someone. In case she needed me.

Her cries wane, and she succumbs to the exhaustion, falling into a deep sleep. Only then do I comply with her wishes and leave.

16

MAISY

Someone’s pounding on the front door so hard, the hinges might come loose. There’s only one person, besides Jensen, who would be angry enough and strong enough to bust through a door to get to me.

Two large, blurry masses appear through the beveled glass, which must be pretty thick to have not shattered. I swing the door open to discover the angriest pair of whiskey-colored eyes ever pinned on me.

“You have the code to unlock the door,” I say in greeting, annoyed that I had to abandon my comfy spot on the couch.

“Explain this.” Marcus wags the rigid finger aimed at my face.

This is the problem with sharing your cell phone location with so many people.

Judge punches him in the shoulder. He’s the more sympathetic of the two Ames cousins and has much better people skills even though he doesn’t speak.

The men served in the military before they became Tatum’s personal security team five years ago. Whatever happened during their final deployment caused Judge to stop talking. When Marcus isn’t speaking on his behalf, Judge types notes on his phone to communicate. But around our smaller group, he uses grunts and gestures, which we’ve learned to interpret after spending every minute of every day together.

Other than the matching eyes, shaved heads, and hulking size, the two giants couldn’t be more different. Marcus’s pristine russet complexion and crisp clothes reflect his personality. Poised and perfect, aside from the silver scar in his left eyebrow. Judge, on the other hand, has colorful tattoos covering most of his tawny skin. He also has tears clinging to his thick, curly lashes as he looks me over. Big crybaby.

“Let me through.” Tatum’s demand comes from behind the men blocking the doorway before her slender hand slips between them. I’m not a fan of the distraught expression on her face when Judge steps aside. “Maisy!” She yanks me into her arms and squeezes too tight.

“Ouch,” I murmur into her hoodie.

“Sorry.” Sniffling, she releases me. “What the heck happened?”

“Good question. Everyone, get inside,” Marcus barks.

“Sir, yes fucking sir,” Jake mumbles as he trails in behind Tatum, earning a deadly glare from Marcus. These two don’t get along. At all.

“Watch it, pretty boy. It’s not too late to—”

“Can you two stop?” Tatum shouts, throwing her hands in the air. “Geez! You’ve been at it since we left California. You both need a time out.”

I leave them to their bickering and settle on the sectional where I was watching TV and replaying the words good girl in my head before they showed up. Of all the things Jensen said to me and did for me last night, I’m hung up on being called a good girl.

A feminist like me should balk and tell him to take that shit somewhere else, but I’m only human. And humans have flaws. Apparently, my flaws include being turned on by the prospect of becoming Jensen Holloway’s good girl. I’ll take that particular secret to my grave.

When Judge sinks down beside me on the couch, his weight dents the cushion and forces me to tilt in his direction. He offers me a tentative smile, and I pat his arm to let him know I’m okay. The others must’ve realized we ditched them, and they join us in the living room, everyone taking a seat except Marcus. Like an agitated lion, he paces back and forth on the other side of the coffee table. I’ve never seen him this upset.

“Not a single phone call,” he says, sending me a scathing look. “Unacceptable.”

“Marcus.” Tatum softens her voice to calm him down. “Go easy on her.”

“When you don’t stick to the schedule, I need to know. You came back early without telling anyone.”

Exasperated, I release a heavy sigh. “I’m not the job, Marcus. Tatum’s the job.”

“This isn’t about a fucking job!” he yells, spreading his arms wide. His eyes widen too, like he’s as shocked by his outburst as the rest of us. Marcus never loses his cool and rarely shows he cares. “This”—he jabs a finger at everyone except Jake, who’s scowling—“is the closest thing we have to a family. And as the head of this family, I need to know where everyone’s at and when plans change. Then we show up here to find you looking like this?”

He waves a hand toward me and shakes his head. Some would describe his facial expression as fatherly, but I’ve never seen a more disappointed or pissed-off father.

“Tell me who I need to kill,” he adds.

Tatum jumps to her feet and approaches him with caution to rub his back. “Hey. She’s okay. Take a breath, and tone it down. Let her explain.”

Judge snaps his fingers at Marcus then gestures at me.

“Fuck.” Marcus hangs his head and takes a deep breath, then he sits stiffly in a chair because of the permanent stick up his ass. His rigid posture vanishes when his concerned gaze meets mine again. “I’m sorry, Maisy. I should’ve asked if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine. Just got knocked around a bit in a dark alley.”

“Jesus,” Jake groans. “Don’t joke about this, Maisy. We’ve all been worried. When Jensen refused to give us details, Marcus spent the entire night moving our travel plans up by a day. The man hasn’t slept, and neither has Tate, because you wouldn’t answer your goddamn phone.”

My gaze travels from Marcus’s exhausted face to Tatum’s distressed one. On top of her finding out she’s pregnant, she and Jake got engaged. This should be a time to celebrate my friend. Instead, she’s here, staring at me through teary, bloodshot eyes.

I’m such a jerk. Why is it so hard for me to reach out and ask for help? Or to believe people care enough to worry about me? The least I can do to alleviate their worries and make amends is open up about the incident.

“I really am okay. The paramedics examined me, and the police took a statement.”

“Did they catch the guy?” Marcus asks.

“No, but a witness saw his face.”

Judge nudges me with his elbow, drawing my focus to the question in his eyes.

“No. He didn’t try anything like that,” I say, reassuring him with a pat on his knee. Everyone releases a collective breath, and their relief soothes my hardened heart while burning my eyes. “Y’all, it was a classic mugging. Attempted. He tried to take my bag, but I refused.”

“Always let go of the goddamn bag!” Marcus yells, riled up again.

I respond with equal fire in my veins. “No! It’s my bag, Marcus! Some asshole doesn’t get to take it from me because he feels like it.”

His jaw hangs open in disbelief, then he scoffs and mutters, “So damn stubborn.”

“What about the project? Does Marzan know what happened?” Tatum asks.

“Marzan can go screw himself. Ass-grabber,” I mumble, crossing my arms.

“He touched you?” The vein bulging in Marcus’s temple threatens to burst. “I’ll kill him.”

“You can’t kill everyone on my behalf, Marcus.”

Judge shrugs a shoulder and grunts as if saying watch us do just that.

Tatum’s phone buzzes in the front pocket of her sweatshirt. It’s been going off since they arrived. She accepts the video call and hands me the phone. “It’s the other Cali boys.”

A dramatic gasp comes from Miguel, who’s way too close to the camera. “Who soiled my angel’s perfect face?”

“It’s just a few scratches, Miggy. My face will heal.”

“Oh, thank god. I was ready to buy you a mask!” he cries.

Graham steals the phone because we never know what will come out of Miguel’s mouth. He’s worse than I am in tense situations. We navigate uncomfortable seas on a high-powered jet ski of sarcasm and inappropriate humor, which most people find offensive.

“Maisy,” Graham says, his tone thick with worry. “Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay.” I force a smile and announce to the room, “Everyone, I’m fine. Don’t ask me again.”

I’m not the least bit fine, and Marcus’s narrowed gaze calls my bluff. He misses nothing.

“How can you be so calm about this?” Jake asks, his eyes wide with incredulity. “Someone hurt you, Maisy.”

“I’ve already processed what happened. Let’s put it behind us.”

They gawk at me like I’ve sprouted a few extra heads. Perhaps I’m in shock, and my mind isn’t ready to accept what my body already knows. I was assaulted…twice in one day.

“So what happens now? If you’re off the project, what’s next?” Tatum’s been gripping my trembling hand this whole time. Bless her for not exposing my anxious state to the rest of the group.

Graham reminds me of our living situation. “We only have the house for two more days. Are you coming home?”

He’s referring to California as my home. Despite living there for nine years, it’s not. In truth, nowhere has ever felt like home to me. But he poses the million-dollar question. Where will I go? With no work lined up, and Tatum moving back to Walford for good, that leaves me and the four Cali boys. I love them with my whole heart, and I know I can find other projects in California, but I don’t have to live there to work there.

Plus, there’s the Vera situation. She needs help, and as much as I don’t want to be the one to suffer alongside her, she doesn’t have anyone else. I won’t leave the burden of her care on Jensen’s shoulders. He’ll run himself ragged trying to do everything. The problem is, I cannot live with Vera. Apart from getting my own place, I’m low on options. Unless…

“Can I stay in your room at Pam’s?” I ask Tatum. “I assume you’ll be living with Jake now.”

“Hell yeah, she is,” Jake says.

Tatum’s jaw drops. “You want to go to Walford?”

“Not at all. But I need to. Vera’s having health issues, so I’ll stick around until I can get her sorted.”

“Are you sure?” This comes from Graham, and when I glance at the phone screen, the smirk on his lips makes me want to hang up on him.

“I’m sure.”

“This is a mega decision, but I think you’re making the right call. I’m mega proud of you.” He winks at me and laughs at my best effort to scowl with a scabby face.

“You two with your secret code language,” Tatum says. “I swear you were identical twins in a previous life.”

She hates not knowing what’s going on all the time. Graham and I will carry an inside joke for months just to mess with her because she’s so adorable when she gets mad.

“Some lady has walked by three times since we sat down,” Jake says, staring out the window.

Judge springs from the couch and peeks through the blinds. Whatever he sees, he shares a look with Marcus and nods, then they both look at Jake with similar, odd expressions that resemble a modicum of respect, until Jake opens his snarky mouth and ruins it.

Shrugging at Marcus, he says, “What? Someone has to do your job.”

“He has a death wish,” I whisper to Tatum. Her bulging eyes ping between a fuming Marcus and a smirking Jake. “Marcus is gonna kill him before your wedding.”

Miguel’s voice chimes through the phone’s speaker. “I don’t handle blood very well. Angel, call us later.”

“I will.”

The call disconnects just before Marcus pops. “Judge!” he barks. “Get Tatum and this asshole back to Walford. I’ll stay here and drive with Maisy tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m staying.” The warning glare he levels me with leaves no room for argument. Sighing, I nod, aware his reprimand is far from over.

At the front door, Tatum says, “Come see me as soon as you get settled at Pam’s. I’ll let her know you’re coming.”

“She won’t mind?”

“Of course not. She loves you like a daughter.”

Judge motions for Tatum to raise her hood, then he escorts her out the door.

“Glad you’re okay, Maisy,” Jake says, tossing me a wave before he follows them.

As soon as they’re gone and Marcus shuts the door, he turns on me and loses all the poise he carries in front of the rest of our group. His shoulders drop six inches when the tension leaves him.

“You scared me to death.”

I circle my arms around his waist. He should be comforting me, but he’s the one shaking.

“Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve come to Philadelphia.”

“Honestly, I think I was in shock. I had to get out of there.”

He pulls back and has a closer look at my face. “Swear to me the guy didn’t try anything.”

“I swear. It was a mugging. That’s all.” With my cheek buried in his chest, I tease him. “Head of the family, huh?”

Chuckling, he says, “I don’t know where that came from.”

“Well, it’s true. You keep us in line.”

“Obviously not.” A long exhale flows out of him. “God, baby girl. Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve called you.”

Marcus and I share a special bond no one knows about. Early on, when the cousins first started working for Tatum, he and I stayed up late one night after watching a movie and everyone else had gone to bed. For whatever reason, we opened up to each other.

Something tragic happened to his sister, though he never shared the exact details, but she’s the reason he became overprotective, hyper-diligent, and closed off. After the night we talked about our siblings, I became the little sister he misses dearly, and he became the older brother I wanted Logan to be.

“Will Tatum hate me if I bury her baby’s daddy?”

“I think she will.” I laugh when he sags in defeat. “Give him a chance. I know he acts like a spoiled child most of the time, but he loves her more than anything. And he’s honestly a good guy.”

“Fine. He lives another day, but he owes you a life debt.”

Still locked in our embrace, I say, “This hug has gone on long enough.”

“It really has. But I was so worried about you. Promise me you’ll never put me through that again.”

“I promise.”

We let go of each other, and Marcus drops onto the couch like the weight of the world has become too burdensome to carry. He’s been our Atlas for so long, and we often take him for granted.

I curl up next to him and tuck my legs underneath me. “You should take a break. With Tate moving back to Texas, you can finally chill out and enjoy being with Roni,” I say, waggling my eyebrows at him.

Marcus and his girlfriend, Roni, have been together for a few months. He’s a different man around her—a softer man—and she offers him a slice of normalcy he couldn’t have as a celebrity’s head of security.

He kept Tatum in line for years, a challenging feat with everything she put herself through. Endless tours, endless fans, and endless self-destruction. It’s been a nightmare I’m more than happy to see come to an end. We all are.

“I might. The clubs and parties aren’t doing it for me. Feels like I’m taking ten steps backward. Going from high-risk security to a bouncer with a hand stamp.”

“Find your happy place, Marcus. You deserve it.”

He smirks at me. “You first, baby girl. I hear you’re in for a mega good time in Walford.”

“Ugh! Graham and his big mouth!” I hit Marcus in the head with a throw pillow, which does nothing to stop his laughter. But I let him laugh because he doesn’t unwind like this often, and the sound brings a much-needed smile to my face.

17

MAISY

Pam Wakefield should be classified as a national treasure or one of the world’s wonders. She’s like the mother figure or favorite aunt to our band of misfits, and she loves each of us without judgment, which some of us never experienced until Tatum pulled us all into her orbit.

In high school, I spent a lot of time with Pam—especially while Tatum was at Jake and Jensen’s house—to avoid being at home. Aside from Jensen, she’s the only person who knows how unseen I felt around my family.

When Marcus and I enter her kitchen, she says, “Marcus, would you mind putting her bags in Tatum’s room?” Then she pulls me into a hug. “I guess we should call it your room now.”

Damn this woman for making me cry. “Thank you,” I say.

“You’re going to be just fine, sweet girl. Stay here as long as you need,” she says, swaying us side to side. “How about some tea to make you feel better?”

I laugh through my snotty tears, grateful she knows me well enough to lighten the mood. “God, please no.”

Chuckling, she opens the refrigerator. “I ran to the store and bought you some of those flavored waters you like. Raspberry or peach?” You’re a peach, Pam Wakefield.

“Raspberry sounds good.”

Marcus returns as she hands me the can of sparkling water. We settle on the couch, and of course, he takes a seat right next to her. Like I said, we all adore her.

“How are you?” she asks him.

He answers through the severe frown on his mouth. “Pissed.”

Pam clucks her tongue. “Language.”

His large frame sinks further into the cushions, and he scrubs his tired face. “Sorry. All these years, I worried about keeping Tatum safe and out of trouble, and it turns out Maisy’s the one who almost gave me a heart attack.”

“It’s not like I planned it,” I argue.

“I know.” He sighs. “I’m not blaming you. Of course I’m not. But how am I supposed to keep everyone safe if we’re not together?”

My eyes light up at the opportunity to turn all this frowning upside down. “Oh my god. Marcus Ames, do you miss us?” He glowers at me when I give him a bratty smirk. “You do. You love us and miss us. Who knew could you be so soft and mushy inside?”

“You need a break, Marcus,” Pam says while rubbing his shoulder. “Take a vacation with that nice girlfriend of yours and reset. You’ve more than earned it.”

He quirks the scarred eyebrow and asks, “And who’s gonna babysit Judge?”

Judge can’t be trusted when left to his own devices. One time, Marcus left him behind for a pop-up show Tatum put on in San Francisco, thinking he didn’t need the extra security. In a single day, Judge stenciled and painted a fleur-de-lis pattern on the dining room wall.

“He’s welcome to stay with me,” Pam says.

“I’ll think about it. A hiking trip sounds good right about now.”

I scrunch my nose at the thought of hiking. Marcus’s idea of relaxing while burning calories does not appeal to me. I’m more of a nap on the beach with an audiobook kind of girl.

“I better get going,” he says, sticking out a hand toward me. “Give me your keys. Judge and I will return your rental car. You’ve had it long enough.”

It’s true. Paying for a rental car this long hasn’t been kind to my bank account. Now that I’m in Walford, I can borrow cars when I need to drive somewhere. Pam has an old truck she’ll let me use. I hand over my keys, and we walk him out.

He gives her a hug before turning to me with his typical stern expression and pointed finger. “Never again.”

“Never again,” I promise. “You’ll be the first person I call at any sign of trouble.”

With another sigh, he tugs me against his broad chest. I’ve been against a lot of men’s chests recently. So much hugging. “Be good, baby girl,” he says with a kiss to the top of my head. “Mega good.”

I shove him away, smiling at his retreating back as he walks down the driveway.

Back inside, Pam joins me on the couch again, and we sit in comfortable silence for several minutes as the events of the past few days play through my mind. Marzan, the mugging, Jensen, my friends’ reactions and concern. I’ve never felt such a wide range of emotions in such a short span of time. At the moment, I’m mostly feeling anger. And as I’ve discovered, I cry when I’m angry.

Pam grasps one of my hands between hers. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I swipe under my eyes and face her, opening myself up to her sympathetic gaze. “Is it weird that I’m not too messed up over the mugging?”

Her features soften even more. “Yet.”

“Maybe never. The incident isn’t what I’m losing sleep over.”

“Then tell me what is.” A full sob racks my body, and she folds me into her embrace. “Let it out, sweet girl. Let it all out.”

“I didn’t last twenty-four hours on my own,” I cry. “The world didn’t even bother to chew before spitting me back out. My boss groped me. A stranger attacked me. I just want to be cherished for once in my life. To be treated like a human being with feelings and not like some useless object.”

She wipes the tears from my cheeks. “So many people cherish you, and I’m proud to be one of them. Whatever you’re looking for, whatever you think is missing from your life, look no further than the friends you have. They would do anything for you because they value you and want to support you. Let them.”

“I’ve relied on them for too long.”

“People rely on each other, Maisy. You spent half your life fending for yourself, feeling like you had no one to depend on, yet you still became one of the most reliable people I know. So don’t be afraid to embrace the help your friends offer. You deserve it.”

“Do I?”

“You’re more deserving than most. Not out of pity, but out of respect and gratitude for being such a good friend to everyone else.”

I sniffle and wipe my nose on my black cardigan sleeve before noticing the box of tissues on the end table. “Thanks,” I say, wiping my sleeve on my shorts, spreading the snot around. “You always make me feel better.”

She squeezes my knee. “Any time. Now please go talk to the man outside before he wears a hole in the pavement.”

I follow her gaze to the windows in the breakfast nook. Through the open blinds, we watch Jensen pace back and forth in the driveway with one hand in his pocket and the other stuffed in his wavy locks.

“Ugh,” I groan, sinking back into the couch. I’ve been here for thirty minutes, and he already found me.

“Embrace it,” she says as a reminder. “He’s worried about you. We all are.”

When I step onto the porch, Jensen’s no longer pacing. With hands planted on the hood of his Jeep and his back to me, he hangs his head low. Rain clouds fill the sky above, threatening to wash away my defenses as I approach on bare feet. I’m already exposed in a tank top and denim shorts—no makeup and my hair in a bun—so I wrap my cardigan tighter around my body as a shield.

“How did you know I was here?”

My voice startles him. He spins around, and his stiff posture relaxes as he looks me over, like seeing me in Walford brings him peace. Slouching against the Jeep, he crosses his arms and regains his composure.

“Small town. News travels fast.”

I stop several feet away from him, a safe distance. “What are you doing here, Jensen?”

“I had to see you. Make sure you’re okay.”

“You saw me two days ago.”

With a tired sigh, he says, “Maisy. Just let me care.”

“Why do you care?”

His penetrating gaze detects all the cracks of my surface, touching every raw thought and feeling I’ve ever had about him, no matter how deep I buried them. “You know the answer to that,” he says.

I step closer, cursing my body for gravitating toward his without my conscious consent. “I don’t know. You never said.”

He winces, but I won’t apologize for the low blow. Then a solemn expression takes over his handsome face, and he speaks a truth with a pointed tip just as sharp as mine. “Because you won’t give me a chance to say it.”

“I gave you a chance.”

“And I blew it, I know. Thirteen years of the silent treatment serves as a pretty good reminder.”

For some reason, I’m not inclined to flex my claws and tear at him like I usually do. I’m too busy fighting this moment of vulnerability, one I swore to never allow myself to feel again. The desire to speak the words I’ve wanted to say to him is stronger than my fear of opening up, so I set them free.

“You hurt me, Jensen.”

His knuckles graze my jaw and trail lightly over my scabbed flesh. I’m standing between his parted legs, and we’re both relaxed in our proximity and this moment of temporary truce.

“And we both suffered because of my mistakes. We’ve paid the price for too long,” he says in a strained yet tender voice. “Come home to me.”

“I’m here.” I gesture toward all of Walford, pretending not to understand his meaning. “I’ll be here until I deal with Vera.”

He swipes his thumbs along my cheeks and imprisons my gaze, our noses almost touching. “Birdie. To me.”

Tired of going in circles with him, I say, “Give me some time. I just got here, and there’s a lot to do.”

His arms drop to his sides, and he nods, resigned. “Okay. You know where to find me.”

We continue staring, our lost, lonely eyes crying out for each other. We haven’t moved, and I grip his shirt tighter as though I might float away if I let go. Fragility sits on my tongue with a confession he’s eager to receive.

“Tell me your thoughts.” The command is gentle, much like his hands now resting on my waist.

He knows me too well, and the eyes holding mine hostage mirror my emotions. Pain. Fear. Need. Helplessness.

“I was scared,” I admit. My lip quivers as I search his soul for safety. “Scared because I had no control over anything except my will to hold on to that stupid bag. And the director of the music video groped me. I’m so pissed that he ruined that project for me. I really wanted to succeed.”

Jensen draws me against his warm body, shielding me from the disgusting world and all its savagery. I bury my nose in his familiar scent and let the tears flow freely.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you.” Steady hands stroke my back, and I melt into him further.

Despite all the time apart, he’s my greatest source of comfort. The one place where I’m free to breathe because Jensen will never stifle my air or my voice.

I can admit I miss him terribly. I miss his friendship, his laughter, his encouragement. The solace he provides taunts me even now, chipping away at my grudge. I’m losing sight of why I hold on to it. Opening up to him used to be the easiest thing in the world. So I release some of my worries, knowing he’ll catch them and handle them with care.

“I’m tired of fighting, Jensen. I’ve never asked for much or caused trouble or hurt anyone. But no matter how hard I try to earn something for myself and to be noticed, I fail.”

“Your career with Tate was good, wasn’t it?”

I sigh into his chest, resting my weary head on his heart. “The best, and I’ll be forever grateful to her for believing in me. But she gifted me that opportunity. I didn’t earn it.”

“You gave her the gift. Your hands create works of art, and she was lucky to have you on her team for so long. Lucky someone didn’t steal you away.”

His deep belief in me drags another confession from my lips. Another fear. “If her career is over, what if mine is too? What if I’ve reached the end of the line, and I never get to leave my mark? I’ll be nothing.”

After what happened on the video shoot and how I reacted, I may never find work again. The reminder of how the entertainment business operates hits me with full force. I may have famous friends, but even their influence is limited if I’m labeled as difficult.

He tips my chin up with a fingertip to meet his gaze. “You never give up. That’s not who you are. As for leaving your mark, you succeeded. It’s engraved so deeply in my heart, you scarred me for life. Never say you’re nothing while standing in front of a man who believes you’re his everything.”

Unable to bear the sincerity in his gaze, I squeeze my eyes shut and whisper my ongoing plea. “Don’t.”

“Stop,” he counters, cradling my head in his hands. “Stop denying us. You say you’re tired of fighting? Stop fighting this, Maisy. Let. Me. In.”

When I lift a hand to wipe my tears, he beats me to it, brushing them away with his thumbs. “I don’t know how to let you in, J. I don’t know where to start.”

“You start by being as stubborn about wanting me as you are about pushing me away. You start by saying yes. Then trust me to make you happy.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re basically asking me to be clingy.”

“So? Cling to me. Seep into my pores. You already consume me entirely. There’s not much more I can offer you, but all I have is yours for the taking. I want you in my life again, birdie. Desperately. I want to breathe you and feel you every day—in every way imaginable. And more than anything, I want you to admit you want me too.”

A low, frustrated growl escapes me. “You ask too much of me, Jensen.”

“You don’t ask enough of me.”

And therein lies the crux of my resistance. I asked him for something once, and he denied me. In retaliation, I condemned us both to a lifetime apart. Why? So I could have all the power and control. I could have the upper hand for once…and keep it.

I’m afraid to ask him for anything, because the tiniest possibility of his rejection slicing me to pieces again isn’t worth taking the risk. Or wasn’t. Now I’m not sure. He’s trying so hard to reach me and penetrate my defenses. What harm can come from allowing him five minutes to state his case?

I twist the fabric of his shirt in my fingers, a familiar visual that blasts my memory back to thirteen years ago. To the day. When today’s date registers in my brain, my eyes snap to his face. I’m met with a remorseful gaze, proving he’s also aware of this anniversary. Neither of us can forget the day I walked away from our friendship. Perhaps we’ll remember this moment as well—right here and now—when I take one step toward reclaiming what we had.

“Fine. You win.”

Hope blooms on his face, eyes flaring with surprise. “Explain.”

“Once I’m settled, I’ll listen to what you have to say. But don’t push me,” I warn. “I’ll come to you when I’m ready.”

He lets out a sharp exhale and pulls my face closer, coaxing a shiver from me when his breath dances across my lips. “You won’t regret this, I swear. I’ll show you how perfect we are.”

“If you kiss me right now, I’ll rescind my offer,” I say, slamming the brakes on the tension in our atmosphere. If we crash into each other, the impact will be messy.

“You’re desperate for me to kiss you right now—practically begging—but I won’t risk my only chance.”

I scoff. “I’ll never beg.”

Ghosting a thumb along my bottom lip, his low voice drips with dark promises. “We’ll see about that.”

My body reacts to his challenge. Heart pounding, stomach fluttering, brain on the fritz. Unfortunately, the electric charge sparking between us fizzles out when he checks his watch.

“Damn, I have to get to work.” He releases me and climbs into his Jeep with a satisfied grin on his face, tossing out a parting declaration. “You belong with me, Maisy Rae Donovan. I’ll work my ass off to prove it to you.”

As he backs out of the driveway, the grey skies open, dousing my heated flesh with cool rainwater. I remain in place, paralyzed by my willingness to grant this man access to my heart when, once upon a time, he was so careless with it.

18

JENSEN

TREVOR

Saturday morning. My place.

JAVI

Can’t. I have a client session.

ME

What are we doing?

TREVOR

Building the new deck. We’ve been talking about it for weeks.

ME

Right. I’ll be there.

JAVI

I’ll join you for lunch.

TREVOR

No work, all reward for the yogi.

JAVI

<middle finger emoji> I’m not a yogi.

For an hour, I’ve been doodling on a stack of cardboard coasters stamped with a local brewery’s logo. With time to kill before the doors open for business today, I’m lost in my thoughts despite my long to-do list.

I can’t stop thinking about Lucy’s suggestion to show or tell Maisy what our future could look like. A speech is out of the question, but perhaps I could write down my fragmented thoughts. As long as I avoid viewing the effort as an assignment, I should be okay. My mind only becomes flustered when I’m put on the spot or being evaluated. Under pressure, I flounder, unable to convey coherent sentences and ideas.

In school, teachers awarded me low grades for essays or speeches, and I often failed the assignments. No one linked my communication struggles to performance anxiety, a self-diagnosis I made in my late twenties. By then, people had grown accustomed to my reserved nature and accepted that I’m a man of few words. Limiting my verbal communication is better than sounding stupid.

If I don’t think too hard about what I’m trying to say, words come easily. Like the other day when I delivered several truths to Maisy without becoming frazzled and tongue-tied. My thoughts and feelings poured out of me without conscious effort. If I could communicate eloquently all the time, I wouldn’t be doodling on this coaster, pondering the best way to tell a story.

My pencil halts mid-stroke as an idea forms. A genius idea. I’ll draw the future for her. How hard can it be to express through images what I could never succinctly describe with words?

“Knock! Knock!” Lydia shuffles into Bruno’s with a large bag hooked over her shoulder.

I set the coasters aside and give her my attention, adding extra pep to my voice. “What’s up?” I ask.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a folded piece of black fabric. “I brought the tablecloth you wanted.”

My mind draws a complete blank. “For?”

“Your setup at the festival.” My expression must be as vacant as my mind, prompting her to add, “For the table with sign-ups for stage time and the raffle.”

“Raffle,” I parrot.

“Yes.” She stretches the word, her eyebrows raised in question. “You agreed to man the raffle box this year, which is why you need a table.”

“Lydia, I—”

She cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t even worry about it. You can’t be expected to remember every conversation, especially one from over a month ago.”

Now that she mentions it, I recall a brief discussion about tables and raffles after we installed Tom’s muffin sign.

“I remember,” I say, taking the tablecloth from her and tucking it under my arm. “Anything else I may have forgotten?”

She chuckles, oblivious to the self-berating inside my head. “As long as you didn’t forget to sign up as a vendor, you should be good to go.”

I stare at her, grateful for the massive wood bar blocking her view of my clenched fists. My heart races, and my stomach twists into knots. By all appearances, I’m frozen solid and unresponsive, and her smile switches to a frown.

“If it slipped your mind, you better get over to the town hall. It’s April 1st. The sign-up deadline is today.”

Things don’t slip my mind. In fact, it’s the opposite. My mind does the slipping. But I can’t let Lydia or anyone else know, and I can’t get my damn mouth to form words.

What if the wrong thing comes out? I could snap at Lydia—misdirect my frustration with myself and aim it at her. Shit, she’s waiting for a response. This is lighthearted chit chat. But my head is not in a light place. Sweat gathers on my forehead, and I need her to leave.

“I’ll head over there now,” I say.

“Perfect! I better get back to work. Have a great day!” She waves over her shoulder on her way out.

Perfect.

I’m so far from perfect right now, I could crumble to the floor under the weight of my collective blunders, which flash through my head like a highlights reel. The raffle, the vendor sign-up, and the thousand other oversights I’ve made in recent weeks. A sliver of reason nudges my brain, reminding me I’m allowed to make mistakes, especially when I’m preoccupied with other things—more important things—like catching Maisy and stressing about Jake. But that sliver of reason is no match for the internal voices.

Failure. Loser. A total disappointment.

I usually conquer the raging thoughts by physically fighting back. Unfortunately, tearing my office apart isn’t an option, and I don’t have time to run home for a quick workout in my garage. The bar opens in less than an hour, and I’m opening alone today.

In search of a reprieve, and to stop the spiral before it gains momentum, I sneak upstairs and pray no one comes looking for me. I unlock the door and climb the steps three at a time. The tension in my body dissipates the moment I enter the room and absorb the sights, the smells, the comforts. All the reminders of her. Without Maisy around to keep me from spinning out of control, this room is the next best thing. This room, where all my memories of her come alive and soothe my tormented mind.

I sink into the papasan chair and drop my head in my hands, threading my fingers through my hair but suppressing the urge to rip the strands out of my scalp. On repeat, I tell myself I’m overreacting to the situation. People forget things—it happens—and there’s a simple solution to my current predicament. As Lydia said, I merely need to walk down the street and fill out a stupid form.

If I were mayor, my first initiative would be to switch all documents and records from paper to digital, allowing citizens to conduct their business with the town online. Not everyone wants to wade through discussions about the weather or who has the best zucchini bread recipe just to fill out a form with less than ten fields of information. But I don’t want to be mayor, so paper it is.

With thoughts of Maisy lulling my mind, I pull up my big-boy pants and trek to the town hall. Gloria Muñoz, who has worked at the front desk for longer than I’ve been alive, greets me with a warm smile, kind eyes, and coiffed hair with enough hairspray to withstand gale-force winds. I’m firmly in the camp of people who believe she single-handedly manages the town. Officially, she’s the receptionist, but her job responsibilities extend well beyond greeting citizens and filing paperwork.

“How are you, Jensen?” she asks.

I bury my restless energy and force an easy grin. “I’m well. How are you, darlin’?”

Despite her blushing cheeks, she rolls her eyes at me. “Good, thanks. What can I help you with today?”

“I’m here to sign up for the festival.”

She tuts and wags a finger. “You almost missed the deadline.”

“Almost.”

Thankfully, she doesn’t mess around with further teasing. She slides a pen and a stack of papers across the counter, and I complete the vendor form before flipping to the packet underneath it. My stomach clenches.

“What’s this?”

“The paperwork to get your name on the ballot for mayor. I heard you plan to run?” Her big, hopeful eyes make my skin prickle with heat.

Fuck.

“Uh…” Shit. I squeeze the back of my neck. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Don’t worry, you still have some time. Take the forms with you and bring them back when you decide. Be sure to complete and sign every page.” She leans forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between you and me, I think you’ll win. You’re exactly who this town needs.”

Needs.

With a nod, I rap a knuckle on the counter. “Thanks.”

Crushing the packet in my fist, I exit the town hall with my ears ringing so loud that it drowns out Gloria’s goodbye. A migraine is coming on, and I’m in no state to talk to anyone. Unfortunately, I get no say in the matter when I find Jake waiting outside Bruno’s. He stands taller when he notices me, and wariness settles in his eyes.

We haven’t seen or spoken to each other since before he left for California to chase after Tatum. He was broken after their fallout, and I tried to support him despite his anger toward me.

“Hey,” he says, his body language hesitant. Then his eyebrows crease with concern, and he grabs my shoulders. “Whoa. You okay?”

“Yeah. I have a bad headache.”

“You look pale.”

My voice sounds sluggish in my head when I speak. “I’m good. What’s up?” I ask, unlocking the door.

He follows me inside the empty bar and says, “Let’s go to your office.”

Once we’re settled with the door closed, I plant my elbows on the desk, massaging my temples to ease the tension pressing against my skull. On the inside, I’m thrumming with impatience, annoyance, and anger at myself. No one understands how difficult it is to keep these feelings from spilling over and causing a fiery path of destruction. I need to get this energy out of me before I do something I’ll regret, like snap at my brother.

“Jensen?”

Leaning back in my chair, I attempt to appear relaxed and give Jake my attention. “Yeah?”

“Did you hear anything I said?” he asks.

Shit.

“Sorry. This migraine is messing with me. What did you say?”

His features soften, and pride graces his lips. “I said Tatum’s pregnant, and we’re getting married at the end of the month.”

Several reactions crash into me at once, and I sort through them in a hurry. I’m thrilled for Jake and Tatum because they deserve happiness after everything they’ve been through. However, I’m heartbroken that my relationship with him is so fractured, he didn’t share the good news with me right away. They returned from California days ago. In the past, I would’ve been the first person he called with good news.

Doing what I do best, I force a grin. “That’s great, Jake. I’m happy for you both.”

Being the astute man he is, he assesses me. Too close for comfort. “You don’t seem happy.”

“I am. Truly.” I round the desk and reach out a hand, pulling him from the chair and into a hug. “You deserve this, Jake. All the good things.”

“Thanks.” We give each other a solid squeeze before letting go.

“Let me know what I can do to help with the wedding.”

He chuckles. “Oh, I’ll definitely be putting you to work. And your first job is to stand beside me as my best man.”

My eyes widen. “Really? After everything?”

With his hands on my shoulders, the sincerity and hurt are clear in his eyes as they hold my gaze. “You’re my brother. You’re allowed to make mistakes, and I’m allowed to be pissed at you. But in the end, we’re all we have as far as family. That means we forgive each other for what we can and leave the rest to our conscience. I don’t plan to hold anything against you because I know you. You’ll carry the burden of your regret for longer than you should. So what good will come from me adding weight to it?”

I clear the ball of relief burning a hole in my throat. “You’re a good man, Jake.”

“I was raised by a good man.” He grips my shoulder harder, fighting back his own emotions as he gifts me a dimpled smile. “The best man, some would say.”

Unable to help myself, I laugh and yank him into a hard hug I wish would never end. “Love you, dork.”

“Love you too, man.”

Sniffling, we end our embrace and wipe our teary eyes. “I needed this today. Thank you.”

“You gonna tell me why?”

My pursuit of Maisy, the pressure to run for mayor, the countless bar-related tasks I forget to complete, the mental spiral over the festival…these confessions sit on the tip of my tongue. But I’ve never burdened Jake with my problems because he had so many of his own. I’m the older brother, the bearer of responsibility, and I refuse to drop my worries into his lap.

“Lots of shit going on that I’m sorting through. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m here if you want to talk. I’m not as wise as you, with good advice and long lectures, but I’m pretty to look at and know a lot of funny jokes.”

I point to the door. “Get out. I have work to do.”

“Always so serious,” he grumbles while leaving my office. “I’ll call you about the suit fitting.”

“A suit?” I shout. The only response is his raspy laughter fading into the distance. Welcome, familiar laughter that soothes my soul just enough to make it through the rest of the day.

19

MAISY

Seated at the kitchen table with Tatum and Pam, I check emails on my phone, something I do often in hopes another job opportunity comes my way. I’ve been in Walford for five whole days, and I’m already claustrophobic. Like the town’s spinning me in its web to trap me here. I haven’t left Pam’s house aside from one visit to check on Vera.

“Your dress will be here later this week,” Tatum says. She spoons a second helping of homemade lasagna onto her plate and sprinkles half the bag of parmesan on top.

With Jake out of town for work, she spends her free time planning the wedding, eating, and inundating me and Pam with photos of her many online purchases.

“My dress?” I ask, my mouth stuffed with pasta as I side-eye her.

“Your maid of honor dress. Look.”

She taps her phone screen, then shoves an image of a blush pink dress in my face. I cringe at the color. It’s so pastel and girly.

“You hate it.” Tears glisten in her eyes, and I wonder if pregnancy hormones make her more sensitive than usual.

My gaze meets Pam’s, seeking rescue. Rather than throwing me a lifeline, she subtly shrugs, as if asking how I plan to salvage this.

“I don’t hate it, Tate. I’m worried about having alterations done in time,” I say, reassuring her with a partial truth.

I’m rarely able to wear long dresses straight off the rack. They require a full nip and tuck overhaul to fit me properly. Tatum hasn’t faced the fashion challenges that come with being short or curvy. She’s built like the mannequins all the couture designers use as dress forms, slender with narrow shoulders and hips. She also has long legs and not enough boob, ass, or thigh to cause a psychological meltdown in a fitting room.

“You have plenty of time,” she says, her mood perking back up. “Sonja will make your dress fit perfectly, and she works fast.”

Besides owning and managing the Noon Moon Café, Sonja runs a tailoring business from her home. She’s especially skilled with formal gowns and has stuck her needle in every prom dress to come through Walford in the past twenty years.

“You’re right. I’ll give her a call.”

Lie. I won’t call her. Pam has a sewing machine, and I’m more than capable of handling my own dress alterations. I’ll also need to dye my hair because there’s no way in hell I’m wearing a poofy pink bridesmaid gown while sporting pink highlights in my curls. I’ll look like a cupcake.

“No need. You’re coming to lunch with me and Lucy tomorrow. You can get on her schedule then.”

“I can’t tomorrow.”

She frowns. “Why not? You’ve been here for days, and you never go anywhere.”

A sigh escapes me, my annoyance with reality prevalent. “I’m cleaning Vera’s house.”

“That’s nice of you,” Pam says.

Unable to accept her compliment, I keep quiet and shovel food into my mouth. Honestly, I haven’t figured out my reasons for helping Vera. Maybe I’m selfish and want her to acknowledge me. Maybe I know she’s a stress cleaner, but she can’t physically do it herself.

Vera’s need to clean stems from more than stress these days. Before Logan died, she kept the house sparkling to a shine, not a speck of dust in sight. After his death, cleanliness became an obsession, and I wonder if scrubbing baseboards and polishing doorknobs affords her a modicum of control. If that’s the case, my efforts won’t mean anything to her regardless of the reason I’m doing it.

“Do you know what’s wrong with her yet?” Tatum asks.

“No. She has a follow-up appointment with Lucy’s dad in a few days, and I’m hoping we learn the diagnosis so I can get on with my life.”

Pam dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “What will you do if she needs long-term care?”

I ask myself this question daily. Based on my limited internet research of Vera’s symptoms, she appears to be facing some major life changes and may need ongoing help. Whether that help comes from me is yet to be determined. I don’t allow my mind to travel that far ahead in the future, a future where I’m stuck in this crappy town.

I answer Pam’s question with a careless shrug. “Ship her out to sea?”

While she hums in quiet disapproval, Tatum gasps in alarm. “Maisy! She’s your mother!”

“Someone forgot to tell her that. She can’t expect me to show up for her when she never showed up for me. I’ll do whatever’s needed to get her situated, then I’m done.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you with Vera?” Pam asks. I have trouble looking her in the eyes after behaving like a cold-hearted bitch in her sweet presence.

“Or me,” Tatum says. “Whatever you need, we can help.”

It’s one thing for someone to know how I feel about Vera. It’s another thing to witness my bitterness toward her firsthand. The thought makes my stomach churn. Her lack of interest in me is embarrassing, as unintentional as it may be. And I’m equally ashamed of how I lash out to garner a reaction from her.

Rattled by these thoughts, I poke at the lasagna with my fork, avoiding their gazes. “Thanks, but I’ve got everything under control.”

A petite woman crosses Vera’s front lawn. She has black hair, a fair complexion, and a red-lipped smile aimed at me. Inside the truck, where she can’t hear me, I groan because I’m being forced to dust the cobwebs off my friendliness. I slide out of the driver’s seat and shut the door when my shoes meet the ground.

“Hi, Maisy,” she says with an eager wave and an unnecessary amount of cheer before pointing to herself. “I’m Lucy. We met at the Christmas festival a while back.”

“I remember.” I try to smile, truly, but I’ve seen my fake smile in the mirror, and it’s not a pretty sight.

She gestures with a thumb over her shoulder. “I was just checking on your mom. She’s in her bedroom watching TV. She told me about her upcoming appointment with my dad, so I put a sticky note with the details on the fridge in case she forgets to mention it.”

Obviously, Lucy knows my mother well. Vera won’t forget; she simply won’t say. I found out she had an imaging appointment and a follow-up with her primary doctor, but I had to pry the information out of her. She wouldn’t even say who drove her to those appointments.

“Okay. Thanks.”

Unfortunately, Lucy doesn’t interpret my gratitude as her cue to walk away. “Tate said you can’t join us for lunch today, but maybe another day now that you’re back?”

“I’m not back.” When her grin falters, I add, “But I’ll think about it.”

“Great!” she exclaims, pleased with my amended answer. “And let me know if you need any more help with Vera. My schedule is pretty flexible.”

“Sure thing,” I say.

As she drives away, I wonder why everyone is so eager to help Vera. Playing back Lucy’s words, as well as Pam and Tatum’s from yesterday, I realize they offered to help me, not my mother. Their generosity ignites a strange warmth in my chest, and I enter the house with renewed determination.

After an hour of vacuuming, dusting, and wiping counters without a single word exchanged between me and Vera, I hit my tolerance for the day and leave. On my way out, I find a flyer for a cleaning service taped to the front door, and I laugh at the irony. If only it had been there an hour ago.

On autopilot, I drop onto the bench on the porch and sag against the blue siding. I’m tired and overwhelmed by all the recent changes and events in my life. Vera’s stubbornness exasperates me, and I’m afraid my career may never take off. On top of everything, my conflicted heart calls out to Jensen, tired of fighting against his pull.

I told him to wait for me to reach out, but I haven’t yet. With Tatum’s wedding approaching, I can’t avoid him forever, because we both have parts to play in her big day.

My phone buzzes with a notification, and I find two unread emails in my inbox. The first is from Tasha, the stylist on the Marzan project, letting me know of a music video being filmed in Las Vegas. An up-and-coming director leads the June project, and she needs a crew. Say no more. I open the link and complete the application for the makeup artist position.

The second email sends my heart rate into a frenzy. Giddy, I kick my feet and suppress a squeal as I read through the details. A photographer who works with one of my favorite designers—a woman who dressed Tatum for a few star-studded events—needs a makeup artist for an editorial photo shoot. Two days in New York, all expenses paid, and I leave the day after the wedding.

The artist originally booked had to cancel for undisclosed reasons, and the photographer needs to fill the spot ASAP. I don’t care if I’m a second or third choice. My response is an immediate yes. This could be my big break into editorial makeup—my dream career.

Music videos and film productions are good gigs, but the fashion and beauty industries are where I want to establish myself. The offer couldn’t have come at a better time. It’s what I need to remind myself of my goals.

When I realize where I’m sitting—in my favorite spot where I spent many afternoons daydreaming about my future—my excitement wanes. This is also the spot where I forced Jensen’s hand thirteen years ago, ruining what we had together. The vivid details from that day haunt me on a repeating loop. Whenever I replay it in my mind, I wish for the details to change. I wish for him to be brave and honest, but I also wish for me to be more mature and reasonable. To unmake the decision I made to walk away.

The blame for how our friendship ended doesn’t fall squarely on him, and I’ll admit my years-long cold shoulder may have been harsh. Perhaps it’s time I take another step toward mending our relationship. We once supported each other wholeheartedly, sharing our wins and losses, as good friends do. I miss his unwavering support and encouragement. I miss him.

With that thought in mind, I pull out my cell phone again and send him a text message.

ME

I landed an editorial makeup gig.

His response arrives before I can blink.

JENSEN

This is a good thing?

ME

The best.

JENSEN

Congratulations, birdie. I’m happy for you.

Chewing my lip, I consider how to respond. I shouldn’t say I want to jump into his arms and let him spin me around in celebration and plant a big kiss on my smiling lips. Such romantic gestures are better left to someone else’s dreams, not mine. Instead, I keep my message simple.

ME

Thank you.

20

JENSEN

JAKE

Wedding decorating party at my house on Friday.

BRODY

As chairperson of the Walford Decorating Committee, I approve this message.

ROCK

I don’t decorate.

JAKE

Dress comfortably because we’re getting dirty.

ROCK

Don’t celebrities hire people for this shit?

BRODY

Define dirty.

JAKE

We’ll feed you.

ROCK

I’m in.

ME

<thumbs-up emoji>

BRODY

What kind of dirty, Jake?

Answer me, bro.

Maisy shared a win with me, and that, in itself, is a win. A small one, but I’ll take whatever scraps she tosses my way.

“You’re whistling.”

I glance up from the notebook in my lap. Trevor’s standing in the middle of the half-finished deck in his backyard, hands on his hips, rocking his khaki shorts and white crew socks with athletic sandals. We spent the morning installing the substructure and laying part of the decking, but now we’re taking a lunch break.

I smile at his baffled expression. “Can’t help it, Trev. It’s a beautiful day.”

He shakes his head on his way inside the house and calls out, “Want a beer?”

“Nah. I’m good,” I say, adding more details to the picture on the page.

“Is that a dragon?” Parker yells directly in my ear while leaning over my shoulder. The six-year-old, smaller version of Trevor has one volume: loud. “Dragons are cool!”

Tilting my head away from the line of deafening fire, I study my drawing from his point of view, not seeing a dragon. “It’s a dog with his tongue hanging out.”

His excitement deflates. “Dogs are boring.”

“Parker, go wash up for lunch,” Trevor says when he reappears.

“Okay,” he whines before running off without further complaint. He’s a good kid.

Trevor drops into the lawn chair next to mine. “What are you working on?”

“A vision board.”

He peers over my arm for a better look. “With hand-drawn illustrations?”

“More like visual aids.” I pause my sketching as an idea pops into my head. “Maybe I should add a few graphs. Or a pie chart.”

“Is this for work? You haven’t mentioned plans to change anything at the bar.”

“Not for work. But it’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.” Thirteen years, but who’s counting?

The good news is Maisy reactivated the countdown clock, each tick bringing us one second closer to reconciliation. I’ll finally get to apologize for hurting her and say—or show—everything I held back that day on the porch. The bad news? I don’t know when the countdown ends. Other than the text message about her makeup gig, I haven’t heard from her all week. I’m respecting her space, giving her no reason to run. However, the waiting game tests my patience, and I have little patience left in my tank when it comes to her. At this point, I’m running on fumes.

“Not to burst your bubble, but your artistic skills suck. What is that?” He points to the drawing at the bottom corner of the page.

“A rose bush.”

Maisy loves roses. She wanted to plant a rose garden when she was in middle school, but Vera told her they couldn’t afford a higher water bill. I’ll make space in my backyard for Maisy to plant all the roses her heart desires—bills, droughts, and water restrictions be damned.

“It’s some kind of bush,” he mutters.

“You’re a prick.” I flip the notebook shut and tuck the pencil behind my ear. “It’s called concept art.”

“Art is clearly a concept you haven’t mastered. Parker draws better than you, and he’s in kindergarten.” Trevor has the uncanny ability to smirk without moving a single facial muscle, a skill he executes while bringing the beer bottle to his lips.

Gina appears just in time to save her husband from the daggers in my glare. “Lunchtime, guys,” she announces, setting a tray of food on the patio table.

The couple’s two-year-old daughter, Eloise, toddles behind her. Like Gina, Eloise has dark red hair and brown eyes, but the little angel has Trevor’s calm temperament.

I spring to my feet and toss the notebook into my vacated chair. “Need some help?”

“Sure,” she says. “Grab the plates and napkins from inside?”

“On it.”

We settle around the table for lunch and friendly conversation while Parker plays battleships with his pizza rolls and Eloise pokes at her food with one finger, careful not to get the others messy. The lighthearted conversation takes a nosedive when Gina attempts to push one of her single friends on me.

“Megan Reynolds. She got divorced a couple of years ago and has a son Parker’s age. You may not remember her from high school since she was a grade below us and left Walford right after graduation. She’s back now and living with her parents until she gets her own place.”

“I remember her,” I say, only halfway paying attention while constructing a second sandwich. “But I’m not interested in dating.”

My comment floats right past Gina as she exclaims, “Oh! And guess who else moved back to town. Maisy Donovan.”

“Logan’s little sister?” Trevor asks. “I haven’t seen her in years.”

“She’s staying with Pam Wakefield, but no one knows why.” Gina snorts and adds, “Typical Maisy. She was always a mystery.”

“Remember her wild outfits? Crazy Maisy.” Trevor chuckles at the old nickname Logan’s friends—apart from me—used when they teased her.

“Don’t call her that,” I say.

He squints at my biting tone, but Gina doesn’t notice our subtle exchange and prattles on.

“She had so much confidence. That’s why girls were jealous of her and boys drooled over her, but she didn’t give anyone the time of day.”

Much of Maisy’s confidence was fabricated. She struggled with low self-esteem as a teenager, but like the other challenges in her life, she rose above it.

Thoughtfulness wrinkles Trevor’s forehead. “I don’t remember any guys drooling over her.”

“Logan wouldn’t stand for any guys going after Maisy. Remember when he locked that kid in the janitor’s closet to keep him from asking her to homecoming? That poor kid wasn’t found until late at night. And didn’t he choke Peyton Riggs in the hallway senior year?”

Squirming in my seat, I witness the realization hitting Trevor. His eyes burn a hole through my head. He assisted me in the closet escapade by acting as a lookout, though he believed the kid bullied someone and earned a little payback. He also stood nearby when I pinned Peyton Riggs to a locker, but he didn’t hear the vile words Peyton said about Maisy.

“That’s right,” Trevor drawls. “Logan was ruthless about keeping boys away from his sister.”

Gina continues. “Well, Lydia said Maisy’s more beautiful now than she was back then, if that’s even possible.”

“Oh, it’s possible,” I murmur under my breath.

“Girls are gross!” No sooner does the declaration leave Parker’s mouth than he gets little heart eyes and screams at the top of his lungs, “Astrid!”

With pizza sauce covering his face and shirt, he flies out of his chair and races toward Javi, Clementine, and their four-year-old daughter, Astrid. Parker grabs the little brunette’s hand and tows her toward the play set in the yard.

Clementine lets out a wistful sigh while watching the kids play. “Those two are adorable.”

When Javi began his world tour in search of his ideal wife, he brought several women to Walford to show off his hometown. They weren’t impressed, expecting a well-traveled Zen master to live some place more exotic than a Podunk town in central Texas. Turns out, his dream wife lived in a similar small town about an hour away. Clementine meets all of Javi’s requirements: she’s taller than him, curvy, blonde, and she prefers beaded jewelry to gemstones.

“They’re cute for now,” Javi says, grumbling. He falls into the empty seat beside Trevor, who’s eyeing me like I’m a subject in a criminal lineup. Javi’s scrutinizing gaze bounces between us. “What’s up?” he asks.

Trevor tilts his head and crosses his arms. “We were just talking about Maisy Donovan.”

“What about her?” Javi adds his laser-focused stare to my head, and sweat gathers on my neck.

“She moved back to town,” Gina supplies. She’s unaware of the three-way staring contest between the men at the table while she frees Eloise from the highchair.

Javi sinks back in his chair and curses, “Shit,” under his breath before looking away.

“Is that a bad thing?” Clementine didn’t attend school with us, but she’s heard stories of Logan and, by association, Maisy.

“No.” My firm voice dares Javi to meet my gaze so I can reiterate how her return is not a bad thing despite what he thinks. Her being back in Walford offers me hope for the new beginning I’ve been waiting for.

Gina picks up on the tension around the table. “I feel like we’re missing something,” she says.

Lucky for me, a sweet voice whispers, “Potty,” diverting Gina’s attention. She lifts Eloise into her arms and rushes into the house. I never gave much thought to their recent foray into potty training, but I’m grateful for it now.

“How long is she staying?” Javi asks. Apparently, he’s incapable of remaining in my good graces and feels the need to provoke me.

I raise an eyebrow in challenge. “Why don’t you ask her?”

With any luck, she’ll stay forever if I prove myself to her. I’ll show her I’m honest in my feelings and mean every word I say, and she’ll trust me again.

“You can also ask her if she likes to read illustrated books,” Trevor quips.

I’m a master of self-control because I don’t remove the pencil from behind my ear and stab my friend with it. Trevor’s ghost smirk appears as if he can read my violent thoughts. Clementine changes the subject and saves his life, but it’s not a welcome change.

“Javi says you’re thinking about running for mayor,” she says, addressing me.

The gentleness in her tone suggests Javi isn’t supportive of the idea. Rather, he’s concerned. Regardless of his opinion on the matter, I slide a scathing look his way. Mentioning my potential candidacy to anyone feeds the rumor mill. The more people become convinced I’m the future mayor of Walford, the more I’m pressured to step into the role.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I say, offering my standard response. Since I’m among friends, I also confess, “I don’t think politics is for me.”

Unable to read the room or my tanking mood, Trevor argues, “It’s more leadership than politics, and you’re a natural leader. It’s the perfect job for you.”

Perfect.

Fending off the stress the word conjures, I focus on Parker and Astrid as they run toward us. I imagine my and Maisy’s curly-headed kids trailing behind them, trying to keep up.

Parker stops in front of Clementine and says, “Astrid’s mom, I have a question.”

With Clementine’s attention diverted, I respond to Trevor. “I know what my perfect looks like, Trev. And it doesn’t come with the title of mayor.”

The only titles I want listed before or after my name are the ones linking me to a certain woman.

Maisy’s husband.

Father of Maisy’s children.

Maisy’s home.

21

MAISY

Jensen stares at me throughout Tatum and Jake’s sunrise wedding ceremony. He looks at the bride once and whispers something to Jake, then his gaze drifts back to me. Even while having our pictures taken afterward, he tracks my every move.

Yes, he looks delicious in a grey suit with a pink tie that matches my dress, but I have to pretend he doesn’t affect me. Give him an inch; he takes the whole circumference of the globe.

Tatum eyes me as I pour another mimosa. She thinks I drink too much when I’m in Walford, which was true the handful of times I visited her after she first returned. Back then, I needed to deal with the stress of being in this town. Since the mugging, however, I’m more diligent about how much alcohol I consume and where. At home or with close friends, I’ll relax and let my guard down, knowing I’m safe. Anywhere else, I limit my drink count to two.

Sipping from the champagne flute, I wander toward the table for the bride and groom on the back porch. As best man and maid of honor, Jensen and I have seats on either side of Jake and Tatum. They’ve asked us to give speeches, which I’m dreading. I hate public speaking and get jittery just thinking about it. The mimosas help.

“Can I talk to you inside?”

Heat radiating from Jensen’s body pulses against my back. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, secretly inhaling the rich blend of cedar and nutmeg from his cologne. To anyone watching, his presence irritates me. In truth, my heart pounds, and my belly flutters.

“Whatever you have to say, you can say it here.” I don’t face him, afraid he’ll see the flush rising in my cheeks. When he touches my hip, my eyes dart to the right to make sure no one is, in fact, watching us.

He steps closer, pressing against me, and whispers, “Get your ass in the house, birdie. Down the hall. Last door on the right. Now.”

“We have to give our speeches soon,” I argue, but the quick rise and fall of my chest tells a different story. His dominance turns me on, and my pathetic body also says get your ass in the house.

He squeezes my hip. “Now.”

I huff, feigning annoyance, and storm inside. I appear to be running away from him, but we both know I’m running toward whatever he’s offering.

Once I’m in the bathroom he directed me toward, I study my reflection in the mirror and wait. The image looking back at me is not me. She’s wanton, desperate, and submissive to her secret desires. This woman makes me angry, and I channel that anger, turning it on Jensen the second he sneaks through the door and locks it.

“What do you want?” I cross my arms over my chest, closing myself off to him.

He crowds me against the vanity and drags a finger along the neckline of my dress, across the swell of my left breast. “This dress is hideous. You would never wear something like this.”

“I’ll wear whatever makes Tate happy. It’s her wedding.”

My best friend is notorious for her poor fashion sense. She’s learned nothing from me over the years. This blush pink dress with a sequined bodice and long taffeta skirt with chiffon overlay is proof. Its only saving grace is the sweetheart neckline, which showcases my boobs. Boobs currently pushed up by my crossed arms, drawing Jensen’s gaze.

“Again, what do you want?”

“My five minutes. You’ve kept me waiting long enough.” His fingertip trails along the top of my other breast, and I smack his hand. He withdraws and slips both hands into the pockets of his slacks. “When are you leaving for New York?”

“Tomorrow. How did you know the gig is in New York?”

“I pay attention. How long will you be gone?”

I shrug a shoulder and, in the narrow space between him and the vanity, turn toward the mirror and pick at my curls. “I’m not sure. I may go to California for a few days afterward. So…a week?”

He towers behind me. When I glance at his face in the mirror, I’m met with a clenched jaw and eyes full of despair. Frustration and wretchedness, a tricky combination of emotions to navigate through.

“Please don’t stay away that long.”

Arching a brow, I say, “Oh, we’re begging now.”

“I’ve been begging. I’ll keep begging.” He reaches for me but stops short, balling his hands into fists. His gruff voice strains when he says, “It’s so hard to stop myself from touching you.”

A thrill zings through me as an opportunity presents itself, and I spin around. Staring into those chartreuse eyes, I keep my tone even, my facial expression blank. “A worthy man would beg on his knees.”

Without hesitation, the mighty, poised Jensen Holloway drops to his knees before me, and my inner boss-bitch roars from the power surging through my veins. I lean against the counter and curl my fingers around the edge of the granite, channeling my excitement into my white-knuckled grip to keep it off my face. He’s not much shorter than me in our current positions, but having the higher ground bolsters my confidence.

“What would you beg for first?” I ask.

He wets his lips, eyes locked on my mouth. “A kiss.”

“Then kiss me.”

The command barely leaves me before he tugs me down to his chest and claims my lips. He’s everywhere, his large hands exploring and groping and squeezing. He licks into my mouth with deep, passionate strokes of his tongue. I match each one, pouring my desire down his throat on an aggressive moan.

How many nights have I fantasized about watching him unravel beneath my spell? Too many to count. It’s finally happening, and I wish we were anywhere other than a tiny bathroom at my best friend’s wedding.

“What else?” I ask, breathless and panting as he nibbles my jaw and sucks on my throat. “What will you beg for next?”

He drags his juicy bottom lip up my neck to my ear and whispers, “A taste.”

Oh my god. Yes.

“Our speeches,” I say.

“Five minutes.” His rumbling plea dampens my panties.

We don’t have any minutes to spare, but I’m too far gone to care, drowning in his musky cologne and the warmth of his body against mine.

With a boldness I’ve never felt in my life, I issue a challenge. “What can you possibly do in five minutes?”

Guiding me to my feet, he looks up at me from his kneeling position. Hunger and victory shine in his eyes, and a shameless smirk teases his lips. Drunk on false power and blinded by lust, I’ve stumbled right into his trap. In one fluid motion, he shoves my dress up and rips my thong down my legs, stuffing the panties in the pocket of his suit jacket.

He gathers the material of my skirt, bunching it at my waist. “Hold this.”

I fist the fabric with both hands and gasp when he hoists me onto the counter. He parts my legs slowly, savoring the anticipation as he unwraps the gift sitting in front of him. I help him along, planting my heels on the granite and spreading myself wide.

A sharp gasp passes his lips when his gaze lands on my smooth, bare sex. “Birdie,” he whispers, the sound like a wave rushing ashore and knocking me off my unsteady feet. It’s a good thing I’m not standing.

I’m unable to hide my desire or breathlessness when I command, “Taste me.”

Still on his knees, Jensen lunges forward. He licks me from opening to clit and groans. “Fuck. You taste like my perfect undoing.”

He parts my labia with his thumbs and spears me with his tongue, burrowing deep before licking a path to my clit. The most erotic sounds pour from his throat as he devours me, and each one pushes me closer to the edge.

“Four minutes.” My ragged, shallow breaths come faster.

He nibbles and flicks and plunges. The scruff of his short beard rubs against my sensitive skin, adding to the euphoric sensations coursing through me. Lost in mind-altering pleasure, I struggle to remember we’re limited on time.

“Three minutes.”

I grab a fistful of his hair, and he moans when I tug the strands a little too hard and roll my hips. The man is doing things with his tongue I’ve never imagined, destroying me from the outside in. All the while, his intense gaze holds mine, knocking brick after brick from the stubborn wall I’ve erected between us.

“T-two minutes,” I stutter, my breaths sawing through me as I climb toward release. “God, you’re good at this.”

He hums in response to my praise, and the vibration shoots all the way up my spine, sending tingles across my scalp. My body’s a live wire as he brings me closer to orgasm with every swirl of his tongue and scrape of his teeth. Hot damn.

“One minute. I’m so close.” I whine—whine!—like a pouty brat because I don’t want this unbelievable moment to end.

When he adds a finger, pumping it in and out of me at an unforgiving pace, my legs shake, and I whimper his name. When his teeth graze my clit, and he sucks it hard between his lips, my muscles seize and my breath stalls. Just before my neurons explode from incomparable pleasure, he tears himself away and rises to his feet.

Chest heaving, I gape at him, incredulous. “What the—”

“All I wanted to do was talk.” He sucks his finger clean, relishing my flavor on his skin. Then he wets the decorative towel to wipe his beard and hands. His movements are languid as he speaks to his reflection in the mirror. “You’re not in charge here, birdie, and I won’t let you manipulate me. You want to run away again? Fine. Go ahead and run. But this is your shot with me. You won’t get another one.”

He tosses the towel in the sink, fixes his hair, and adjusts his crotch. Twisting the doorknob, he pauses with his back to me. “At least now I know the answer to your question.”

“What question?” My throat is dry, and my voice cracks under the weight of defeat.

A dare edges out the disappointment in his eyes when he looks over his shoulder. “In five minutes, I can have you screaming my name.”

With that, he exits the bathroom. The click of the door closing behind him might as well be a maniacal crack of thunder. I flinch at the sound and draw my knees together, covering them with my dress. His disapproval obliterates my earlier confidence, and I hug my trembling legs while replaying his warning.

“…this is your shot with me. You won’t get another one.”

He threatens me with the same words I spoke to him the day everything went to shit between us. I followed through then, turning my threat into a promise. Will he do the same? Better yet, am I willing to find out?

After checking my hair and makeup in the mirror, I tuck away the vulnerability lingering at my surface and square my shoulders before rejoining the wedding celebration. Jensen, not the least bit disheveled in appearance, speaks with Rock and Brody as if his head wasn’t between my legs minutes ago. He doesn’t spare me a glance, and his blatant disregard stings. So that’s what it feels like.

I drop into my seat at the table and snag the half-empty flute I abandoned earlier. My gaze lands on Marcus, who stares at me, his thick brows raised in accusation. I roll my eyes at him and down the last of my drink in a single gulp.

Tatum dances with Jake, and when our eyes connect, I’m surprised to find curious amusement in hers rather than the disappointment I expected. Obviously, I missed my speech, but she’s not bothered. With zero subtlety, her gaze shifts between me and Jensen with a knowing smirk on her lips.

I mouth sorry and offer her a wink and a shrug. She shakes her head, smiling as she turns her attention back to her husband. Genuine happiness for my friend puts a grin onto my face as they dance, lost in their own world of bliss. And I wonder if I’ll be the one in a beautiful gown someday, swept away in the loving eyes and arms of the man who refuses to look at me for the rest of the wedding reception.

22

JENSEN

Who am I kidding? Definitely not myself. I’ll give Maisy Donovan a million shots as long as there’s hope she’ll want all of me one day. But my hope dwindles fast. I’m thirty-two now, no longer a young man with nothing but time. I want to get married, raise a family, and I want those things with only her.

“I cut my breakfast short for this, so it better not last long,” Rock says, strolling into my backyard with Brody on his heels. “And if any of you tell a soul I’m here, I’ll break your bones.”

I point at Brody, who’s wearing board shorts and a tank top as if we aren’t three-hundred-plus miles from the nearest beach. “You brought him. He runs his mouth.”

Rock grunts. “He never runs his mouth about me.”

“My mouth is a vault,” Brody says. “Lots of things come inside, but nothing leaves because I swallow it all down.”

Everyone stops what they’re doing and stares at him with slack jaws. It’s Trevor who speaks for the group. “Sometimes I wonder if there’s a faulty wire between your brain and your mouth.”

Brody shrugs and carries on with his task, and we all follow suit. I get settled in my spot as we form a circle around my fire pit. At Javi’s nod, we close our eyes and let the sounds of sunrise wash over us. Birds chirping. A gentle breeze. The light swish of leaves as branches sway overhead. It’s kind of peaceful without Brody running his mouth. Speaking of mouths…

My tongue swipes across my lips, seeking the phantom taste of Maisy. What I wouldn’t give to watch her fall apart in front of me, because of me. Cutting her off mid-orgasm was a great sacrifice, but she needs to be taught a lesson. I’m not a toy, and this thing between us is not a game.

After a few minutes of quiet meditation, Javi’s soothing tone breaks the silence. “Trevor, what color is your mind?”

“White,” Trevor answers in his monotone.

“And how does it feel?” Javi stretches his words out like he’s singing.

“Soft. Fluffy. Warm,” Trevor replies, his bland voice equally musical somehow.

Brody snickers, and I crack an eye open to find Trevor staring the trees, already bored with this exercise as he plays along.

“And what do you smell?” Javi asks. He’s unaware that we’re on the verge of ruining his concentrated effort to help us find inner peace.

“Salt.” Trevor pauses for effect. “And lard.”

A beat or two passes, and now I’m fighting the urge to laugh.

“Trevor?” Javi asks.

“Hm?”

“Are you describing my abuela’s tortillas?”

Trevor doesn’t break, his tone remaining dead serious. “This is a dream circle. I often dream about Abuelita Rosa’s homemade tortillas.”

Javi sighs heavily in defeat while the rest of us burst into laughter. He says, “If you can’t take this serious—”

“What the fuck is this?” All heads snap to the gate where Jake stands with an open mouth and big eyes. He takes in the sight of five men sitting cross-legged on rubber mats. “Are y’all doing yoga?”

“It’s a dream circle,” Javi answers coolly.

Jake plucks his bottom lip and studies each of us, then zeroes in on Rock as his target. “Rock? Buddy? I think I saw the last of your dignity standing on the corner with a ‘will work for nuts’ sign.”

Rock huffs like a red dragon. “Fuck off, Jake. You’re just mad because you weren’t invited.”

“Why would I want to be invited to a hands-free circle jerk?”

“And this is why we didn’t invite you,” Brody says. “You’re judgy.”

“Judgy? Are you a teenage girl now?”

We mumble like-minded opinions about Jake proving our point with that statement.

“It’s not fucking yoga,” Rock insists. “It’s a damn dream circle.”

Jake spreads his arms wide, silently asking, and that makes it better? He waves a finger between Rock and Brody. “I can’t be friends with y’all anymore. This is too much. I have to draw the line somewhere.”

“Who shat in your cereal this morning?” Brody asks.

“Shat?” He throws up his hands and paces. “I’m done. I’m so fucking done.”

Knowing I need to put an end to their nonsense before they start wrestling in my yard, I rise to my feet. “Why are you here, Jake?”

My brother may be an early riser, but last night was his wedding night. He should be getting ready for his honeymoon since he leaves later today. The only reason the rest of us are out here this morning is because Javi’s been begging us to sample his life coaching skills.

Hands on his hips, Jake aims his accusing tone at me. “I came to find out why you disappeared at my wedding. With Maisy.”

The other guys scramble to their feet…everyone except for Javi.

“Nope. I’m out,” Rock declares. “I’ve got a creamy éclair waiting at home.”

Brody waggles his dark golden brows, and Jake’s face twists in faux revulsion.

“You shouldn’t talk about your wife like that, man. It’s disrespectful,” he says.

A flush creeps up Rock’s neck. “I mean the actual pastry, asshole. Don’t mention my wife, or I’ll knock your teeth in.”

Jake smirks. “Please don’t. Tate loves my teeth.”

“Will she like mine?” Brody bares his teeth and dances away before Jake can slap him.

“I’m out of here,” Trevor announces. He tucks his yoga mat under an arm and shakes his head at the three stooges. “Javier, it’s been a dream.” Javi flips him off. “Jenny, come by the house later.”

“Don’t call me Jenny.” I glare at him, and he chuckles as he saunters away.

Brody and Rock stand around like they’re waiting for permission to leave, which Jake grants them.

He quirks a brow at Rock. “Don’t you have something creamy to see to?”

Brody mutters, “I wish,” as he trudges toward the gate with his head hung low.

Once he vanishes, Rock puts aside the jokes and jerks his chin in Brody’s direction. “Any of you know what’s going on with him? He won’t open up to me.”

“No clue, man. He’s different,” Jake says, his concerned gaze fixed on the gate. The three of them may act like dummies, but they care about each other.

“Because of Ainsley.” When they turn to me with questioning looks, I shrug. “We all know he’s interested in her. He follows her around like a puppy.”

The pot and kettle comparison isn’t lost on me. I’m not ashamed to admit I’ll follow Maisy anywhere.

Rock says, “He brought her to our house a while back, but we haven’t seen them together since. I thought he was being nice to the new girl.”

Jake rubs a palm along his stubbled jaw. “What about the other changes, like the haircut and the moodiness? And has anyone seen him with a woman lately?”

“It’s been a minute,” Rock says. The space between his ginger brows cinches in thought. “In fact, I can’t think of the last time—”

“Bro, you coming?” Brody shouts from the front yard. “You’re my ride, Rocky Road!”

“Shit. I should go.” Rock claps Jake on the back. “To be continued. Later, fellas. And Javi.”

Javi waves with a middle finger. He’s waiting patiently on the sidelines for the Maisy discussion. Part of me wants him here for support in case Jake pressures me to open up about her. Another part wants him to leave so he doesn’t learn how badly she has me spinning out again.

The three of us head inside the house, and I toss each of them a water bottle from the fridge before we settle in the living room. I take the recliner, and Jake sits on the end of the couch nearest to me. With an ankle resting on one knee, he’s relaxed. Unlike me.

“Talk,” I say.

“Explain to me why my brother, my best man, missed his own speech at my wedding because he disappeared with Maisy Donovan. Maisy, Jensen? Why? How long? And again, why?”

I refuse to look at Javi, who’s at the other end of the couch. His brown tunic blends in with the leather, like he’s a fly on the wall. Every ounce of his judgment penetrates my skin, so I keep my inscrutable eyes on Jake.

“We had some issues to work out,” I say.

“Issues.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” he says without breaking eye contact. He enjoys the game of finding out who will look away first.

I sigh, ceding the loss, and rub my temples as I slouch in my chair. “It’s complicated.”

“Bullshit. Try again.” When I don’t respond, he pushes harder. “She’s Logan’s little sister. What would he say about it?”

“First off, Logan isn’t here. Thanks to me.”

Javi grunts in disapproval at my comment.

Jake agrees with him by saying, “Man, don’t give me that crap. Stop blaming yourself for what happened. It may have been your idea to go on that trip, but he was old enough to make his own choices. His death is not your fault, so move along. What’s your second point?”

“Maisy and I were friends. She was more important to me than she ever was to Logan.”

“Friends.” He studies me, his eyes narrowing as he mentally searches through our history. “You never mentioned it. I never saw you together.”

“It was no one’s business. Our relationship was private.”

The rising pitch of his voice conveys his shock. “Relationship? She’s three years younger than you, Jensen. You didn’t—”

Now I’m pissed, my upper body lunging forward, fingers gripping the arms of my recliner. “Fuck no. You really think I would go there, Jake? Is that the kind of guy you think I am? We were only friends. Good friends. She was my—We were—I couldn’t—Dammit.” I shove a hand in my hair, frustrated because I’m being forced to defend myself and can’t find my goddamn words.

“Hey.” Jake scoots to the edge of the couch and grabs my shoulder. “I’m sorry for even thinking it. I know better than to question your integrity.”

If he only knew how shallow my integrity runs these days.

“I can’t explain it, Jake. I won’t.”

He gives me a reassuring shake. “Fair enough. I’m sorry for pushing. If Maisy’s who you want or, god help us all, who you need, go for it.”

Ignoring his god help us insult aimed at Maisy, and being honest about my plight, I say, “I may not have the chance. She doesn’t plan to stay in Walford.”

“Wish I could tell you how to stop her from leaving, but Maisy does whatever she wants to do.”

“She frustrates the hell out of me sometimes,” I say, sounding like a grown man who’s pouting.

“Look. I don’t understand”—he waves a hand—“whatever it is between you two, mostly because I just learned about it and I’m still processing. But if she means something to you like you say, be relentless. Don’t sulk for ten years like I did.”

Relentless should be my middle name when it comes to Maisy, a thought I keep to myself.

“Thirteen years,” I admit.

“Really?”

“Really.”

He lets out a lighthearted chuckle and mumbles, “Fucking overachiever.”

I suppress my defensive retort, having shown enough weakness for one day. Jake knows a little about my communication struggles and perfectionist tendencies, but he’s not aware of my maddening efforts to maintain self-control. How, at times, those efforts take control of my life.

Instead of snapping at him, I muster a playful tone. “Get out of my house. You have a wife and a honeymoon waiting.”

He slaps his thighs before standing. “Fine, but I expect a full progress report when I get back.”

Rolling my eyes, I say, “Keep dreaming.”

Once he leaves, I meet Javi’s level stare. Resolve sits heavy in his dark eyes as he nods, understanding how far gone I am. At some point, likely in the near future, he’ll be pulling my ass from the tarry pit of despair yet again.

He runs a hand over the top of his head and blows out a long, resigned breath. “You’re fucked.”

My head bobs in agreement. “Yep.”

“Is there anything I can say to change your mind?”

“Nope. She’s the one, Javi. And I won’t lose her again.”

23

MAISY

Two weeks after Tatum’s wedding, she flounces into my bedroom at Pam’s house. Wearing a strapless dress and a look of steely determination on her sunburned face, she plops down on the mattress next to me. I’ve been hiding here since I returned from New York and California. While I’m still recovering from my wounded pride after the bathroom incident with Jensen, I’m also deciding my future.

Do I stay in Walford or not? Do I give in to my longing for Jensen or not?

“I’m back,” she announces. “Now talk, missy.”

I sit up and cross my legs, looking her over from head to toe. “How was the honeymoon? You look like a tomato.”

“We forgot our sunscreen on the last day at the beach. Jake got a tan, and I got this.” She points to her blistered nose and shoulders covered in a coat of aloe vera gel. “No more avoiding the topic. Tell me everything.”

While on her honeymoon, she sent me dozens of text messages, prying for information about what happened with Jensen at the wedding. I ended up blocking her number so she’d focus on her husband instead of me. I’ve also been drowning in guilt for ruining my part on her special day.

“I’m sorry about not giving the speech, Tate,” I say, gathering my hair into a ponytail on top of my head and securing it with the scrunchie from my wrist.

She flaps a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it. You hate public speaking, and no one even noticed. Jake’s speech was enough.”

“Still, you asked me to do something, and I didn’t come through for you.”

“You came through for me every day of every year since we met. Seriously, Maiz, I’m not upset at all. In fact”—she drags out the last word and waggles her flaky eyebrows—“I’m mega curious to know where you went with Jensen.”

A scowl hides my amusement. “Who explained it to you?”

“Graham,” she chirps, a pleased grin stretching her lips because she’s finally in on the mega joke.

Resigned that I’m not escaping this room without telling her the truth—and ready to unearth part of my history with Jensen because I’m feeling lost—I blow a forceful breath, puffing out my cheeks. “I don’t know where to start.”

“The beginning,” she says.

“Which one?”

My question leaves her speechless, so I make the choice and recount every interaction I’ve had with him since December, when I showed up at Bruno’s. I explain how he insists on inserting himself into my life at every opportunity. What I don’t share is how he knocks down my walls, one by one, until I’m left with nothing but the frightened girl who laid her heart on the line only to have it crushed. Many tears flow throughout my retelling of events, and several of them are mine.

Tatum asks, “Have you and Jensen ever…I mean, was there anything going on when you were younger?”

“No. We were just friends.” Without overthinking, I let the truth spill out of me, an admission long overdue and freeing to my soul. “We were close friends actually. I’d say he was my best friend until you came along.”

A few other kids were nice to me, and I hung out with classmates at school functions, but no one knew me like Jensen did. Jake was a close second on the friendship scale because our families spent time together before my parents divorced. But Jensen and I had an inexplicable connection. We have a connection, as he likes to remind me.

“What changed between then and now? No offense, but you don’t treat him like a friend.”

“I know,” I admit, averting my eyes to keep Tatum from seeing my deep regret.

Shunning Jensen, treating him with contempt and scorn, assaults my heart at every turn. We both deserve better, but I’m unsure how to do better. I need help—maybe some advice. But first, I’ll have to explain to Tatum what happened that day on the porch.

Maisy, 15½; Jensen, 19

Fifteen days ago, the last day I saw my brother alive, a boy ripped out half of my heart. A boy currently stepping onto the porch of my little blue house near the edge of town, wearing unlaced combat boots and a bandage over the newest tattoo on his left forearm.

Jensen doesn’t know I overheard him telling Logan I’m crazy. That I’m obsessed with him. He doesn’t know how much his words hurt me. I’ll never tell him, because doing so will make me look weak. And I am not weak.

“Hey,” he says, slipping his fingers into the front pockets of his fitted jeans. He jerks an elbow at the space next to me on the wooden bench. “Can I sit?”

Despite my racing heart, I shrug a lazy shoulder. “Sure.”

As he settles beside me, I inhale his cologne. It’s a manly scent that lingered in my house once he’d leave after hanging out with Logan.

“How are you holding up, birdie?” he asks.

In the past, the butterflies in my stomach would take flight when he called me by that name. Our secret nicknames used to make me feel special. Now those butterflies simply hover, struggling to flap their broken wings.

I stare at my mismatched sneakers, which complement the color-block dress I’m wearing. “You’re the first person to ask me that since the funeral.”

It’s been a week since we buried Logan, and everyone has forgotten I’m here. My family and classmates hardly noticed me when he was alive, but now I’m invisible.

Jensen rests his forearms on his thighs and links his fingers together. I like his hands. They’re big and strong, skilled at catching and protecting. Like Logan, he was a fantastic football player and had a college scholarship in the bag, but he gave up his dreams to care for Jake after their parents died.

When he leans into my space, searching for my gaze with those chartreuse eyes that penetrate my hardened shell, my breath catches. “You didn’t answer my question.” His deep voice sends my pulse into a frenzy.

I stutter. “F-fine. I’m fine.”

“It’s okay if you’re not. You know you don’t have to pretend with me.” Warm, minty breath skims my face, and my heart responds to his proximity, going into overdrive. “Tell me your thoughts, birdie. It’s just us here.”

My eyes flick to his mouth. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to kiss him—if he would kiss me back. I have my answer the moment every sculpted muscle in his body tenses when he realizes what’s about to happen. But this might be my only chance at having the first kiss I’ve dreamed of. Now, it’ll also be a goodbye kiss.

Before he can stop me, I lean forward and press our mouths together. His lips remain stiff and unyielding, refusing my advance. He grips my arms to separate us, a move I expected but find disappointing nonetheless.

“Maisy, no,” he whispers, his voice shaky and pained. Like he’s embarrassed for me. Like it hurts him to pity me, the crazy girl who’s obsessed with him.

“Why not?” I focus on the fabric of his black shirt twisted between my fingers. Please don’t make me let go of you. If you do, this is the end of us.

“You’re Logan’s sister.” His lame excuse slaps me hard with the label I’ve come to despise. “And you’re fifteen.”

“I’ll be sixteen this summer.” My tone holds a mixture of unwelcome pleading and bold persuasiveness to convince him the details shouldn’t matter.

Jensen and I shouldn’t be bound by the rules. Our connection lives in the tendons and ligaments holding my body together, and I know he feels the same despite what he said to Logan.

“It’s still not okay.” He lets go of my arms, taking away the last bit of warmth my spirit possesses. The last bit of joy I’ve clung to in recent years. My only friend.

A tear lands on the apple of my cheek before I pry my fingers from his shirt—the physical act of releasing him the worst pain imaginable. Worse than losing my brother.

When Jensen reaches up to catch the tear, I shove his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

He rakes a hand through his hair and blows out a long, unsteady breath. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Yes, you do.”

The truth in my statement settles between us on the bench. I turn toward him and hold his gaze, calling upon all the bravery I can muster.

“I never ask you for anything, J. But I need something from you now. I need to know how you feel about me.” Please, I add in my head.

Again, he says nothing, frozen like a statue with a tortured expression etched on his face.

“I’m only asking for words. Nothing else. Just your words. Admit you feel the same as I do.” I hate the desperation in my voice, so I clear my throat and wait. The pressure building in my chest restricts my ability to draw breath.

After tense seconds, he bows his head, unable to look at me when he plunges a knife coated with lies into my heart. “You’re imagining things.”

A level of anger I’ve never felt rushes to the surface. I scoff and rise to my feet, fists squeezed tight to keep my heartbreak from splashing on the rotted boards beneath me. “I’m so disappointed in you. The great Jensen Holloway, Mr. Perfect who can do no wrong, turns out to be a liar and a coward.”

Turmoil rages in his eyes when they meet mine again. He extends a hand toward me as if he can’t resist seeking me out for comfort, only proving my point. When I quirk an eyebrow, he lowers the hand and rubs it along his thigh.

“Exactly,” I say. “And if you can’t be honest with yourself and me, we’re done.”

His voice trembles. “Birdie, what are you saying?”

I square my shoulders and raise my chin, refusing to be the vulnerable one who claims defeat. This loss belongs to him. “I’m saying this is your shot, Jensen. You won’t get another one.” Tell me you care about me, because you’re the only person alive who does.

The silence is deafening, louder than any shot fired at close range.

He fists his hair again and searches my face with frantic eyes, seeking the punchline to the joke. When it doesn’t come, and he remains speechless, I ignore the ache in my stomach. I also dismiss the urge to comfort him as he harshly tugs at the strands. Instead, I offer him one last chance.

“Ticktock, Jensen. It’s now or never.”

“Birdie, you’re not being fair. I—You—We can’t—” He swallows his failed words along with all hope for our future together.

I’m not the emotional girl who cries and begs to get what she wants. I’m made of tougher stuff. So I slip on the mask of indifference I inherited from my mother and sever ties with the only person alive who loves me. Even if he won’t admit it.

“Never it is.” Twirling on my heel, I plan to storm away, but he jumps to his feet and grabs my arm to stop me.

Fury hisses from his lips when he delivers a verbal punch. “Why the fuck are you being like this? You’re acting like a silly little girl!”

My free hand shoots up fast. I’m shocked by his quick reflexes when he captures my wrist before my palm connects with his face.

He holds both of my arms against his chest to keep me in place. “We don’t do that, birdie. We don’t hurt each other.”

“You struck first!”

Heavy regret forces his eyelids to close. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Let go of me!” I tug against his hold, but he doesn’t relent.

“What happens when I do?” An eerie calm smooths his features, but fear swirls in his eyes as he awaits my answer.

Taking a play from his playbook, I glare at him with pursed lips and say nothing. We stare at one another for mere seconds that stretch like an excruciating lifetime.

“Maisy.”

A thick, heavy pause hangs between us. A guillotine with a sharp blade, ready to drop and sever the threads binding us. I can tell he senses the looming devastation. Panic is written all over his face.

A tremor creeps into his whisper. “What happens when I let go?”

My tone remains unaffected despite the pain clawing through me. “Nothing will happen. Ever. Because I don’t need you anymore.”

The blade drops, swift and violent. He releases my wrists, eyes wide and lips parted on a gasp of disbelief. Jensen knows me better than anyone does, and he knows my decision is final.

I escape into my house and slam the door. Chest heaving and hope shattered, I fight back the tears threatening to fall. When he roars, “Fuck!” from the other side, followed by a crashing sound, I almost change my mind. Almost. But I’m nothing if not stubborn. Jensen chose never? Well, he can have all of mine.

I will never shed another tear.

I will never give a boy the power to hurt me.

I will never allow myself to be vulnerable again.

I will never speak to Jensen Holloway for as long as I live.

One day, I’ll leave this town and never come back.

Sniffling, I wipe my cheeks and attempt a laugh. “It all seems silly now, doesn’t it? Teenage drama at its finest.”

“You loved him,” Tatum whispers with a blend of wonder and pity in her eyes.

“I thought he loved me,” I say, correcting her. “When I needed him most, he let me down. That’s not love.”

“But you also loved him or else you wouldn’t have been so hurt that you held a grudge for this long.”

I thought I loved Jensen, but that day made me question everything, including what love is supposed to look like. Couples hold hands and exchange sweet words, but I’ve never experienced either of those. If I had, they would’ve been meaningless. For me, love is a feeling—innate, immeasurable, and invisible to the human eye. However, since the fallout with Jensen, I no longer trust my feelings.

“I don’t know what to do now. He wants to talk, but I know he’ll try to convince me to stay in Walford. I’m not staying here, Tate. I’ve said all along my plan is to deal with Vera and leave.”

Irritation hardens her features. “Where will you go, Maiz?”

Frowning, I ask, “What do you mean? I can go anywhere.”

She sits up, mirroring my position, and grasps my hands in hers. “Just hear me out. I’m in Walford. Miguel and Graham are talking about buying a place here. Marcus and Judge will visit when they can. Don’t use being apart from our family as an excuse to leave. No matter where you live, we won’t all be together like before. So tell me the truth. What is it about this town that makes you hate it so much? And don’t say it’s your mother. Your mother isn’t Walford.”

I think long and hard about my answer. In the past, I claimed it was the people here failing to notice me, my parents’ lack of interest, and my brother’s shadow looming over me, snuffing me out. I’ve made so many excuses about why I despise this town, burying the real reason at the bottom of the pile.

In truth, I couldn’t face the man who broke my heart, day in and day out, after I offered my soul to him and he didn’t reciprocate. I stay away because, to me, Walford represents Jensen.

My flooded eyes give Tatum the answer to her question, and she squeezes my hands. “Do you want to be with him?”

“I miss him,” I whisper, my bottom lip quivering.

“Answer the question.”

A shaky inhale fills my lungs with much-needed air. “Yes, but I’m scared.”

“No buts. He obviously wants to be with you. I’ve seen how he watches you and looks at you. Not like you’re the center of his world, but like you created it. He’s pretty intense,” she teases, and we both snort laughs at how true that statement is.

Then the humor melts away, and I’m left with the truth I’ve denied for years. “I do want him, Tate. I’ve always wanted him.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Nothing. In recent months, Jensen has demolished all of my excuses and blown my reservations out of the water. He proved all of my assumptions wrong. His actions and support speak louder than any words he could ever say to me, the same as when we were young. Time and time again, he shows me how he feels.

In that same period, I’ve relinquished all but one of my nevers. The only one remaining—the final vow I’m clinging to with fierce determination—is my promise to never give a man the power to hurt me. Through my uncompromising stance, I’m hurting myself.

My head tells me to take the advice I gave Jensen the night I stayed at his house. To leave the past in the past and grab hold of what’s standing right in front of me. Him. My heart, however, fears history will repeat itself, considering my track record with being loved leaves a lot to be desired.

But how does that saying go? Without risk, there’s no reward.

24

JENSEN

My Jeep rolls to a slow stop when I spot a familiar pickup truck—Pam’s truck—parked in front of my house. Turning into the driveway, my headlights sweep across the porch and illuminate the small form sitting on the steps.

The pounding in my chest increases as I shut off the engine, cloaking the porch in darkness. Is Maisy’s appearance a good sign or a bad sign? She could’ve decided I’m not worth her time. Or she could be ready to talk and work things out. Either way, I gather my courage and climb out of my Jeep to face her.

As I approach, she stands to greet me with a solemn expression on her face, revealing nothing. “You’re here,” I say, stating the obvious.

“I am.” She wraps her arms around her middle, as if she’s cold despite the balmy air, and avoids my gaze.

I clear my throat and swallow my nerves. “Let’s go inside.”

She follows as I open the door and flip on a few lights, keeping the kitchen and living room moderately dim. Light enough for us to see each other, but dark enough to hide our fears.

“Need anything?” I ask, opening the refrigerator.

Shaking her head, she sits on the couch and folds her hands in her lap, clutching her phone. I snag two water bottles in case she becomes thirsty. Steadying the tremor in my hand, I place them on stone coasters on the coffee table.

I’m not sure what to do next. Do I sit or stand or kneel at her feet? Apprehension fills the air, along with a tension so thick it could raze cities or add to the earth’s population, depending on how this night goes.

I rest my hands on my hips and breathe in and out, slow and steady. “Maisy—”

“You better get started,” she says, cutting me off as she presses buttons on her phone, then tosses it aside. “Five minutes.”

My breath stalls, and the fear of verbal struggle grips me in a chokehold. At last, she meets my gaze, and the playfulness gleaming in her eyes has me dropping to my knees in sheer relief.

Groaning, I wrap my arms around her hips and drop my head into her lap. “Don’t do that to me. Did you really set a timer?”

“No, I was just messing with you. I’m sorry.” Her tone is sincere despite speaking through a smile. She’s always had a wry sense of humor, and I welcome its return, even at my expense. Tucking strands of hair behind my ears, she says, “I wanted to make you sweat a little, but putting you on the spot was thoughtless of me.”

Because I’m unable to form words when I’m put on the spot.

Because my being put on the spot is what got us to this point.

Closing my eyes, I take a second to breathe in her coconut scent—sweet and creamy—but nothing is sweeter than the next words that spill from her lips.

“I’m ready, J.”

My head pops up, and our gazes connect. Her earlier confidence wavers as she searches my face for any sign of hesitation or doubt within me. She won’t find it. I’ve never been more certain about anything like I’m certain about us.

Unsure where to begin this long-awaited conversation, I blurt, “I wrote you a book.”

The runaway admission sets my ears aflame. She notices the reddening since she’s the one who tucked my damn hair behind them, exposing my physical tell. I’ll give her credit. She makes a valiant effort to stifle her amusement.

Rubbing my ears between her fingers and thumbs, she asks, “You want to unsay that, don’t you?”

“More than anything,” I admit.

“Well, it’s too late now. Show me this book.”

With a heavy sigh, I stretch my arm to retrieve the notebook from the side table. She plucks it from my fingers with far more excitement than she normally shows. For someone who instinctively guards her emotions, she’s practically giddy.

Her amusement grows as she flips through the first few pages, then flips back to the start. She draws her lips between her teeth, her eyes glistening with barely restrained humor.

I sag in defeat. “Go on and say it.”

“It’s a picture book.” She chokes on the words, as if a burst of laughter clogs her throat.

“Of us,” I say, seeking the tiniest thread of dignity to hold on to.

“We’re stick figures.”

“It’s the best I could do.”

“I look like Medusa.” She turns another page, and her laughter breaches the surface at last. “We both look like Medusa.”

“Forget it.” I attempt to steal the notebook from her, but she raises it over her head. “Give it back, birdie.”

“Never. It’s mine.” She squeals when I flip her onto her back and dig my fingers in her sides, tickling her. “Okay! Okay! Truce!”

She’s breathtaking when she laughs—wide smile, flushed cheeks, sparkling hazel eyes. Beautiful and happy and mine. My Maisy.

Hovering above her, I ease the pressure of my fingers on her ribs and lightly brush my lips against hers. The soft kiss is a palette cleanser as the mood shifts from carefree fun to confession time. We stare at each other long enough to witness the shared joy in our eyes fade away, replaced by years of separation, heartache, and longing.

“Come here,” I say, settling onto the couch as I guide her to sit astride me. This conversation needs to happen face to face without either of us hiding.

She straddles my lap and hugs the notebook to her chest like a shield. I squeeze her thighs, needing a connection to keep me steady while I formulate a speech in my head.

“I want to remind you of our childhood and how happy we were. But also show you our future and how happy we can be. I left some pages blank for the in-between because the years we spent apart had no meaning, no color.” I shrug a shoulder. “Drawing seemed like a better option than putting my thoughts into words.”

“Jensen.” My name floats from her lips on a sigh, and I brace myself for the worst. “I don’t need pictures to remind me of our good memories. They’ve always stayed with me. It’s the one bad memory I want to forget, so I need you to rewrite it.”

Need.

I shake my head, which hangs with the weight of my sins. “How? We can’t go back in time, as much as I wish for a do-over.”

“We can,” she insists.

The spark of determination in her gaze has me sitting up straighter. “Explain.”

She places the notebook on the table and laces our fingers together. “Close your eyes.” Trusting her, I do as she says. “Now imagine us on the porch that day. Imagine walking toward me, sitting beside me, asking me how I’m doing.”

Her tone grows softer, threaded with pain as the heartbreak from that day surrounds us. I remember the anger thrumming through her body and, during a moment of weakness, the plea in her trembling voice. I recall the sharp agony ripping through me with every second the sunshine cast a spotlight on the hope fading from her eyes. I remember stealing the last of her belief in love—of her faith in me. The disappointment. God, the disappointment.

My chest heaves in rhythm with my strong regret, and she cups my cheeks to quell the rapid rise of my self-loathing. Then she whispers, “Now imagine us a few years older, sitting on that same bench. Without thinking, say everything you wanted to tell me that day.”

“I love you.” No hesitation. “I’ve loved you since before I knew what love is. It’s different from how I feel about my parents or Jake or my friends. You ground me. Comfort me. I can breathe when you’re around. You’re my best friend. Not Logan or Javi or Trevor. You. When something good happens, you’re the first person I tell. When I’m spiraling in my head, you’re my only salvation. I can’t live without you. One day I’m gonna marry you and give you the loving home you deserve. The one you should’ve had all along. I’ll protect you, care for you, and make you smile. Always.” Clearing my throat, I add, “That’s just a little of what I would say.”

With my eyes closed, Maisy Donovan presses her lips to mine. This time, I don’t push her away. I reach for her face, absorbing her tears through my fingertips. Our lips part, and our tongues glide in a slow dance of awakening. This kiss, teeming with honesty and surrender, marks a union decades in the making. She’s giving herself to me. Not out of lust, but out of the love she’s afraid to admit exists. In eager acceptance, I draw her to my chest, never willing to let go again.

I want her. All of her. But if she’s only willing to part with a kiss tonight, I’ll treasure the gift.

When she pulls away from me, I groan at the loss of her lips, chasing them with mine.

“Open your eyes,” she whispers. We gaze into each other’s souls as her eyes glisten with remorse. “I’m so sorry. I’ve always been sorry and regretted my decision as soon as I slammed the door on you. Running away—staying away—was easier than admitting my mistake or dealing with the hurt. I blamed you for everything, but I was wrong. I never should’ve put you in that position. And I had no right to punish you for being honorable and doing the right thing.”

“I’ve only wanted to do right by you, even if my actions hurt us. But I never expected you to cut me off like you did.”

“I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. Can you forgive me?”

I caress her curls before palming her cheek. “I forgave you the second you walked away because I could only be angry with myself. I was scared. A coward. And I’m the one who should beg for forgiveness here. If I had given you what you needed, we wouldn’t have lost so much time.”

The pressure from her hand on the back of my neck urges us closer. “Let’s put it behind us. Start fresh.”

“Are you done being stubborn?” I ask.

“Yes.”

Her whispered response caresses my lips, and I claim her mouth once again, passing all the unspoken words of forgiveness, adoration, and worship from my tongue to hers. She slips her fingers into my hair, and I harden beneath her, coaxing a whimper from her when she grinds against my erection. I run my hands along the dip of her waist and wrap them around her ribs, just below her breasts.

“There’s no starting over or starting fresh for us. We’re exactly where we belong. But there’s one more confession I need to hear from you.” Lightly brushing my thumbs across her pebbled nipples, I ask, “Does your body crave me, birdie? Because mine starves for you.”

“You already know it does,” she replies while rolling her hips, mouth parted as if she’s in a trance.

I’m the one under her spell, a fact she proved in the bathroom at the wedding. She’s utterly irresistible. My biggest weakness and my greatest strength.

I press my forehead to hers, and relief forces my eyelids shut when I exhale. At last, I’m able to drop my carefully constructed facade and be my authentic self with the only person in the world who’s seen every crack in my brittle bones.

“God, I missed you. Every day without you was torture. My own personal hell on repeat from morning to night. I need you, Maisy. So much that I scare myself sometimes.”

“I’m here now, J. And I’ll take care of you.”

When she kisses me, all my demons fall into a peaceful slumber. My mind can finally rest in the serenity I’ve been missing since she banished me.

“I want all the way in,” I say. “Be more than just my friend or the woman in my dreams. Give me all the parts of you, even the ones you fear the most, and have faith that I’ll cherish them.”

She leans away and chews her bottom lip, contemplating her next words. “I’ll let you in, but I have some rules.”

“Rules,” I echo, not liking the sound of the word. At all.

“If we’re gonna explore this, I have hard limits.”

Her suggestion that we’re merely exploring is laughable, but her mention of hard limits intrigues me. I keep my thoughts on both matters to myself.

“We’re exclusive.” She loops her arms around my neck and plays with my hair. The thought of her tugging it sends a delightful shiver down my spine.

“That’s a given. You were born with my heart in your hands. Once you claim my body, you’ll own me completely. Nothing and no one could ever take me away from you.”

The tips of our noses rub together, and I hold her head in my hands, dragging my nose along her cheek and jaw as I breathe her in. The air thickens with desire, and we’re unable to fight the magnetism any longer.

“There’s more,” she says as I suck on her exposed throat.

The huskiness in her voice lights my flesh on fire, and I’m desperate for her proclamations to reach a swift end. My body aches to be one with hers, but I summon patience and hear her out.

“You give me space when I need it. Don’t try to control my life.”

“We both know you hold all the power.” I nip her earlobe with my teeth, and she digs her sharp nails into my shoulders. “What else?” I ask gruffly, relishing the pain.

“Don’t hide from me. I want all the way in with you too.”

I’m buzzing beneath my skin. Anticipation swirls like an agitated hornet’s nest at what she’s offering: her complete submission.

This time, I’m the one who pulls back to capture her gaze, needing confirmation of her absolute understanding. “Are you sure? You may not like what you find behind that door. I don’t do halves, Maisy. You can’t ask for all of me, only to retreat in fear when you think I’m too much to handle.”

“I know who you are. And you’re always safe with me, like I’m safe with you.”

My voice drops lower, and her body shudders as I deliver a truthful secret to her ear. “If you knew all the things I want to do to you, you’d keep running and seek safety elsewhere.”

She groans, shifting the angle of her hips in search of friction. “How will this part even work?”

“Which part?”

“Look at us.” She gestures weakly between us to indicate our size differences. I’m over a foot taller and weigh at least a hundred pounds more than her. “You’ll crush me.”

I slip my hands inside the hem of her short green romper and beneath her panties, grabbing two palmfuls of her ass and dragging her roughly against my aching erection. A surprised gasp escapes her plush, parted lips.

“I promise not to crush you, but I can’t promise not to flip you or fold you in half. My imagination’s endless when I fantasize about all the ways you’ll come undone. I’ll coax every ounce of pleasure from your body until you’re left with nothing but the whisper of my name on your tired lips.”

“Jensen,” she breathes, her pupils blown wide with desire, chest heaving.

Her needy moan and pulsing thighs signal the green light I’ve been waiting for. I scoot off the couch with her wrapped around me and carry her toward the bedroom, my mouth glued to the smooth skin of her neck.

“Please don’t make me regret this,” she whispers.

I look her in the eyes and swear a sacred vow I intend to keep forever. “The only thing you’ll ever regret, my beautiful birdie, is that I didn’t catch you sooner.”

25

MAISY

My panties are drenched when Jensen sets me on the bathroom counter and wets a washcloth. He lifts it to my face, and I jerk my head back. “What are you doing?”

Holding my chin to keep me still, he rubs the damp cloth across my forehead, cheeks, and the bridge of my nose, erasing my made-up armor. “I have some rules of my own. First, when you’re in my bed, the makeup comes off. I want to see the real you. Every freckle. Every scar. Every inch of your beautiful skin.”

“My mascara’s waterproof,” I mumble when he glides the cloth over my eyelids.

Moving on to my mouth, he applies pressure and smudges the lipstick at the corner. A devious grin tugs at his lips, and I pretend his depraved mind has no effect on me despite the heat blasting between my legs.

In a bored tone, I ask, “What else?”

“Second, you allow me to touch you when I want, where I want, and how I want.”

“Only when we’re alone. I don’t do PDA.”

“Fair.” He throws the cloth in the sink and tilts my head up to meet his darkened gaze. “Do you consent to my first two rules?”

A chaotic storm of desperation and desire swirls in his eyes. To someone else, the combination might scream of danger, a cautionary sign to run far away. To me, it’s a potent promise of divine worship, and I’m more than willing to be the goddess he serves.

I’m resolute in my answer when I say, “I consent.”

His hum of approval drowns out the sound of the zipper on the back of my romper. My belly flutters when his teeth graze my jaw and neck, and I silently beg him to bite harder. If anyone’s daring enough to fulfill my vampire fantasies, it’s Jensen, a thought I tuck away for another day.

“And what else?” I ask again, trembling with anticipation.

If he doesn’t take me in the next thirty seconds, I might combust. His control and confidence turn me on, and I’d give anything for him to pin me to the floor and rut into me like a wild animal.

Slowly, he drags my romper down my chest and arms. “Last, I’ll take care of you my way. If you let go and trust me, I’ll never leave you wanting.”

“Liar. You left me wanting at the wedding. I’m not convinced you have the skills to follow through.”

His warm breath tickles my ear. “That was your punishment for avoiding me. If or when I choose to let you follow through, believe me, your body won’t need much convincing.”

“You’re sure of yourself.”

“I’m sure of us. Now lift.”

I raise my hips enough for him to remove my clothes, which join my sandals on the floor. Deft fingers unclasp the front closure of my lacy bra and push the cups aside, the straps gliding off my shoulders. On instinct, I cover my breasts, suddenly aware of the bright vanity lights shining overhead.

Grasping my wrists, he pulls them away. “No hiding. Let me see you.”

“I have stretch marks.”

“I don’t care.” He kneads my breasts and tugs at my nipples while looking me straight in the eyes. “You’re gorgeous, birdie, inside and out. And I’ll never be the man who makes you feel like you’re anything less than perfect.”

Lavishing my breasts with his velvet tongue, he bends my legs and spreads them wide. He releases the nipple caught between his teeth and rises to his full height, rolling his neck from side to side. I recall the motion from his football days when he prepared to dominate on the field. The switch is flipped, the adoring man going dormant while his shadow comes out to play. My slick thighs and I welcome this version of him.

When he leans into me, the rough material of his jeans rubs my core. He speaks against my lips, low and commanding. “Here’s what will happen. I’ll lay you down and learn every inch of your body. Since I didn’t let you come last time, I’ll bury my face in your beautiful pussy until you cry out for either me or your god. Only then will I fuck you the way you want—hard and deep—until I’m the only man you’ll ever remember touching you.”

A hiss flows between my teeth when he pinches my nipple hard, and I slap his arm away. “Stop being a tease and get on with it.”

Splaying a hand across my jaw, he angles my head to meet his blazing stare. “That’s the last demand you’ll make while I have you naked. Like I told you before, you’re not in charge. You said you want to be all in with me? This is what ‘in’ looks like. Are we clear?”

“We’re clear,” I say, my jaw clenched.

I’ve noticed how his pupils expand when I give him sass. His eyes flare even now, hot and ecstatic, as he lifts me off the counter. Our mouths collide in a battle of dueling tongues and stolen breaths until he drops me onto the bed. With the lights on, I have nowhere to hide from the piercing gaze sweeping over me. I’m vulnerable, naked and at his mercy, while he’s fully dressed.

As promised, he licks and kisses and nibbles every inch of me from my ears to my toes. He rolls me onto my stomach and maps my body with his mouth and hands, avoiding the parts where I yearn for his touch the most. Once he’s satisfied with his thorough inspection, I’m a panting mess of arousal, dying for him to escort me straight to ecstasy.

He shucks off his boots, socks, and jeans. Then he crawls over me and straddles my thighs. The intoxicating, musky scent wafting from him and his bedsheets envelops me, and I’m overcome with burning need. When he claims my lips again in a brutal kiss and shoves his fingers in my hair, his big body cages mine.

I don’t feel trapped. Freedom is mere moments away, and I’m close to begging for it. I’ve wanted this for as long as I can remember, and I’m more than ready to dig way down into the fossilized center of my dreams and claim Jensen Holloway as my own.

My hands glide over the broad muscles of his back, arms, and chest, relishing every ridge and dip he’s earned from long hours in his gym. “Take this off,” I say, frantically tugging at his shirt so I can touch his bare skin.

Nervousness flickers in his eyes before he lets out a resigned sigh. Reaching with one arm over his shoulder, he tugs the shirt over his head and tosses it aside. Then he waits.

A wide range of reactions fight to appear on my face. None of them survive. Instead, I stare blankly at his naked chest. At the image staring back at me. At the hummingbird inked over his heart, hovering in flight. His birdie.

Like a silent summoning, I trace the outline of the bird with my fingertips. The detailing is incredible, a vivid painting of black, green, and white. A shading effect makes the tattoo appear silver in some places, and it’s the only art on his body with color. Rich, vibrant color.

With a thick swallow, I cram down the emotions rising in my throat. “Is it new?”

He caresses the ink with such adoration; my heart leaps. “No. I get it touched up every year so it never fades.”

“How long have you had it?”

“A very long time.” The truth shines in his pained eyes even if he refuses to confess it aloud. Thirteen years.

“Jensen,” I whisper, his name both a fractured prayer and a breathless plea on my quivering lips.

Now I understand why he refused to take off his shirt when I stayed the night with him months ago. He said doing so would “hurt too much,” but he wasn’t referring to his physical injuries causing him pain from the effort. He knew I would reject the meaning of the tattoo because, at the time, I was rejecting him.

Bracing himself on a forearm, he leans down and brings us face to face. He skims a knuckle along my neck before pressing a fingertip against my racing pulse. “Do my feelings scare you?”

My answer is an honest one. “No.”

“Do I scare you?” The deep timbre of his voice sends an avalanche of shivers across my skin.

Never in my life have I been afraid of him. He’s intense, intrusive, and forceful at times, but he’d never cause me physical harm beyond the pleasure-pain I seek. Of that, I’m certain.

“Not even a little bit,” I admit.

“Good. I want you too much to be gentle with you, Maisy. You may be small, but you’re not breakable. Though I’m happy to try.” His lips curve into a sinful smirk, and my greedy core flutters in response.

“Try your hardest.”

When he climbs off the bed and tugs his boxer briefs down, his heavy erection sways as he steps out of them one foot at a time. “Spread your legs and grab your knees.”

I’m too stunned by the size of him to register his words at first. He’s big, beautiful, and a tad intimidating. When I rip my stare from his cock and meet his gaze, he arches an impatient eyebrow. His command filters into my brain, and I spread my legs for him.

With a satisfied grunt, he grips my thigh and drags a finger from my opening to my clit and back several times. I hold my breath, an attempt to appear unaffected when that finger sinks inside me.

“No games. I need to hear how good you feel when I take control of your body.” He adds a second finger and a third, pumping and twisting, coaxing all kinds of noises from me as I writhe on the mattress. “There’s my needy girl. Hold nothing back while I get you ready for me.”

I widen my knees, aching to feel him deeper. “Jensen, hurry.”

“Are you on birth control?”

“Yes.” I can hardly speak through my panting breaths, and the last thing I want to do right now is talk.

“Do you want me to wear a condom?”

I haven’t had sex in ages and never without a condom. Out of curiosity, I ask, “Have you ever—”

“No, but you make the call.”

My gaze drifts downward to where he’s now stroking himself, and I make a quick and easy decision. “No condom.”

I swear he whispers, “Thank fuck,” before he makes his move, dragging me to the edge of the mattress. He hoists me in the air by the waist. A half-gasp, half-yelp escapes me when we spin and land on the bed, his head on the pillow and me straddling his face. It happens so fast I’m still processing the mechanics of his actions when he impales me with his tongue.

“Holy shit!” I cry out.

To ground myself, I curl my fingers over the top of the sleigh-style bed and rest my forehead on the back of my hands. His lips latch onto my clit, and I moan loudly when he sucks hard and flicks his tongue. Obscene noises come from him—gluttonous sounds of pleasure, as if I’m his first meal in a century. I squeeze his head with my thighs, a halfhearted attempt to escape the overwhelming assault of his skilled mouth.

With his fingers gripping my butt cheeks, he doubles down in his efforts to make me come. I moan and mewl and curse his name for the tears welling in my eyes. When my legs quake, threatening to give out, he slides his palms under my thighs to hold me up so I don’t collapse on his face.

He held back the day of the wedding when he went down on me in the bathroom. The man has a magic mouth, and this is a whole different level of…

“Oh my god, J. Oh my god! What the f-f—” The word cuts off when my abdominal muscles flex involuntarily, and my vagina strangles the fingers now stuffed inside me, clamping them in place.

He’s ruthless with nipping teeth and hard sucks, bringing me right to the edge. When he pinches my clit and shoves his tongue inside me again, I shatter. My climax blasts through me like a rocket. In seconds, I’m blinded by the most intense orgasm ever while convulsing and screaming his name.

He groans, long and loud, and laps up my release with crude slurping sounds. The moment is raw and filthy and nothing like I’ve ever experienced. With all the strength zapped from me, I drop my forehead against the headboard with a hard thump. A helpless, pathetic whimper follows.

His low chuckle sends a chill skittering along my spine. “I told you…five minutes to make you scream my name. And I’m nowhere close to being done with you.”

I glance between my thighs to find him smiling up at me—a dirty, dark promise on his glistening lips—and I offer him the only thing I have to give. My surrender.

“Okay.”

Manhandling me, he flips me onto my back and rises to his knees. He did promise not to be gentle, and I’m too blissed-out to care. With a deviant kiss, he licks into my mouth and brands the taste of me onto my tongue. We break apart, and I’m drawn into the depths of his lust-blown eyes as he tenderly brushes aside the hair stuck to my wet cheeks.

His voice is so soft, so loving, when he says, “I’m gonna fuck you hard now, birdie, but know that I’m doing it with the utmost love and respect.”

With a chaste peck on my lips, he kneels and yanks me closer while shoving a pillow under my hips. There’s nothing gentle about him. He moves fast and with purpose, placing one of my ankles on his shoulder and holding the other wide. My belly flutters with anticipation when he drags the swollen head of his erection through my folds, coating the tip with the remnants of my release.

Without warning, he pushes into me. I tense from the stretch, my back arching off the bed on a sharp inhale as I twist the sheets in my hands.

“Relax, beautiful. Breathe through it for me.”

“Fuck.” I spit out the single word, chest heaving as he works his way inside.

The ache and pressure beg me to look where we’re joining, but I can’t take my eyes off his. He’s intently watching himself sink into me, his gaze flicking to mine to make sure I’m okay. After a few shallow, testing strokes, he slams all the way in, forcing the air from my lungs. My eyes roll back in my head, and I can’t move. All my senses have abandoned me.

His head tips back on a guttural moan, eyes closed in submission to the euphoria. “Damn,” he whispers to the ceiling before checking on me. “You good?”

“Yep,” I squeak, giving him a freaking thumbs-up.

He barks a loud laugh, and my core clenches in response, which he takes as a sign to start moving. And move he does. The time for tenderness and levity has passed. He presses my knees to my chest, folding me in half. With sharp thrusts, our hips connect each time he drives deep.

“Look at how we fit together, birdie,” he commands, but I’m too distracted by his darkened eyes while remembering to breathe. “Look,” he repeats.

Mesmerized, we watch him glide in and out of me, our jaws slack and chests rising and falling in a synchronized rhythm. Loud grunts permeate the air, and I discover they’re mine. He’s omniscient of my needs, every thrust filling me with small doses of pain that deliver heaps of pleasure.

“Heaven. Pure fucking heaven,” he says, releasing one of my legs.

High-pitched sounds spill from my lips when he grabs the headboard for support and pistons his hips faster and harder. The bed slams against the wall, and I swear I’m having an out-of-body experience.

My gaze travels up his tightened abs and straining pecs, pausing on the hummingbird now in motion. Beads of sweat glisten on his neck and forehead. Ecstasy imprisons his face. Relaxed, parted lips. Heavy-lidded eyes burning into me with so much intensity, my heart skips several beats.

I’m lost in the hungry gaze devouring me. Amid the wild and frenzied sex, something more meaningful than physical attraction or carnal desire shines in his stare, and I recognize its familiar presence. It’s powerful, thrumming through the invisible chain linking us together. An unnamed feeling always known but never spoken by me.

It’s all too much—too terrifying—for me to handle.

“Jensen,” I whimper, overwhelmed by everything. The strong emotions blanketing us, the physical sensations, the simultaneous urges to flee and slip further into the madness.

He slows his movements. “Tell me what you need.”

I reach for him with urgency, unsure how to explain what I’m feeling. “I don’t know.”

Registering the panic in my voice, he sits back on his heels and hauls me onto his lap. The change in position forces him deeper, and I hide my wince in the crook of his neck.

“Jensen. It’s—”

“You can handle it,” he says, reading my mind. “You can handle me. I’m not too much.”

A quick self-assessment reveals I’m freaking the fuck out. “What if you are? And what if I’m not enough for you? What if I don’t know how to do this? What if we—”

“Look at me,” he says, cutting me off. He cradles my head in his hands, forcing me to abandon my hiding place in the crook of his neck. “You’re a beautiful soul, Maisy Rae.”

I sag on his lap, grateful he came to my rescue. “So are you, Jensen No Middle Name.”

A smile graces his lips but quickly falls away. “I’ve waited a long time for us.”

The sob lodged in the back of my throat cracks my voice when I whisper, “So have I.”

“We belong here, birdie. Just you and me. I promise we’re the perfect amount of everything for each other. Have faith in us. Please don’t get scared and give up before we even begin. Please,” he begs against my lips.

He sweeps his tongue against mine in a passionate, pleading caress that seeps into my bones. Tears flood my eyes, and I’m grateful he doesn’t ask me to explain my sudden emotional downturn. I can’t explain it. Instead, he gently thrusts his hips, coaxing me back into the moment.

His whispered words of encouragement flow through me, soothing my mind as his body soothes me physically. “Stay in this with me. Don’t think about anything. Just feel us. You’re so incredible, wrapped around every inch of me. Taking me. Owning me. Stay here, beautiful. Be with me. Feel how perfect we are.”

“Yes,” I breathe as I let go of my thoughts and focus on how we feel together.

He drags his bottom lip between his teeth. My own lips remain parted as pleasure swims through me with every languid stroke. He slowed things down for me, giving me time to acclimate to the new bond we’re forming, and I’m ready to accept it.

“Don’t hold back,” I whisper.

Arms banded around my torso, he squeezes me to his chest, my breasts pressed between us. He pumps in earnest, each burst of his hips drawing a cry from me as we crash together.

“Yes.” I repeat my earlier agreement, a chant acknowledging how effortlessly we fit in every way. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

Our breaths grow harsh and rapid before he pins me to his thighs and drops his forehead to my neck. A rumble crawls up his throat as he spills his release into me.

“Perfect,” he says, panting hard and drenched in sweat. “We’re so perfect.”

We are. Too perfect. And that’s the most terrifying truth of all, because perfection isn’t sustainable. Everyone has flaws, and I may not meet his high expectations once he has a closer look at mine. When that happens, he’ll let me go, and I’ll return to the brokenhearted self-exile I only just escaped.

For now, I wrap my arms around his head, holding him as close to me as possible. “Promise me you won’t hurt me again.”

“Never,” he vows to my thundering heart. When he lifts his head, our fearful gazes collide. “Promise me you won’t run.”

My eyes flick between his, seeing the worry building there along with every qualifying phrase he didn’t add to his request. He wants me to promise not to run before he wakes tomorrow, run from Walford, run from him and his mental struggles. I’m aware they exist. I’ve always known.

He wants me to give us a real shot despite my unease about being vulnerable, and I want the same. We’ll navigate my roadblocks if they come—when they come. And we’ll face his challenges together, like we did when we were younger.

“I won’t run,” I say, surprised that I mean it.

His whole body relaxes, and I press a kiss to his lips and lay my head on his shoulder. We stay like this for several minutes, reflecting on the monumental shift between us and the fears brought to light. With a delicate touch, I sweep the damp hair off his face, tucking the wild strands behind his ears.

I’m hoarse when I speak again. “We’re kind of a mess.”

He chuckles, understanding my double meaning, and drops kisses along my neck and shoulder. “We are. A mess I’d happily stay in forever, but let’s get cleaned up first.”

After we shower, where Jensen washes us thoroughly—and I ignore the fact that he has a shower cap on hand to keep my hair from getting wet—we crawl into bed. He leaves a light on in the bathroom, and I’m touched by all the little things he remembers about me from years ago, like my fear of the dark.

My head rests on his arm while he lazily twists one of my ringlets around his finger. “Why a hummingbird?” I ask.

“I read some cultures believe hummingbirds bring healing. In others, they symbolize love and devotion. They’re also fierce fighters, skittish and hard to catch.” He shrugs a shoulder. “In a nutshell, you.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful.”

My aversion to snuggling seems to have disappeared as I nestle against him and breathe him in. We’re quiet, enjoying the solace we bring to each other in the simple moments. As usual, my mind wanders when left to the silence for too long.

I recall everything he said to me in the living room when he laid himself bare. Some of the things he says, the way he speaks…what if he’s not coming from a place of genuine love? I worry I’m an infatuation of his, a wrong he needs to right in order to clear his conscience. Perhaps he’s been in pursuit of me for so long, he’s confused about the reasons he wants me now.

As if he’s able to read my thoughts, he whispers, “Have faith in me. In us.”

“Okay,” I whisper back. Then we drift off to sleep, holding on to each other a little tighter.

26

JENSEN

Propped on an elbow, I rest my head in my hand and wait for Maisy to awaken. I’ve never seen a more beautiful sight than her in my bed. Her natural face, free of makeup. Her curls fanning out across the black satin pillow. Thick lashes kissing her freckled cheeks. Pouty, lush lips parted slightly, her soft breaths flowing in and out. The urge to trail my fingers along every slope, line, and curve of her face consumes me. But I keep my hands to myself to keep from waking her.

Her cell phone buzzes for the millionth time, and I snag it off the nightstand. I’m not sure how it ended up in my bedroom, but it’s been lighting up with messages for the past hour—group chats and individual texts from her California crew. Apparently, she’s popular among her friends. Needed, according to some of the partially displayed messages.

I scroll through the endless notifications but stop myself from opening the texts and invading her privacy. The tracking app comes to mind, but I sweep the nagging guilt aside. Now that she’s promised to stay, I promise myself I’ll quit looking at it. Not seeing any urgent texts requiring her attention, I return her phone to the table and resume my watch over the sleeping beauty beside me.

The morning sunlight slips through the small gaps in the blinds, and her eyelids flutter as the new day pulls her from the depths of slumber. To my pleasant surprise, she snuggled against me all night. I tried to sleep on my side, but woke to find myself on my stomach with an arm draped across her waist.

Lying on her back, she stretches her arms and legs out straight before rolling toward me and curling into my chest. “Good morning,” she says with a lazy grin on her lips.

“Good morning, beautiful.” I graze my knuckles along her jawline, relishing her soft skin and the fact that she’s still in my bed. “I’m sorry if I crushed you last night after all.”

She hums, the sound raspy and thick with sleep. “Crush away. I haven’t slept that good in ages. How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough to know your friends are morning people.”

“Sorry,” she says, wincing. “I got my phone in the middle of the night out of habit. Marcus hates when he can’t reach us, and I forget that won’t be an issue anymore.”

A hint of sadness touches her eyes, but she blinks it away and reaches for her phone. “Geez. They’re busy this morning.” She scrolls through the messages, and there’s surprise in her voice when she says, “You didn’t read them.”

“Why would I?” I’m grateful when she dismisses my rhetorical question and tosses her phone aside. I grab her hip, and tug her against me to bury my nose in her hair. “Please tell me you still don’t drink coffee, because I don’t have any.”

I’m not a coffee drinker. Aside from the occasional soda, I avoid caffeine and other stimulants. My brain doesn’t need any extra help to work overtime.

“I only drink it when I’m jet-lagged and if it’s 90 percent milk and sugar.”

“Sweet tooth.” I suck on her throat, careful not to leave a bruise, and she rocks her hips in response.

“I’m a sweet person.”

I roll her onto her back and kneel between her legs, peeling off her panties. “Are you?”

A contented sigh escapes her when I push her shirt over her breasts and plant open-mouth kisses across her smooth stomach. I swirl my tongue around her belly button, but don’t move any lower while massaging her inner thighs.

“You’re such a tease,” she says, squirming under my touch.

I chuckle at the huffing noise she makes, frustrated with herself for throwing a little fit and appearing needy.

“What do you want for breakfast?” I swipe my tongue along her seam to get a taste of her arousal. “I have fruity cereal and healthy cereal.”

The most adorable scowl appears on her face. “Focus.”

“I’m focused on breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day.” I lightly graze her thigh with my teeth, and she shudders, her pelvis lifting from the mattress in search of more. Rather than give her what she craves, I roll off the bed and say, “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

A growl and the sound of palms slapping the mattress follow me to the kitchen. Satisfaction rests on my lips as I set the dishes, cereal boxes, and milk on the island.

Maisy handles her business in the bathroom and glides into the kitchen with my notebook tucked under her arm. The T-shirt she borrowed last night hits just above her knees, the sleeves falling well past her elbows.

“You should bring some clothes over here for when you stay the night.” She averts her eyes, a sign I’ve said the wrong thing, and climbs onto a stool. So I change the subject and gesture at the breakfast spread. “Fruity or healthy.”

She crinkles her nose at the box of oat and almond cereal. “Fruity.”

We dig into our breakfast as she flips through the notebook, studying my horrendous drawings with poorly veiled amusement on her face.

“Is this you doing a cartwheel?” she asks, squinting at one particular sketch.

“No. I almost fell off the roof when I saved your Barbie doll after Logan threw it up there.”

She rolls her eyes and continues turning the pages. “‘Saved’ is a bit of an exaggeration.”

“You got it back, didn’t you? I was a damn hero that day.”

Still flipping, she doubles back when a flash of red on one page catches her eye. “Why are you covered in blood? And why the hell am I dressed like Catwoman?”

“It’s not blood. Remember the outfit you made me wear to the homecoming dance my senior year?”

Maisy insisted my date would prefer me in a color other than black, so she raided Logan’s closet and forced me into a red shirt and matching pants. We laughed at how ridiculous I looked and laughed even harder when Logan realized I was wearing his clothes.

“Logan was furious. He didn’t like anyone touching his things,” she says, smiling at the memory.

I packed the pages of the notebook with as many of our playful moments as I could. Unfortunately, I didn’t finish drawing a full picture of our future. But I’m not complaining. She’s here now, which is all that matters.

“What are these?” She points to the stick figures standing outside a brick house—the house where we’re currently enjoying breakfast together.

“Our kids.”

With her lips pressed in a tight line, she scans the page, taking in all the other hand-drawn details. The crooked house, the weird-looking dog, the garden of wild rose bushes.

”You don’t want kids.” It’s not a question, but an observation based on her shuttered facial expression and the stiffness in her hunched shoulders.

My stomach suddenly feels like an empty cavern despite the cereal I’ve eaten. I rest my spoon in my bowl and plant my elbows on the counter, hands folded and pressed to my mouth to keep from saying the wrong thing. To keep from saying anything at all.

Tension sits heavily between us as I consider her reaction to the imaginary kids. I assumed by the way she cared for her dolls when she was younger, treating them with love and tenderness, that she dreamed of having her own children one day. That, perhaps, her delicate handling of them was her way of pretending to be the mother she didn’t have. Apparently, I assumed wrong.

She casts me an uneasy glance and asks, “If I don’t, does that change anything for you? For us?”

I want a family—of course I do—and raising that family with her would be a dream come true. More than anything else, however, I just want her. While I find the thought of not having kids of my own someday disheartening, the notion of a future without Maisy is a thousand times more painful. It’s unacceptable.

“No. It changes nothing,” I say, my tone gentle and reassuring.

“You’ll tell me if it does? You’d be a great dad, and I’ll never ask you to settle for less than the future you want.”

Turning on my stool to face her, I skim my knuckles along her cheek, reassuring her further with my touch. “The only future I’ve ever envisioned is one with you in it.”

“If you’re sure. Honestly, I’ve never given much thought to having kids, so who knows if I’ll still feel this way in a few years. I could change my mind. But I don’t ever want to take anything away from you, J, and if I can’t give you what you want or need, I’ll understand if you—”

I lean forward and cut off her nervous rambling with a firm kiss to her lips. “I’m sure, birdie.”

Her shoulders relax, and her mouth twitches as she attempts to lighten the mood. She points to a different drawing on the page and says, “I could totally get behind this Komodo dragon.”

“That’s a dog,” I deadpan. She grimaces, and my stomach dips yet again. “You don’t like dogs?”

Mirth shines in her hazel eyes when they meet mine. I swear her twisted sense of humor will be the death of me. “I love dogs,” she says.

“Four-legged kids it is then.”

“We’re talking an awful lot about the future after just one night. We’re supposed to be exploring this.”

Shaking my head, I say, “There’s nothing to explore. We both said we’re all in. But we can put this notebook on a shelf and take things one day at a time.”

When she sighs again, the sound of her relief both hurts and heals. It hurts because I want to fast-track our future, secured by her solemn vow to stay at my side. It heals because she’s not racing out the door to get as far away from me as she can. Maisy knows I’m an intense man, and I’ll have to work on balancing my level of intensity with her need to remain cautious and move slowly.

“Thank you,” she says while scooping a spoonful of cereal. “I will say that if you plan on keeping me around, you’ll need to buy some groceries.”

“Make a list—whatever you want. But fair warning, I can’t cook anything from scratch.”

Pink tinges her cheeks. “I enjoy cooking, and I’m pretty good at it.”

“Then we make a great team.” I hold out my fist to bump knuckles, biting back a grin when she narrows her eyes.

“We’re not doing that,” she says.

“How about a chest bump? Or a slap on the ass?” My teasing earns me a handful of cereal in the face, but I welcome the food fight because she’s laughing right along with me.

After we clean up our breakfast, she gets dressed and makes a beeline for the front door.

“Will you be back tonight?” I ask as she steps outside. I’m in my underwear, so I don’t cross the threshold behind her.

“We’ll see how the day goes.”

She glances down the street with a look of uncertainty on her face. Either she’s worried someone might see her wearing the clothes she had on yesterday, or she’s freaking out again and wants to bolt.

Even though option two is the real reason she’s nervous, I plant a shoulder on the doorframe, arms folded over my chest, and tease her. “You act like you’ve never done the walk of shame before.”

Her eyes snap to mine, and she whisper-hisses, “It’s not the walk of shame.”

I smirk. “Isn’t it? You showed up late last night, got what you wanted, and now you’re leaving. Plus, you look thoroughly fucked.”

Huffing, she pats her hair and adjusts the purse strap on her shoulder. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

“I’m going now,” she says primly before turning and striding away with her chin held high.

“Thanks for the good time. Let’s do it again soon,” I call after her while waving. No neighbors are around, but I’m having too much fun riling her up to assure her we don’t have witnesses.

She sends me a scathing glare before climbing into the truck and slamming the door.

As she drives offs, my amusement fades, giving way to my recollection of her standoffish demeanor. She didn’t hug me or kiss me goodbye, and she made no promises to see me later or even tomorrow. I got nothing from her, which means she won’t be back any time soon. All I can do is prepare myself for the sting of rejection sure to come.

BIRDIE

I’m staying at Pam’s again tonight.

ME

Okay.

Although I saw it coming, I’m bothered and hurt that Maisy has so easily brushed me off over the past two days. She’s not one to play games, so her distant behavior isn’t some ploy to get me to chase her. However, I wonder how she would react if I did. What if I showed up at Pam’s house and demanded Maisy come home with me? Without a doubt, she’d curse at me and run me off.

I’ll give her space, but only because I no longer have to contend with distance. She’s in Walford. Now I have to keep her here.

Charlie and Ainsley huddle around a table with their textbooks open and papers spread out. They must have a class together; this isn’t the first time they’ve come in early to work on an assignment.

Strolling toward their table, I ask, “What are y’all working on?”

“Studying for a history final,” Charlie mutters without looking up, flipping a pen between his fingers, his eyes scanning his notes.

“Cool.” I slide my hands into my front pockets. “Mind if I interrupt for a little impromptu staff meeting about the festival this weekend?”

Ainsley sets her pencil down, giving me her attention while Charlie’s gaze searches the room. “Shouldn’t we wait for Javi?” he asks.

Hiding my annoyance behind a blank mask, I say, “You do know Javi doesn’t actually work here.”

Bewildered, his eyebrows hike up behind his floppy curls. “Seriously? But he’s here all the time.”

“I’ll give him a recap later.”

I’ve offered to pay Javi for his help at Bruno’s, but he refuses. Sure, he’s a social butterfly who enjoys being in the mix, but I’m no fool. He helps as an excuse to babysit me, especially now that Maisy’s in town. More than likely, he’s concerned that if he’s not on watch, I’ll wander off into my mind’s desert like a lost soul, unable to find my way back. He has his own career as a life coach, but he invests a lot of hours in keeping my business from going under.

“What about him?” Charlie jerks his chin toward the bar where Trevor taps away at his laptop. He changes work locations more often than he changes his damn crew socks.

I lean my elbows on the table and shake my head. “Don’t worry about him.”

Just as I open my mouth to kick off the staff meeting, Javi bursts through the door with a to-go cup from The Drip, the liquid sloshing over the rim and wetting his hand.

“I’m here. I made it,” he says, catching his breath, winded from the one-block sprint.

“Made it for what?” I ask, frowning at his sudden appearance.

He couldn’t have possibly known about this impromptu meeting. As the thought crosses my mind, Ainsley slips her cell phone over the edge of the table, a blush warming her cheeks.

“Did you text him and tell him about this meeting?”

She winces, seeming a little chagrinned at least. “He may not technically be an employee, but he works here a lot. And we might need him at the festival, right?”

“I’m sure the three of us can manage a beer cart and the table.” My tone leaves no doubt I’m ruffled by their lack of confidence in my management skills.

Once again, Charlie looks around the room and asks, “What about Riley?”

Jesus Christ. Does this kid have zero faith in me too?

Riley is another server who helps when we have big events—parties and karaoke nights and such. She’s a freelance server who floats between multiple restaurants and bars in the area, a labor source that works well for bars in small towns like Walford.

“We won’t need anyone’s help,” I snap. Charlie flinches, and regret floods through me. I sigh and rub a hand across my scruff. “Trust me, between the three of us, we’ve got this covered.”

Javi and Ainsley share a look that makes my skin boil. It’s bad enough for him to monitor my mental well-being, but to have Ainsley keeping an eye on me like his little minion irks me to no end. This is my bar, my pride and joy. I’m the boss here, and I don’t appreciate them observing me as if I’m a loose cannon.

I summon my calm through a long inhale. “Our setup will be simple. We’ll serve cheap beer from kegs. The indoor bar will be closed until the festival ends, then we’ll open it for the night, business as usual. Two people will man the cart, and one of us will work the table for the karaoke sign-ups and the prize raffles.”

Crap. That reminds me, I need to create and print a Bruno’s gift certificate to add to the Main Street gift card bouquet offered jointly by the businesses. Every year, it’s the most high-value prize and the most coveted.

“How big is this festival?” Ainsley asks. This will be her first year to experience Walford’s May festival, which has a larger turnout than the one held after Christmas, triple the number of attendees at least.

“Big enough,” Javi replies between sips of his drink. “People come from all over for the local artisan’s stalls, but we estimate only about a quarter—maybe less—will drink beer throughout the day.”

I hammer the point home. “Like I said, it’ll be simple. No frills, no spills.”

Nods and murmurs of agreement come from the trio. With a rap of my knuckle on the table, I call the meeting to a close and leave the students to their textbooks. My next stop is the kitchen to prep food for the evening. Thankfully, Javi doesn’t follow and joins Trevor at the bar instead. I’m irritated that he barged into my meeting as if I don’t have a handle on things, and I can’t deal with him right now.

Alone in the kitchen, I check the tracking app on my phone. It didn’t take me long after Maisy left the other morning to break my self-made promise not to look. The app shows she’s at Pam’s house now. I’d love to see the blinking dot at my house every minute while she’s in town. I vowed to be patient, but a desperate man can only maintain his resolve for so long.

Phone in hand, I consider sending her a text. Each time I’ve drafted a message today, asking when I’ll see her again, I deleted it. I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing and scaring her away.

I know better than anyone how words can affect people. They can cause problems after being misinterpreted or misconstrued. They can also burrow into your mind and stay forever, a constant reminder of your shortcomings. When Maisy needed me to be Mr. Perfect for her, I failed. On Vera’s porch, those two words seared into my brain, and they haunt me to this day.

27

MAISY

ME

Can I come over tonight?

Perched on the arm of Vera’s boring grey couch, I chew my thumb nail and wait for Jensen’s response. I have a feeling I’m already failing at being a…girlfriend, I suppose. I’ve sent him a handful of text messages since my awkward goodbye at his front door three days ago. He hasn’t pointed out my lack of communication in any of his replies.

To be fair, I don’t know what I’m doing. I may have expressed my desire to explore a relationship with him, but what happens now? What are the rules and expectations? I’m floundering like a fish out of water, and it’s only been three freaking days.

JENSEN

You never have to ask. I’ll leave the door unlocked. See you after work.

A puff of air bursts from my lips. He could’ve told me to eat pavement, and I wouldn’t blame him. I make a mental note to work on improving my communication skills and stuff my phone in the back pocket of my denim shorts.

In a strategic move to protect my sanity, I didn’t announce my presence to Vera when I let myself into her house. She’s watching television in her bedroom, the volume unnecessarily loud, while I’m waiting on the person I hired to clean.

When I told Vera about my plan to bring in a cleaning service, she had no comment. She doesn’t like strangers in her space, but she’ll have to suck it up if she wants my help around here because I can’t do everything myself.

When I answer the knock on the front door, my jaw drops in surprise at who I find on the other side.

“Hi,” she says with a nervous wave. “I’m Ainsley.”

I recognize Jensen’s employee but never caught her name before now. She’s kind of young to be cleaning houses, but hey, earn that money, girl.

Closing the door behind her, I say, “Thanks for coming on short notice.”

“It’s no problem. I’m grateful for the work.”

Ainsley fidgets with the hem of her athletic pullover—it’s too warm outside to be wearing long sleeves—and sweeps aside the bangs that reach her chin. They’re long enough to pull back into her ponytail, but she leaves them loose for some reason. I’d bet money the bangs are her armor, shielding her from anyone trying to look too closely.

Thick, long chestnut hair contrasts with her fair complexion. She has sharply defined features, her high cheekbones softened by big, brown doe eyes. She’s average height and, judging by the toned legs covered by tight yoga pants, extremely fit.

“Um. I don’t actually have my own supplies. I forgot to put that on the flyer.” She winces at the admission.

To ease her worries, I say, “That’s no problem. Everything you need is in the hall closet or in the laundry room above the dryer. Follow me, and I’ll show you around.”

She relaxes, her stiff movements becoming looser as I give her the two-minute tour of Vera’s house. I let Ainsley know Logan’s room is off-limits. Imagining how Vera will react if someone invades that sacred space sends a chill down my spine. It would not go over well. So I reiterate the no-access policy to Ainsley, and she assures me she won’t even peek at the doorknob.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” I say when we end the tour in the laundry room.

“Thanks. I’ll get to work and be out of here before you know it.”

While she cleans, I sort through a stack of mail. Vera’s meticulous about paying bills on time and keeping her paperwork organized, so I’m a little shocked at the pile of sealed envelopes spread haphazardly on the kitchen counter. At least a week’s worth. Nothing indicates a past due notice or anything urgent, so I set the mail aside in a neat stack and settle on the couch to scroll through my phone.

Less than an hour passes with sounds of the vacuum, the spritzing of cleaning products, and the wet mop slapping against the linoleum when Vera’s raspy screech pierces my ears.

“Who are you?” she yells.

I leap off the couch and race to her bedroom, where Ainsley’s frozen with a death grip on the vacuum handle. Grabbing her by the arm, I drag her into the hallway before locking myself in the room with my distraught mother.

In a harsh whisper, I say, “I told you someone was coming to clean. There’s no reason to yell at her.”

“I don’t like strangers in my house,” she says, clutching a quilt to her chest.

I pull a calming breath through my nose and force a gentle tone. “You’ll have to get used to people being around. I can’t do everything, so I’ll be calling in some help when I need it. But don’t worry, no one will go into Logan’s bedroom.”

Her wary gaze remains locked on me as I back out of the room and shut the door. Ainsley loiters in the hallway near the kitchen, twisting her hands together, her face pale and eyes wide.

“Should I leave?” she whispers.

Waving a dismissive hand, I speak at a normal volume. “Ignore her. She’s weird about people in her space.”

Ainsley’s brows shoot up at my remark, spoken loud enough for Vera to hear over the now muted television. “Oh. I heard she was sick or something.” The color on her cheeks darkens. “I mean, people at the bar talk, so I hear a lot of gossip.”

I jerk my chin toward the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink? Water or iced tea?”

“Water would be great. Thanks.”

While I retrieve glasses and pour the filtered water, I steal glances at the mysterious girl. Her worn sneakers have seen a lot of mileage, and the hems of her sleeves are littered with frayed threads. The chipped polish on her fingernails matches the orange-red shade of her lipstick, which sparks my interest.

“Poppin’ Poppy or Poppy Sickles?” I ask.

She blinks at me. “I’m sorry?”

“Your lipstick shade.” I point at her mouth to clarify.

“Oh, I’m not sure. I bought what was on sale and didn’t look at the name.” Her blush deepens at the admission.

“That color is hard for most people to pull off, but it suits you. Goes well with your warm undertones.”

She tucks a strand of bangs behind her ear. “Thanks.”

Sitting at the table with our drinks, it’s clear that Ainsley won’t be the one to strike up a conversation, leaving the task to me.

“So how long have you worked at Bruno’s?” I ask, establishing a safe ground for her to open up.

“A few months. I enjoy working there. Jensen’s a great boss.”

I bet he is. Jensen’s good with people, encouraging and patient when he needs to be. Leadership comes naturally to him, and I imagine he has a laid-back management style, yet he’s decisive enough to garner respect from his staff. I’d like to see him in action one of these days.

“So, you have two jobs?”

“Three, actually. I also help clean the rooms at the bed-and-breakfast on the weekends.”

“You’re a hard worker. Good for you.” A pause hangs between us for long seconds, the only noises our sips and swallows. “So…are you in college?”

She licks her lips and places her empty glass on the table. “Yeah. I’m a full-time student.”

My eyeballs bulge out of their sockets. “Three jobs and school? How do you manage it all?”

“I like to keep busy. It’s easy to fill your time when you live alone.”

Alone.

“No family in the area?” She shrinks into herself, shifting in her chair, so I backtrack and say, “You don’t have to answer. It’s none of my business. I’m not even sure why I’m asking you all these personal questions.”

She frees the bangs trapped behind her ear, letting them cover her face. “It’s fine. And no. No family around.”

Or friends, I’m guessing. I want to learn more about Ainsley, but her reluctance to be forthcoming is evident in her closed-off posture, her arms drawn close to her sides as she spins her empty glass. Just when I think our conversation has gone stale, and she’s ready to flee, she surprises me by opening up.

“I grew up in south Texas but moved to the area for college. The school offered me a small scholarship, but I have to pay the rest of the tuition myself on top of living expenses. I had three roommates, but they moved on when our lease ended. It’s for the best, really, because I never got close to them. I tend to focus on my goals and shut everything else out, and living alone takes the pressure off me to be social.” She cringes and squeezes her eyes shut. “I didn’t mean to say all that. You’re easy to talk to.”

One corner of my mouth lifts. My friends vomit every sordid detail of their lives at my feet, so I’ve heard the sentiment before. “I get that a lot.”

Sensing she isn’t entirely comfortable discussing her living situation or the circumstances which brought her to Walford, I steer the conversation toward college.

“What are you studying?”

“Creative writing. People tell me it’s a useless degree, but I enjoy reading and writing about worlds better than the one we live in. And if writing doesn’t work out, I’m getting my teaching certification as a backup.”

I nod, wholly impressed with this girl. “Sounds like you have a solid plan. Kudos to you for having your shit together at…how old are you?”

“My birthday just passed. I’m twenty-one now.”

“Really?” Her age shouldn’t surprise me, considering she’s a student, but she carries herself like someone who’s seen hardship. Someone wise beyond her years. “Happy belated birthday.”

“Thanks.” She stifles a grin and pushes the glass farther away from her. “I should go. I have a paper to finish before my shift at the bar.”

“I’m leaving too. Let me grab my purse, and I’ll walk you out.”

Once I’ve locked the door behind us, I hand her some cash, which she counts before holding out two bills.

“You gave me too much,” she says.

“Please keep it. You deserve a big tip after being yelled at by my mother. I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. I understand the burden of having difficult family members.”

I’ve never been so curious about someone in my life. I want to root around in Ainsley’s past and find out more about her. No doubt, getting to know her would be equivalent to pulling teeth.

Her gaze slides to an old black sedan parked on the curb. When she notices I’ve followed her line of sight, embarrassment stains her cheeks once again. The car has definitely seen better days, plagued with a dent in the rear bumper and a cracked front windshield. Prolonged exposure to the sun has faded the exterior paint, and duct tape holds one of the side mirrors in place. Some might call it a hunk of junk.

Shifting on her feet, she says, “Thanks again for the water and the chat. And for hiring me.”

“No problem. Any time,” I say.

Something about Ainsley calls to me. It could be the kindred loneliness I sense within her, or her work ethic and desire to improve her lot in life. Or the wear and tear of her possessions reflecting the potential struggles she’s endured. I’m inclined to help her in some way—to be a friend if she needs one. At least for as long as I’m in Walford.

I blink, clearing my head of the instinctual thought of leaving again. I told Jensen I wouldn’t run, and I meant it. My mind needs a restart button to eliminate that line of thinking if there’s any hope of allowing myself to be happy here.

28

JENSEN

The television screen flickers in the dark house when I get home from work. Maisy’s curled in a ball on the leather couch, and the blanket wrapped around her covers most of her face. Either she isn’t aware of my presence yet, or she fell asleep watching the vampire movie playing on the TV.

I toe off my boots and approach on socked feet, my footsteps silent. When I drop to a knee, brush the hair from her eyes, and press a kiss on her forehead, she stirs. Her eyelids drift open, and she greets me with a sweet, sleepy grin that makes my heart swell. I have no defenses against her soft side. She rarely allows it to show, and I’d do anything she asked to catch a glimpse of it every day.

“I waited up for you,” she rasps, rubbing her eyes.

“You tried.” I stroke her curls as visions of coming home to her each night bring a smile to my lips.

She pushes herself to a seated position, and the blanket falls away from her top half, exposing a black silk camisole with lace trim. Her pebbled nipples tempt me through the thin fabric. I’ll have them in my mouth before this night ends, guaranteed.

I slip a finger under the strap of her top, teasing as if I might slide it off her shoulder. “Did you dress up for me?”

The demure role she’s playing is cute as she stares at her lap. “Maybe.”

I go along with her shy act, lifting her chin and pressing my lips to her pillowy ones. She’s not wearing makeup, and I’m certain it’s a tactical maneuver, a ploy to show she’s willing to be submissive. Our first night together, she discovered how much her natural beauty turns me on, and now she’s using it against me.

“Since you put in the effort, perhaps I should admire the full package.” I peel the blanket open, and her crossed legs follow suit, spreading to show off skimpy bottoms that match her top. Her breaths quicken when I slip my hands inside her shorts and grab two handfuls of ass. “No panties?”

Biting her lip, she shakes her head. I slide my thumbs toward her center and stroke the creases at the juncture of her thighs. A slight rock of her hips brings her closer to me on the cushion.

“We have some things to talk about,” I say.

She sighs, and I accept it as her acknowledgment of how poorly she’s treated me, shutting me out for days. I’d rather annoy her with my constant presence and unexpected appearances than give her a chance to run. She’s not getting away from me again. And her efforts to keep me at arm’s length, whether or not they’re intentional, end tonight.

“After.” Grabbing the back of my neck, she crushes her mouth to mine, her tongue demanding entry. I allow her to control the kiss and take what she needs from it. “I want you,” she whispers.

“Is that right?” I push the tips of my thumbs into her slick opening, earning a gasp from her. “Beg me for what you want.”

“Come again?” she asks, eyes narrowed in challenge.

“You’ve put me off for days. I’m not some fuck-toy for you to show up and use at your whim. If you want me to pleasure you, beg.”

Her head falls back on the couch, and she stares down her nose at me. Lust and stubbornness battle in her gaze, as well as a hint of irritation at not getting what she wants. Too bad. I refuse to let her take advantage of my physical desire for her. She has to learn to compromise, even in the little things, if we’re to have any hope of a successful relationship.

To aid in her decision, I push my thumbs deeper and hold them still. She’s warm and wet. My dick twitches, eager to escape my jeans and dive into her. It swells even more when she moans, an unintentional sound if the subsequent growl is any indication.

After long seconds of steady eye contact, she grits her teeth and says, “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please do things to me.”

It’s hard to suppress my amusement when her timid words don’t match her bold attitude, but I manage. “Is my beautiful birdie turning shy on me? Be specific when you beg.”

Visible changes to her demeanor signal the return of her fire. The straighter shoulders, the slightly raised chin, the devious sparkle in her eye. There she is. Maisy may be the one begging, but I’m the one on my knees for the third time, bowing down to the power she wields over me.

“Please fuck me,” she says, the request a command rather than a plea.

Not wasting a second, I rise to my feet, rip off my shirt, and unbutton my jeans. My belt jangles when I drop my pants and underwear to the floor. “Strip and get on your hands and knees, head facing the end of the couch.”

She takes her sweet time removing each piece of clothing, dragging her shorts down her legs at a snail’s pace and drawing an impatient groan from me. Once she’s in position, I plant a knee on the couch and settle behind her, wishing the lights were on so I could enjoy an unfiltered view of her glorious ass on display.

I knead the plump flesh, resisting the urge to lean forward and take a juicy bite. She pushes her hips toward me, seeking my painfully hard erection, which hangs heavy against her thigh. And that little movement tells me everything.

“You’re desperate for me to fill you up, aren’t you? Do you think your greedy pussy deserves my cock?” My open palm lands on her ass, the unexpected slap leaving her with a handprint and a shocked gasp.

“What the hell, Jensen?” She sends me a cutting glare over her shoulder, but the slickness coating her thighs betrays her arousal despite the outrage.

“That’s for being stubborn. Now hold still.” I push two fingers inside her, and she clamps down on them hard. “Relax for me.”

“I’m relaxed,” she snaps.

“You’re not, and I don’t actually want to hurt you.”

“Maybe I like the pain.” She adds so much sass to her tone, I’m tempted to smack her ass again.

I lean across her back, caging her tiny body beneath mine. A shudder rolls through her when I whisper, “You should choose your words more carefully.”

Again, she rocks her hips, sending a clear message—a taunt—as she works herself on my fingers. Turning her head, she puts us face to face and reiterates the message with a daring whisper against my lips, “I want the pain.”

A long pause filled with our heavy breathing passes between us. Her gaze, fiery and fearless, remains fixed on mine. I close my eyes, allowing the ramifications, were I to give in to her request, to cycle through my mind until I reach a decision.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” I say.

She nods but follows up with a verbal agreement, knowing I won’t proceed without it. “I’ll tell you.”

I straighten behind her and run my free hand along her arched spine, her subtle trembles vibrating against my fingertips. Ominous music coming from the television envelops us, intensifying the dark mood set by the flashes of color on the screen. When red hues illuminate Maisy’s naked body, something wild and reckless stirs within me. She’s a temptress, a goddess, an angel. In every story told, biblical or otherwise, only an angel is powerful enough to strike down a demon. Lucky for her, I’m eternally willing to sacrifice my demon to the angel on all fours in front of me.

She whimpers when I remove my fingers from her pussy. I stroke my dick, lubricating it with her arousal, and notch the head at her fluttering entrance.

With a firm grip on her hips, I offer a final warning. “Remember, you asked for this.”

29

MAISY

Heart thundering and fingers clamped around the arm of the couch, I brace myself. It’s pointless. Jensen slams into me with so much power, I could’ve launched into space. A garbled noise jams in my throat, and he allows me a few seconds to catch my breath.

His gentle tone reaches my ears. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I croak. Tentatively, I wiggle my butt to get things going again, but he tightens his hold on my hips.

“Don’t lie to me. This is only our second time. We can work up to rough sex.”

If I were to look over my shoulder, I’d see a war waging in his eyes. He wants to please me but worries he’ll hurt me. I need him to trust that I know myself and what I want. What I can handle.

Staring at the cushion beneath me, I say, “Stop treating me like I’m made of glass.”

I meant what I said about wanting the pain. The thought of him being rough excites me. After years of rejection and loneliness numbing me, I’ll feel something real and tangible. The desolation consuming me will rush to the surface and unfurl as tendrils of pleasure reaching for my nerve endings. I’ll feel alive.

When I chose my sleepwear for tonight, I intended to seduce him. I knew he’d push for a serious conversation, rightfully so, but I also knew he’d need to relieve some stress and settle his mind. I learned years ago that Jensen functions better when he feels like he can lose himself in a controlled environment. The way I see it, I’m absorbing his pain too, taking it upon myself as pleasure. A win-win.

Flexing the fingers on my hips once, twice, three times, he says, “As you wish.”

His fingertips sink into my flesh to secure his grip, and the last thought that races through my head is, “Oh shit. What have I done?”

“Jens—”

He unleashes, pounding into me with wild abandon. My mouth hangs open, a silent, gaping hole with no air flowing in or out as the blood rushes to my head. Only the sounds of his grunts and the movie soundtrack surround us.

“So. Fucking. Good.” Through gritted teeth, he punctuates each word with a hard thrust. When I can’t support my upper body any longer, I face-plant on the sofa. He reminds me, “You asked for this, Maisy. Take it all.”

“I’m trying,” I say, though my response sounds like a whine. Who knew I could be so whiny during sex?

He pulls out, leaving me with an empty, pulsing ache. My head tingles from the dizziness subsiding after I roll to one side. Sinking onto a cushion, he spreads his legs and adjusts his glistening length.

“Get over here,” he orders. With shaky legs, I move to straddle him face to face, but he stops me. “Turn around, plant your feet, and put me inside you.”

On his lap with my back to his chest, I wrap my hand around his slick erection and sink down. The air whips out of my lungs when he surges upward to meet me halfway.

“Oh god.” Groaning, I drop my head to his shoulder.

The deep voice growling in my ear says, “Tonight I am. Keep praying, birdie. You’re at my mercy now.”

He plucks my nipples with one hand and rubs rough circles on my clit with the other while driving into me. I’m overstimulated as he works my sensitive parts all at once. Never have I been on the verge of sobbing from an abundance of pleasure. I tremble from head to toe. My core muscles clench around him, frantically seeking release, afraid he might leave me on the edge forever.

A hiss of air tickles my cheek. “Yes. You’re right there. Come for me, beautiful.”

With a pinch of my clit and twist of a nipple, he draws a ruthless orgasm from me. On a hoarse cry, I spasm uncontrollably. Only the strong arms wrapped around me keep me from melting into a puddle on the floor. Once I go limp, he folds us onto our sides without breaking our connection.

Spooning me, Jensen plants kisses along my jaw and neck. He buries his face in my hair, slowing his thrusts to a steady, leisurely pace as he whispers his adoration. “You’re exceptional. My beautiful, perfect birdie. My Maisy.”

“Please,” I rasp, clueless about what I’m begging for. A drink of water? Another orgasm? Mercy?

As if reading my thoughts, he says, “Beggars don’t get to choose their reward. Now suck.”

He grabs my chin and stuffs two fingers into my mouth, then he drapes my leg over his thigh and pins my foot to the back of the couch. It’s like we’re on a wrestling mat. I’m spread open and locked down as he pistons his hips, unmerciful, while rubbing my swollen clit.

“Give me another one,” he says.

I mumble a sound of protest around his fingers because I can’t shake my head with him holding my jaw. He withdraws the fingers and angles my face toward his. The kiss we share is fierce, his tongue demanding, his moans pleading.

“One more, birdie. I need you too tired to run after seeing this side of me.”

“I don’t know if I can,” I say with a whimper.

“You can, and you will.”

He brings my legs together and creates a tight gap where he enters me from behind before wrapping his leg over mine. I’m so full of him I can’t see straight, and the new angle makes his cock rub against my g-spot with every stroke. Teeth sink into my shoulder, unwitting participants in my wildest fantasy, and I lose all free will. My spine bows forward with the instinct to curl into a ball. My release gushes through me, soaking us both. I’m convulsing, a small earthquake trapped beneath a giant boulder, unable to break free as he thrusts through my orgasm.

When I’m spent, all the pleasure leached from my boneless body, he pulls out and rises to his knees. Bracing an arm above my head, he jerks himself wildly. Mouth parted, breaths quickening, eyes locked on mine before they roll back in his head and warm spurts of cum land on my breasts.

Everything comes to an abrupt halt, as if the earth stopped spinning. No sounds from the TV. No flashing lights. No words spoken when our foreheads join, and we heave each other’s air for long seconds.

“Why…” I can’t finish the question, but he understands what I’m asking. Why did you stop?

He grazes my cheek with his knuckles, a gesture of love and tenderness after wrecking me so thoroughly. “Because you had enough. You reached your limit. If I kept going, you wouldn’t have enjoyed it.”

I struggle to stop the tears brimming in my eyes. “Thank you.”

“Never thank me for knowing where to draw the line.”

Snagging his shirt off the floor, he wipes my chest and lifts me into his lap. I nuzzle his neck, my favorite hiding place when the stirring emotions become too much to bear. Goosebumps surface where his fingertips dance up and down my arm.

“Why are you crying, beautiful?”

A sniffle confirms his suspicion. “You’re being so sweet.”

“And that makes you cry?”

“I’m never sweet to you. It’s so one-sided. I’m not a nice person, and my vagina’s sore.”

His chest quakes with a soft chuckle. “Those are unrelated concerns, so let’s start with the first one. You’re sweet in your own way, and I prefer you just as you are. Don’t change for my benefit. As for being sore, I’ll take good care of you, and you’ll feel better in the morning, okay?”

“Okay.”

He lingers when he kisses the top of my head, breathing in my coconut-scented conditioner. “Let’s shower, then we’ll talk.”

Snuggled against Jensen in his bed, my mouth stretches with a big yawn. “I’m so sleepy. Can we please talk tomorrow?”

Neither of us spoke in the shower. He scrubbed our bodies and washed his hair while gathering his thoughts. He’s upset with me, and I understand his reasons. The line of communication has been practically nonexistent over the past few days, and the faulty wiring sparks on my end alone.

“You’re a flight risk, so we’re doing this now. You can sleep after we talk.” He turns onto his side and faces me, folding an arm under his head. The fingers of his free hand whisper against my jaw, and his unwavering gaze penetrates mine. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

Lacing my fingers through his, I maintain eye contact so he knows I’m being truthful. “I’ve been busy with Vera. She drains me, and I fall asleep before you get off work.”

“You can drop into Bruno’s any time and see me. We’re not too busy during the week, and even if we are, I’ll stop everything for you.”

Honestly, it hadn’t occurred to me to visit Jensen at work. Do most couples drop by each other’s place of employment just to say hello? He might annoy me if he were to show up while I’m working. Gigs pay by either the hour or the face in my profession, so time is money and all that.

“I hadn’t thought of that, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

Curiosity pinches his brows together when he asks, “Have you ever been in a relationship?”

With my eyes pinned on our joined hands, warmth suffuses my cheeks. “No. When you travel all the time, it’s hard to find someone steady—someone confident enough in themselves to stick it out.”

He gives me a tired, but devastating, smile. “It’s a good thing I’m known as a steady, confident guy.”

“Arrogant,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

“Certain.”

“Delusional.”

Leaning forward, he brushes his lips against mine and whispers, “Faithful.”

I scoff. “Please. I’m sure you’ve had relationships with other women. You dated lots of girls when you were younger.”

“Dated, but I’ve only had one relationship. A very short one because my heart has remained faithful to you.”

I shake my head and chuckle in disbelief, bewildered by how easily he makes such declarations. “You say the wildest things sometimes. I never pegged you as a romantic.”

“Romance is for dreamers. I’m a realist, and nothing feels more real than the way my heart thrashes when I think of you or look at you. Like it wants to burst from my chest and jump straight into yours.”

When he talks like this, I’m dizzy with warring emotions. Giddy at the possibility that he has such deep feelings for me, but wary that he’s paying me lip service. Perhaps my love language is words of affirmation, but I’ve been deprived of them for too long. I need him to fill my head with a lifetime’s worth of sweet sentiments before I can believe in myself enough to believe him.

“What if I hadn’t come back?” I ask. “Would you have grown old alone?”

“You were always gonna come back to me. Your head may have lost faith in me, but your heart never did. It would’ve eventually found its way.”

Ironically, when Jensen shares his thoughts without thinking too hard, the words flow effortlessly. He’s poetic almost, a compliment he’d reject if I ever told him.

He may have a weakness for constructing words at times, but he holds nothing back when sharing his emotions with me. Opposites must attract because my greatest weakness—my greatest flaw—is the inability to express what I’m feeling. Only small reactions or expressions filter to the surface when I allow them.

“That’s a pretty bold claim. I could’ve met someone, got married, and had a couple of kids by now.”

“And when you divorced that man because your heart was lying to itself, I would’ve raised your kids as my own. There’s no scenario where we don’t end up together, birdie. Not in this lifetime, and not in the thousands that follow.”

“But…” I whisper, sensing he has more to say on the matter.

He tucks some curls behind my ear. “But…this will be easier on both of us if you meet me halfway. I’ll accept baby steps as long as each step you take brings you closer to me.”

I sigh, resigned to the fact I’m setting myself up for failure in our relationship. This touching base concept is foreign to me, but I’ll make a conscious effort to check in with him, which doesn’t seem like too difficult a task.

“I promise to try. This doesn’t come natural to me, Jensen, so please be patient.”

“Fair enough. Now tell me something new. Any jobs coming up?”

With a sleepy grin on my lips, I tell him about the upcoming Las Vegas project. I prattle on about what it’s like working on a production set and the satisfaction I feel whenever I transform a face into art. How I take pride in my work—in knowing I’m adding beauty to the world. How evidence of my work will exist forever in digital glory.

Jensen hangs on my every word, a pleased grin on his lips and pride shining in his eyes. Fingertips, calloused from years of lifting weights, explore my shoulder, neck, collarbone, jaw. He never stops touching me, unaware he’s doing so as he listens.

“I’m happy with the way things are going. Any of these jobs could lead to the big break I’m waiting for.”

“And I’m happy for you. I want all your dreams to come true.” God, I don’t deserve him.

“Thanks. What about you? Have you decided about running for mayor?”

He rolls onto his back and stuffs a hand in his hair. “I filed the paperwork.”

“Already? I thought you had more time to decide.”

“Figured I should get it over with.”

I sit up to get a better look at his face. Tightened features give away his internal struggle with the decision, one he clearly didn’t want to make. I straddle his waist and fold my hands across his chest, resting my chin on them.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Don’t I? Everyone expects me to. It’s all anyone can talk about when they see me.”

“They’re excited because they respect you, but you don’t owe them anything. Do what’s best for you in the end.”

He stares at the slice of moonlight on the ceiling. “I’ll disappoint them if I back out.”

“What about you? What if the pressure gets to be too much and you…you know.”

“Lose my head?”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, ashamed for bringing up his history of crumbling under pressure.

“Don’t be sorry for thinking it. There’s a chance I’ll have a breakdown, but I’ve learned how to control myself before things get too far out of hand.”

I doubt he’s managing his stress the right way if he’s never sought professional help. Of course, I haven’t been around for a long time, and he could have things under control.

Either way, I say, “You’ll tell me if you need my help, right?”

“Of course. You’re the only person I would turn to. But you don’t need to worry about me. I’m good.” Putting an end to the conversation, he tucks me against his side and wraps an arm around me. “Sleep, beautiful. And don’t sneak out in the morning.”

I rest my cheek against his shoulder and trace the hummingbird tattoo with my fingers, reflecting on how tired he looks these days. Faint shadows circle his eyes, and his skin’s natural luster has dulled. The election may have something to do with his exhaustion, but I wonder how much I contribute to his worries.

Jensen absorbs stress like a sponge absorbs water—instant, greedy, without thought. But he can only hold in the stress for so long before he makes a mess. I discovered this truth when I was too young to understand his struggles and too foolish in my belief that I could fix him.

30

MAISY

Maisy, 13; Jensen, 16½

Bored out of my mind, I sway back and forth on the tree swing, ankles loose with the toes of my shoes in the dirt. There used to be grass under the swing, but now there’s a bald spot where my feet drag on the ground.

Jensen pulls up in his mom’s old sedan, which he’s been driving since he got his license in the spring. When he sets foot on the cracked pavement of my driveway, I know something’s wrong and instinctively move toward him.

“Where’s Logan?” he asks, his voice tight. Frantic eyes sweep the surrounding area as he shifts nervously, unable to stand still.

“He’s gone with Vera.”

Logan had a football thing to register for in Austin, so he and Vera will be gone until later this evening. As usual, I’m alone.

Jensen grimaces and yanks his hair. “Fuck.”

The metallic grating of a mailbox being closed captures our attention, and we glance at the neighbor who’s looking our way.

“Come inside,” I tell Jensen.

It’s clear he doesn’t want to be seen in his current state, and he doesn’t argue, following me into the house. The second the door closes, he launches into a self-deprecating tirade.

“I fucked up, Maisy. I failed my English paper. I was already doing bad in that class, and we’re at the end of the grading period. I suck at using words. I can read and shit just fine, but I’m no good at putting my thoughts out there, you know? I’m so fucking stupid. And if I fail, I’ll get benched, and the whole team will hate me because I’m letting them down. And my parents. Oh god!” He retches, and I’ve never seen anyone in such distress. “This is so bad, birdie. Everyone will be mad at me. The coaches. Logan. My family. Fuck! I’m such a fucking loser!”

He’s pacing around and talking so fast. And his poor hair; he keeps yanking it. I do the first thing that comes to mind and slam myself against him, wrapping my arms around his waist. The fierce hug takes him by surprise, and he stops pacing.

“J,” I whisper, squeezing as tight as I can. “I’m here. Take a breath.”

He’s shaking all over, and his shuddering exhale rattles my heart in my rib cage.

“I feel like I’ve got to get out of my skin, but I don’t know what will happen if I do.”

“Explain it to me,” I say.

“My head—It’s—I can’t—” He growls in frustration.

He was speaking fine during his rant, but now he can’t put more than two words together, so I say, “Give me one word. In one word, tell me what’s happening in your head.”

His arms remain pinned to his sides like a statue. Like he might break if he moves a muscle. “Chaos.”

“And what will make the chaos go away? One word.”

He’s quiet for long seconds before he speaks in a strained whisper. “Damage.”

Racking my brain, I search for a way to help him. I’ve heard about those rooms where people smash things, but Vera won’t be pleased if I let Jensen destroy our house. Only one lame idea pops into my head, and hopefully it works.

“Come with me.” I grab his hand and lead him to Logan’s weight bench in the backyard.

My thought process may be flawed because I don’t know what’s happening to him, but I’m hoping he can burn this excess energy by lifting weights, an activity he enjoys. This way, he won’t hurt himself or anyone else.

“I work out every day at school,” he argues.

“This isn’t a workout. There’s no coach and no rules. Pick up the weights and throw them. Or lift as long as you want until you feel better. No counting. Just do whatever you need to let go of the chaos. Do your damage.” Because he looks doubtful, I add, “Or go punch the fence.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, a ghost of a smile, and I’m thankful he’s calming down. He’s not thrumming as violently as before.

Because humor seems to help, I continue with the playful approach. “Or you can lift me. I’m pretty heavy, so you might hurt yourself, but we can give it a try.”

His eyes go wide with fear more than shock. “I could hurt you.”

“You won’t. I trust you.” I do trust him. Deep in my bones, I know with absolute certainty Jensen will never cause me harm.

He assesses me from head to toe, considering the offer I meant as a joke. “How much do you weigh? Ninety pounds?”

“Eighty-five.”

He rolls his eyes, and his shoulders relax. “I could toss you over the fence like a roll of toilet paper.”

“And I could tell everyone you let me paint your nails this summer.”

“Birdie!” He tries to grab me, but I jump out of his reach and run away, laughing. He gives chase. “You swore to never bring that up!”

“I swore not to tell anyone. But if you threaten me, you leave me no choi—aaahhh!” Jensen hooks me around the waist and flips me over his shoulder. “Put me down!” I yell.

“You said I could lift you, brat. Or should I toss you?”

I squeal when he tickles my ribs. “Stop! Okay! Truce! You can lift me, and I’ll keep your love for manicures a secret.”

“It was one manicure. Never again.”

Rather than going for the weight bench, he places me on my feet and lies down in the grass. “Put your hands above my head and do a push-up, then I’ll move you where I need you.”

“We’re really doing this?” I ask, chuckling as I maneuver into a push-up position with my hands on the ground beside his ears. “You better not drop me.”

He grunts when I elbow him in the head. “I won’t drop you.”

Once I’m in position, he holds my hips but doesn’t move.

“I’m ready.” A big smile spreads across my face. I’m elated because we worked through his anxious moment together.

He doesn’t respond, remaining perfectly still. My shirt hangs from my chest and covers his face, so I balance on one arm and reach down to move it so I can see him.

“Ready when you are,” I say.

His eyes are closed, and he drags in a deep, stuttering breath before he whispers, “Thank you, birdie.”

“For what?” Since our playful moment has ended, I sit next to him with my legs crossed.

“For always making me feel better,” he says.

I pick at the blades of grass, breaking them off and flicking them aside. “You make me feel better too. When I’m sad, you always cheer me up. That’s what friends do, right?”

Hands tucked behind his head, he stares at the blue sky. Moisture gathers at the corners of his eyes. I’ve never seen Jensen cry, and the sight of him close to tears causes my own eyes to sting.

“I’m not sad,” he says. “Sometimes I feel…I don’t know. Crazy? Like my brain gets out of control, and I can’t stop the bad thoughts from screaming at me.”

“What kind of bad thoughts?”

“That I’m not good enough. That I’ll never be good enough. I’ll make mistakes and ruin everything. People will be disappointed in me if I’m not perfect.”

“You could never disappoint me, J. I think you’re perfect just the way you are.”

“I think you’re pretty perfect too, birdie.” He falls silent for a minute, deep in thought before his glassy eyes capture mine. “Make me a promise?”

“Anything.”

“Promise you’ll be my friend even when I mess up. Promise you’ll never leave me.”

I lie down beside him in the grass and link our hands together, giving his a firm squeeze. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

An hour passes as we lie under the sun, chatting about everything and nothing of importance to keep his mind off his perceived failures. And I vow, here and now, to be a safe place for Jensen whenever he needs to unravel.

That day was the first of many when I helped Jensen deal with his overwhelming mind. He sought me out whenever his head spiraled—his words, not mine—and quickly became reliant upon me. Like I was a safety net or a balm to his unhinged thoughts. Probably not the healthiest friendship between a couple of teens, especially since I also found sanctuary in him when I encountered bad days at school or home.

We cheered each other up, finding tiny pockets of joy in the bleakness. Evidently, that bleakness remained with us during our years apart, and I consider whether our separation was the cause or the effect. Maybe a little of both.

31

MAISY

Is it wrong to side-eye a babbling baby? Probably. In my defense, it’s difficult to carry on a conversation with my lunch companions when the baby distracts them every five seconds. Tatum and Lucy coo whenever Marcella makes an unintelligible noise. We’ve been at the Noon Moon Café for ten minutes and haven’t even ordered our food yet.

Tatum’s been pressuring me for weeks to join her and Lucy for lunch. Pam also urged me to go, reminding me to “embrace it.” Since becoming her temporary roommate, she repeats the phrase often, encouraging me to open up and allow people into my life without questioning their sincerity or intentions.

Heeding Pam’s advice, I’ve embarked on a season of yes, so here I am. Starving. I wonder if the plush toy shoved in the baby’s mouth is a sign that she’s hungry too.

“Are you ladies ready to—” Sonja cuts herself off with a sharp gasp. “Maisy Donovan? Oh my goodness, look at you! Get up here and give me a hug.”

Not waiting for me to stand on my own, she pulls me from my chair with surprising strength for a woman her age. As she squeezes me in a tight hug, the star pendant hanging from her neck digs into my cheek. In my periphery, I catch Tatum squinting at me, no doubt realizing I never called Sonja last month about the dress alterations. I made the adjustments myself.

“Good to see you,” I say, wiggling out of Sonja’s embrace.

The combined scents of fried food and cloying, floral perfume cling to her dress and white hair, and I drag in a breath of fresh air when she lets me go. Tatum snickers from her seat at the table, and I shoot her a withering glare. Discreetly, of course.

“Aren’t you a lovely sight? Eddie!” she yells toward the serving window. “Come out here and say hello to Maisy Donovan!”

I wait for her to add the qualifier of Vera’s daughter or Logan’s little sister to the end of my name, but she doesn’t. And I can’t help but stand a little taller and straighten my shoulders. Everyone in the café stares at me, but I’m not meeting their gazes with a scowl like the teenage Maisy did back in the day.

The swinging door opens, and Eddie appears with a hair net covering his bald head and a cigarette tucked behind one ear. He narrows his eyes at me, grunts, and retreats to his kitchen.

“He agrees with me. You’re a doll,” Sonja says with her warm smile in place. “We’ve all been so proud of you and Tatum. I followed all your adventures around the globe. Reminds me of when Eddie and I drove around the country in our van in the ’70s. Such good times,” she adds, a faraway gleam brightening her grey eyes.

Some might argue travel is travel, but a hippie van full of stoners and a private jet full of Scrabble players are far from similar.

Lucy tugs at my hand, urging me to sit down. I drop into my chair, grateful for her rescue from the curious stares and whispers.

Sonja readies her pen and pad. “What are you ladies having today?”

After we place our orders, Tatum and Lucy dive straight into pregnancy talk. I hum and nod in all the right places while they ramble on about cravings and hormones and the latest stroller recalls.

My eyes light up when a plate loaded with a burger and fries slides onto the table. While I stuff my face, they continue discussing all the must-have baby paraphernalia, but my thoughts drift to the idea of parenting.

Jensen’s stick-figure kids come to mind. He wants a family one day. Without a doubt, he’d be a wonderful father. I, on the other hand, fear I’m not equipped to meet the emotional needs of my hypothetical children. Not with my inability to express love. Hell, I’m failing with Jensen, and he’s a grown man who knows the ins and outs of how I operate. A baby wouldn’t understand why I’m closed off, even if I love him or her with all my heart.

Those worries aside, I’m focused on my goals—on establishing my freelance career. If kids are in my future, they’re many, many years down the road.

Feeling eyes on me, my gaze slides to the tiny human in the highchair. With auburn curls and little rosebud lips, Marcella’s cute, I guess. For a child. The snacks she was munching on earlier have disappeared from her tray, and her big brown eyes glance between me and my fries. I narrow my gaze at her, daring her to reach out and grab one.

“Maisy, don’t scare the baby,” Tatum chides.

“She’s eyeing my food.”

Lucy laughs. “She’s a Harrison. Their stomachs are bottomless pits.”

She digs around in a massive diaper bag and finds another package of snacks, dumping the contents on the tray. Marcella shoves a handful into her little mouth, fingers and all.

“Speaking of Harrisons,” Tatum mutters with a knowing grin. What she knows, I have no clue.

Lucy and I turn our heads toward the door, following Tatum’s line of sight. Rock plows through it, nearly bowling over another couple, and struts toward us.

“Tate. Maisy,” he says in curt greeting when he reaches our table.

I lift a haughty eyebrow and drag out the sound of his birth name. “James.”

Tatum gasps in shock as if I’ve provoked a wild beast. Lucy’s brows hit her hairline, surprised by my boldness. Her husband hates being called by his real name.

Meanwhile, Rock glares at me through ginger eyelashes before his mouth spreads into a wide, unhinged grin. “Ray of fucking sunshine. Still burning men to ashes. Who’s your next victim? I want in.”

“You’re still a brute,” I say, shaking my head.

Because my middle name is Rae, Rock began calling me ray of sunshine during our freshman year in high school. After the locker incident between Jensen and Peyton Riggs, I stopped accepting barbs from everyone and found my voice. Rock joked about my fiery tongue being hot enough to burn people. And because he loves mayhem and stirring up trouble, he became my hype man, cheering me on when I gave another student—mostly the boys—a tongue lashing.

“Should I be concerned?” Lucy asks, her eyes pinging between us. “Is this a friendly exchange, or…”

“We’re good,” Rock assures her.

He bends down to kiss his wife’s cheek and whispers in her ear. I don’t catch everything he says, but some words are crystal clear. Rope and lube are the specific ones that pique my curiosity. I glance at Tatum, who’s bright red in the face. She must’ve heard what I heard.

“Tonight,” Lucy says to Rock. “After Marcella falls asleep.”

“Fine.” He claims her lips in a searing kiss, shifting his body to conceal the not-so-subtle groping of her boob. Then he pecks Marcella on the head.

Lucy watches him leave, unaware of our presence as lovesickness confiscates her wits, so Tatum eloquently explains to me what I witnessed while fanning her face.

“Rock’s a horn-dog and makes Lucy have sex every day—”

“He doesn’t make me,” she interjects with an eye roll.

“—and he hunts her down to confirm their nookie plans.”

Lucy giggles, unashamed. “You make it sound dubious. He doesn’t have to hunt me down. We share locations on our phones, so he knows where to find me. The only hunting we do is when I chase him around the yard.”

I do a double take, my eyes snapping to Lucy’s for two reasons. First, is she talking about a specific kink I’ve read about in my smutty books? If so, I’m pretty certain she said she does the hunting. Interesting.

Second, she said Rock pops up randomly because he tracks her location, which turns my thoughts to Jensen’s surprise appearances. The logical explanation to him knowing my whereabouts is that we live in a small town where everyone knows everything. Plus, he’s never had access to my phone without me being present, so there’s no way he could be tracking me. He wouldn’t. Right?

Tatum draws me out of my thoughts when she asks, “Why do you chase him?”

For some reason, I’m inclined to protect her innocence. “You don’t want to know, Tate. Trust me.”

“I do want to know,” she insists. “Lucy’s been teaching me about all kinds of things I’ll never do with Jake. Someone has to educate me since you never would.”

Exasperated with her misguided perception of my love life, I spill the truth and burst her bubble. “Because I don’t have a lot of experience, Tate. You have this grand idea that I’m sexually free or awakened or whatever you want to call it, but I’m not.”

“But the roadies,” she accuses.

“One roadie. The same roadie on every tour until he quit before the last one.”

Her eyes bulge before she screeches, “You lied to me?”

I shush her, my gaze darting around to confirm no one overheard, and lower my voice to a whisper-yell. “Keep your voice down. Geez. I never lied, and my number doesn’t matter. The point is, I’m not the liberated woman you think I am.”

Lucy, witnessing our exchange with keen interest, lifts a sleepy Marcella from the highchair and cradles her, patting her on the butt. How nice would it be to check out of this conversation and take a nap?

Tatum argues, “It matters, Maiz. Since the day we met, I’ve shared every detail of my life with you because you’re my best friend. And best friends tell each other everything.” Her voice thickens, a sign she’s on the verge of crying.

“Please don’t cry in a restaurant,” I beg, grabbing her hand. Public displays of emotion, affection, or otherwise make me extremely uncomfortable.

Wiping her nose with a napkin, she corrects me. “It’s a café.”

“Whatever. Just please don’t cry. I’ll let you ask one question, anything you want, if you bring back happy Tate.”

“Anything?” She perks up, the swift uptick in her mood both a relief and warning bell.

I concede, my shoulders slumping. “Sure. Anything.”

She leans across the table and whispers, “Has anything else happened with you know who? Did you talk everything through? Are you together now?”

“‘You know who’ is Jensen,” I inform Lucy. Might as well get all the knowledge in the open if we’re planning to make this ladies lunch thing official. Answering Tatum, I say, “That was three questions. And yes.”

“Yes to which one?”

“Take your pick.”

Her face lights up, eager for explicit details. When she realizes those details are not forthcoming, she scrunches her nose, and her woeful tone drips with disappointment. “You’re no fun.”

“You know what is fun? Whatever involves rope and lube.” Tilting my head at Lucy, I arch an eyebrow and ask, “Care to share?”

She smirks, her eyes twinkling as she relaxes into her chair with Marcella napping in her arms. “Sharing goes both ways at this table, like an information exchange. Tate pays with behind-the-scenes stories of her tours. What’s your currency?”

Oh, I like Lucy. She’s got sass, wit, and confidence, three of my favorite female personality traits. I’m already looking forward to the next lunch date with these two.

Highly interested in learning more about the juicy education she’s giving Tatum, I return Lucy’s sly smile. “I can pay in beauty tips and services. Count me in.”

32

JENSEN

Walford’s annual May festival is a disaster. For me, anyway. I woke up this morning, refreshed and optimistic about the day after dropping a kiss on Maisy’s forehead while she slept. That optimism was dashed when I arrived at the bar to discover I forgot to order disposable cups.

Thankfully, Ainsley showed up early too, so I sent her to the store to buy every cup she could get her hands on. I would rather have too many than not enough. If Bruno’s serves beer in cheap plastic cups for the next month, so be it.

The second problem I encounter today is the emptying of the first keg. Beer drinkers of Walford and the surrounding area arrived in full force. It’s not even lunchtime, and we’ve already tapped an entire keg. That would be fine except, when I ordered inventory the other day, I didn’t consider the Friday night crowd. Long story short, I didn’t order enough beer for the festival.

Charlie, who’s flustered with his glasses sliding halfway down his sweaty nose, pours beer from cans as quickly as I free them from the cases and crack them open. My nerves are shot. I try to tune everything out and focus on pulling beers and popping tabs, but everyone who walks by demands my attention.

Brody stops by with Danny Foster at his side. The video camera Danny carries everywhere is aimed at me.

“Not now!” I snap, causing him to jerk back and fumble with the camera.

Danny’s cheeks turn scarlet, and Brody puts himself between us in a protective stance, as if I might hurt the kid. I regret directing the anger I have with myself at Danny, but I prefer not to be captured on film when I’m frazzled.

“What’s wrong with you?” Brody asks, his tone filled with disgust at my behavior.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just leave us to it.”

He casts a questioning glance at Charlie—the poor guy looks ready to crawl under the nearest table and cry—then another at Ainsley. Because my employees are unwilling to talk about me while I’m present, no words are exchanged. Brody throws an arm over Danny’s shoulders and guides him away. I’ll try to figure out how those two became buddies another day. Now’s not the time to worry about other people.

“Where the fuck is Javi?” I say, aiming the question at no one in particular as my jaw clenches.

Javi left an hour ago to get a couple more kegs and save the day. I’ll be fine once this disaster is under control and I can breathe for a goddamn minute.

“Mayor Holloway!” Tom-Tom Lee mimics a drum roll on the table with his hands and guffaws at his antics. “Two beers to go, please.”

I pause what I’m doing and level him with a glare sharp enough to slice the grin off his face. Before I say anything to offend the man, Charlie rushes forward and shoves two sloshing cups of beer into Tom’s hands. Clearly, I’m not hiding my irritation well.

“Thanks, kid,” Tom mutters. He flashes me a quizzical look before sipping his drink and strolling away.

Ainsley abandons her post at the raffle table and says, “Let me help Charlie for a bit. You can run inside, cool off, and grab more cups.”

I’m sweating like no one’s business. The back of my shirt is drenched. Hotter temperatures are expected in Texas during May, but the recent rain blessed us with cooler air. Unfortunately, with rain comes stifling humidity. The sticky kind of humidity you can’t escape, where everything clings to your skin: clothes, dirt, the grass. Right now, my shirt suctions to my body.

Accepting Ainsley’s offer of a reprieve, I rush inside and stride toward the kitchen. Because we aren’t cooking today, it’s the coolest room in the bar. I enter the walk-in cooler and let the icy air engulf me. Dragging in crisp breaths, my sinuses burn when the cold air hits the back of my throat, but I’m not bothered. Anything feels better than the sauna outside.

This isn’t me. I’m not this guy. I live an orderly, organized, scheduled, and manageable life. I feel none of those things. Perfection is beyond my reach, just past the fringes of my control. And I need to rein in the chaos before it reigns over me.

Once my ears have gone from blazing to freezing, and my hair is cool to the touch, I exit the cooler and shove myself back into the madness awaiting me. Only, when I get outside, I realize I forgot to grab the damn cups.

Everything continues on a downward spiral, including me, until Javi plows through the propped-open doors from inside the bar, hauling a keg on a dolly. Thank god. I help him place the keg on the ground, and relief washes over everyone surrounding the cart, including Ainsley, who watches me with concern.

Javi starts attaching the tap to the keg, and I bark, “I’ve got it.”

Out of nowhere, Jake appears at my side and clamps a hand on my shoulder. “You good, man?”

Bowing my head, I sneak a few deep breaths—in through my nose and out through my mouth—while praying for a miracle. I sense her presence before she steps through the crowd. Without raising my chin, my gaze drifts upward and clashes with golden-hazel eyes filled with worry and recognition.

My relief is immediate. My rescue, imminent. Everything fades away. The faces, the noises, the madness—they’re carved from my mind until she’s all I can see. My Maisy.

Calm as the heavenly blue sky above, she pushes through the throng and takes hold of my hand. “I need your help with something,” she says, her voice strong, sure, angelic.

Need.

I dread when other people throw out that word, because I’ll inevitably be asked to perform a task—and I can’t refuse. When she uses it, I’m liberated from my mind’s prison. I want her to need me. After failing her once, I’ll spend a lifetime doing anything she asks.

In my office, she locks the door behind us. “One word,” she says.

No longer trapped behind the cart outside, I take advantage of the open area and pace. “We’re not kids anymore.”

“So? Give me one.”

She already succeeded in distracting me, but I consider all the little mistakes I’ve made, the building blocks that led to this morning’s disaster. Summing them up into a single word comes easier now than it did years ago. I’m able to categorize my misgivings, and today’s debacle belongs in the most popular drawer of my head’s filing cabinet.

Stopping behind my chair, I grip the back of it and say, “Failure.”

While she drifts around my office, her body language exudes indifference, as if my heightened anxiety isn’t a big deal. “What happened out there?” she asks.

“Everything went wrong because I overlooked some details.”

“Did you work it out?” She examines the sparse furnishings, the awards on the bookcase, and the articles hanging on the wall. I now realize she’s never been in here.

“Yes.”

“Okay then. It’s done.”

I heave a deep breath and repeat her words. “It’s done.”

She reaches for the handle of the only other door in the room, and I’m on her in a flash. With my recent forgetfulness, it’s possible I left the door unlocked.

I slam a palm against it, and she jumps in fright. “It’s not safe up there,” I say, crowding her against the wall.

She looks up at me, our proximity causing her breaths to quicken, drawing my attention to her cleavage in the strapless denim dress she’s wearing.

“What’s up there?” she asks.

I slide a finger between her breasts. “Rotted floors and old bar junk.”

She crinkles her cute nose. “Oh. I’ve always wondered what’s upstairs in these old buildings. Bar junk is a letdown.”

Pressing my mouth to her ear, my voice sounds rough when I say, “It’s dangerous up there, birdie. Off-limits to everyone, especially you. Your safety is too important to me for you to risk getting hurt.”

“Yes, sir,” she purrs playfully, running her hands across my chest.

But there’s nothing playful about my reaction to her calling me sir. I lift her off the floor and sink into my chair with her straddling my lap. My hands slip into her panties and squeeze her ass, and I’ll forever appreciate that she loves to wear dresses. Easy access.

“What time are you leaving tomorrow?” I ask, kneading her supple flesh.

She’s heading to Las Vegas for a music video project. It’ll be our first test—well, my first test—to see how I handle her being gone for work. If I can survive for more than a decade without her, surely I’ll make it through two full days. This trip will test Maisy as well. Will she communicate with me, or will I be out of sight, out of mind?

“My flight’s in the afternoon.” Her arms circle around my neck, pulling my head close enough to lick the swells of her breasts.

“Stay with me tonight?” I bite a nipple through her dress, which earns me a sexy little gasp.

When she rolls her hips, a soft moan escapes her. “Of course. I’ll wait up for you.”

“Good. We’ll see how many times you call me sir while begging for mercy.”

She tugs my earlobe with her teeth and whispers, “Zero.”

With a hand splayed on her back, I draw her to my chest and claim her mouth for a kiss. The languorous glide of my tongue against hers conveys my gratitude for her intervention earlier. I know a thousand other ways I can show her my appreciation, but before our make-out session escalates to something more exciting, someone pounds on the door.

“Take your time,” Javi yells. “It’s not like there’s a festival happening.”

We both groan in annoyance. Her, because the interruption stopped my thumb circling her clit. Me, because I have to face everyone who witnessed my near meltdown and resume my duties as bar owner. I’m ready to call it a day and hide away from the world, preferably while buried deep inside my girl.

Maisy and I are failing the test. With the time difference and our work schedules, we don’t find many opportunities to talk, but she could text at least. I haven’t heard much from her at all.

Thank god she comes home today. I had more patience before she agreed to “explore” things than I do now. Ever since she gave herself to me, I can’t get enough. It’s a problem, an addiction I need to kick before it affects other areas of my life.

Too late.

“Did you order the new mics for karaoke?” Javi asks, trailing behind me toward my office.

“Yep.” Nope. I forgot.

His hand lands on my shoulder, urging me to turn and look at him. When I do, he studies my face and shakes his head in disapproval. I’m aware of what he sees—dark circles, bleary eyes. I catch a glimpse of myself every day in the mirror.

“Get it together. That’s the second thing you forgot this week.”

“What was the first?”

“Hey, boss!” Charlie shouts from behind the bar. He agreed to come in this morning to organize the stock and display. “Do we have that case of vodka yet?”

We like to give up-and-coming distilleries a chance, and I promised to order bottles of infused vodka from a local company. Last month.

Javi lifts his brows.

“Fuck.” I plant my hands on my hips and stare at him, waiting for the reprimand.

He puts me out of my misery and momentary self-loathing. “I took care of it. This time,” he adds with a pointed look.

I heave a sigh. “Thanks, man.”

“Do you need to talk anything through? Unload some baggage?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’ve just had a few busy weeks.”

“Have you looked in a mirror lately? You look like you haven’t slept in years.”

I fist his collar, drag him into my office, and slam the door. “Don’t air my shit to the world, Javi. Especially shit that doesn’t exist.”

He points at my face, his tone equally harsh. “This isn’t fake. You’re losing it, man. Again.”

“I have a lot going on. My attention is split.”

“See, that’s your problem. Or the opposite of your problem. You can’t split your focus. You’re all in, dude, with one thing or another. And if she gets all your attention, what happens to everything else?”

“I’m handling it,” I hiss.

“Lie to yourself, but don’t lie to me. I’m trying to help you! Tell me what the issue is. What has you losing sleep? And be honest.”

Javi spins a chair around and drops into it, arms crossed, making it clear he’s not going anywhere until I confess all. Sighing, I lean against my desk and scratch my beard while deciding how much to disclose. I settle on sharing my biggest worry.

“She’s not all the way in with me,” I say.

“How do you know?”

“Because I know her. She’s holding back because she’s afraid I’ll hurt her again. I’m trying everything I can think of to get her fully on board with this. With us.”

I’m the one doing all the pushing and pulling in this relationship while Maisy stands still. It doesn’t help that her heart’s protected by a thick, invisible steel wall.

“Y’all seemed fine the other day at the festival, locked away in your office.”

“The sex isn’t an issue. It’s everything else.”

He makes an X with his wrists and shudders. “Whoa. No, dude. That’s Logan’s baby sister. Just…no.”

“She’s a grown woman, Javi.”

“Doesn’t matter. Trevor and I agreed any talk of her in a non-sisterly way is off the table.”

“Would’ve been nice if I was there when you made the agreement, but fine.”

Getting us back on track, he says, “Have you labeled whatever this is? If you need her to check a box for yes or no, then give her a damn love note. She’s not a mind reader.”

“She knows how I feel.”

“Have you asked her how she feels?” When all I respond with is a blank stare, he draws his own conclusions. Unfortunately, he’s spot on. “Ah, I see. You’re afraid of her answer. That explains why you want her to make the first move.” He chuckles. “Funny. She made the first move years ago, and how did that turn out for you?”

I point at him. “Watch yourself, Javi. Don’t imply things that never happened. She didn’t make a move.”

“My point is she asked you to speak up, and you didn’t. You want her to speak up now, but you won’t ask. You’re the maker of your own mess, man. Clean it up.”

“I can’t believe people actually pay you for advice.”

“They pay me for hard truths. To hold a mirror up and force them to look. And trust me, nobody likes what they see at first glance. We’re nothing but walking rough drafts until we open ourselves up for criticism and build on the feedback.”

“You wrote one book, and now you’re making book metaphors.”

He shrugs. “I’m a life coach. Coaches have an arsenal of metaphors at the ready.”

“I can’t give her a reason to run again, man. And this?” I gesture to myself and shake my head in disgust. “This is a big fucking reason.”

I’m a lot for Maisy to manage—physically, emotionally, and mentally—but I’ve never doubted her ability to handle me. The question is whether she wants to. As a man who despises open-ended matters, I need her verbal commitment to our future at least.

“Then give her a reason to stay. Be what she needs, but only when she needs you. You can’t force her hand, Jensen. Dial back the intensity. Back off a little and give her some breathing room. In the meantime, handle your business.”

Maisy had years of breathing room while I suffocated in her absence. Now that she’s back, I’d give up everything to keep her here, including my business.

After Javi leaves, I’m wiping down the bar, waiting on the early evening rush of people who stop in for a drink after work. Tatum munches on fries while listing all the benefits of me hosting a dance night every month. I’m only halfway paying attention to her when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

BIRDIE

Change of plans. I’m spending a couple of days in California. See you Thursday.

I switch to the tracking app to find Maisy’s at the airport in Burbank, California, not the one in Las Vegas, where her flight to Texas is supposed to leave in less than an hour. My jaw clenches, and I squeeze my cell phone to keep from launching it across the room.

“What is it?” Tatum asks. She must notice the sudden downturn in my mood.

“Maisy,” I say.

Tatum makes the wrong assumption about what upsets me. Waving a fry dipped in mustard, she says, “It’ll get easier. I get bored when Jake’s traveling, but I find ways to keep myself busy. You should join me and Lucy on our lunch dates, or we can start a poker gang or a book club.”

“I think I’m good for now.”

Staring at the keyboard on my phone, I formulate a response. Maisy already decided on her plans and acted on them, so there’s nothing I can say to change her mind. Instead of telling her how annoyed I am with her last-minute detour, I type out the supportive text she expects from me.

ME

Have fun.

33

MAISY

I go straight from the airport to Jensen’s house, dragging my suitcase into his bedroom, intent on washing off the travel grime before surprising him at Bruno’s. The bar won’t open for a couple of hours, and this will be our only opportunity to be alone before he gets off work later tonight.

The shower’s running, and I’m kicking off my shoes when he appears in the bathroom. How does he find me before I can even take a breath in Walford?

“I haven’t heard from you in days,” he says. Not a hello or I missed you or anything remotely welcoming.

Taken aback by his stern tone, I go into defensive mode, locking away my emotions. I give him my back and peel off my shirt. “You’re not my keeper, Jensen.”

“I’m not trying to be your keeper. I just want to be kept in the loop.”

I scoff and toss the shirt aside. “If you can’t be less needy, this is never gonna work.”

“Then need me!” he yells, the running water stifling the echo.

When I get my jeans off, I sling them to the tile with force. “I don’t know what your problem is, but I won’t continue this conversation until you calm down.”

“We’re having this conversation now. You blew me off for two days. No call, no text, no signs of life. We talked about this, Maisy. You said you’d try.”

“This is me trying.” My bra falls to the floor, landing on the growing pile of clothes.

“Try harder.”

Fingers frozen at the waistband of my panties, I turn to face Jensen. His features tighten into a scowl, the crease between his eyebrows severe. I know I’m in the wrong. My impromptu trip to California to hang out with my friends didn’t require his blessing or approval, but that’s not why he’s upset. He’s pissed because I didn’t reach out to him once I got to Graham and Miguel’s house, but I had my reasons.

Before we blow up at each other because I’m too stubborn to back down or apologize, I attempt to explain myself. “For most of my twenties, every move I made was planned down to the minute. I didn’t have to check in with anyone because, if my friends weren’t in the room with me, they knew where to find me. All of that changed in a matter of months after Tate’s career ended. I’m still learning to navigate being on my own. We all are. Marcus is struggling because he’s such a control freak, so I’ve appeased him by not taking away his access to my calendar or location.”

Jensen visibly tenses, so I explain my and Marcus’s friendship dynamic: coworkers who became like siblings. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea about us.

“I never felt like I was being controlled, but I realize now that I didn’t have many freedoms. I forgot what it’s like to do whatever I want without asking for permission or answering to someone.”

He erases the distance between us and cups my face in his hands. Anguish gleams in his tired eyes. “I don’t expect you to answer to me. All I’m asking is for you to remember that I’m here. To remind me that I matter to you. Send me a text to say good morning or make plans with me. Give me something to look forward to besides the unknown.”

His request is reasonable, especially after our last conversation on this topic. I promised to communicate, but I disregarded his feelings by purposely failing to put in the effort.

Understanding his point of view, I nod and say, “I can do that.”

With him being closer, I brush the hair off his forehead. Rising on my tiptoes, I press my lips to his and pass along apology and reassurance. His shoulders loosen when he sighs into my mouth.

“You frustrate me,” he mumbles.

In a daring move, I rub a hand along his crotch and lick my lips. “Let me make it up to you.”

He pulls his head back and searches my eyes to find out if I’m serious. I am. “You have no idea what you’re asking. Trust me, you can’t handle it.”

“I can,” I say with confidence.

The noticeable switch in his demeanor from doubtful to dominant fills my head with giddy lust. “We’ll see about that. Get on your knees.”

I gesture over my shoulder. “The water—”

“On your knees, birdie.”

Doubt nudges me before I hold his stare and sink to my knees on the rug while he undoes his belt and jeans. He frees his thick erection and strokes it right in front of my face.

“Put your hands behind your back and open that pretty mouth as wide as you can.”

With my hands clasped at my lower back, I follow his orders and widen my jaw. He guides his cock between my teeth and along my tongue, but he stops short of hitting my throat. My belly flutters from being trapped in his heated gaze as he drinks in my submissive form.

“Is this what you want? Your mouth full of my big cock?” he asks, towering above me.

I nod once and flex my tongue along the underside of his shaft. He gasps, surprised by my bold taunt, and thrusts once in response. With my mouth stuffed, I drag air through my nose, nostrils flaring with each inhale. The steam from the shower clings to my skin, which feels as damp as my panties.

He trails a thumb from my temple to my bottom lip stretched around him. “You’re so beautiful like this. So tempting. I can’t decide if I should punish you or reward you.”

My eager moan puts a smirk on his face, and I squeeze my thighs together in anticipation of good things to come. Which is why I’m surprised when he pulls out of my mouth.

“I choose punishment,” he says, tucking himself into his jeans and righting his clothes.

Gawking at him from my spot on the floor, I ask, “What the hell, Jensen?”

“I need to get back to work, but don’t worry. Tonight I’ll finish what I started.” He winks and saunters away with a cocky swagger in every step.

“You’re infuriating!” I shout as he disappears through the doorway.

“Same!” he shouts back. His laughter fades the farther away he gets.

Grinning, I step into the cold shower. But the lighthearted moment dies when I recall the bags under his eyes and his messy hair. He should never have to suffer because of me. I behaved selfishly without considering the consequences. So I make a silent promise to never be the reason he loses sleep again.

34

JENSEN

Today’s the day Vera learns of her official diagnosis from Dr. Garcia. Maisy hinted at not wanting to make the trip to San Antonio alone with her mother, so I offered to join them. One day, I hope she’s no longer afraid to ask for help outright, especially from me.

I show up at Vera’s house ten minutes before the scheduled departure time. Parking behind the old pickup truck near the curb, I kill the engine and wait a few seconds, observing the mother and daughter. They don’t exchange any words as Vera climbs into the passenger seat of her compact car. Maisy looks my way, and I take her eye roll as my signal to approach.

“I thought we’d take my Jeep,” I say, flipping my keyring around my finger.

“I can drive.”

It’s too early in the morning—and too hot with the June heat—for her to be weighed down by defeat already. Huffing, she gathers her hair on top of her head and secures it with a hair tie, leaving a few curls loose around her face. Her willingness to wear her hair up in public speaks volumes. She’s done with this day, and we haven’t had breakfast yet.

I glance through the open door of the car and grimace. The driver’s seat practically kisses the steering wheel. “Let me drive her car.”

“You’ll have plenty of room in the back,” she says.

Flip. Flip. Flip. I spin the keyring and consider how to broach the topic of her safety without offending her. She’s sensitive about her height. I’m a big guy, and I’d happily squeeze my ass into the uncomfortable back seat without complaint under most circumstances, but I do have a complaint: the proximity of the driver’s seat to the airbag. She’ll break every bone in her face if we crash.

Flip. Flip. Flip. I won’t chance losing another loved one. My parents died in a head-on collision. And Logan’s accident could’ve been avoided if I’d been more diligent.

Flip. Flip. Flip. Fuck it.

Pointing at the car, I say, “That seat is too close—”

My insistence backfires, and Mount Saint Maisy erupts. “I swear to god, Jensen, if you make a joke about me needing a booster seat, you can stay here. I’m not in the mood. Get in the damn car.”

I live for the dark pink flames of anger staining her cheeks, but right now I’m too concerned for her life to be aroused. Bending to place my mouth close to her ear, I lower my voice and say, “I would never tease you like that, but I demand your safety. I’m driving. End of discussion.” Then I snatch the keys from her hand and slip into the cramped driver’s seat.

She lets out a frustrated growl before dropping into the back seat and slamming the door. Because I need extra leg room in the tiny vehicle, she scoots over and sits behind Vera, who scrutinizes our interaction with a furrowed brow.

“I thought you said the two of you aren’t friends,” she says to Maisy.

Cutting off any chance I have to speak, Maisy replies, “He insisted on coming.”

Meeting her gaze in the rearview mirror, I narrow my eyes, letting her know I’m not at all happy with the lie.

Done with expressing any interest in her daughter, Vera faces forward and spends the next half hour reminiscing with me about the days Logan and I played football together. She tells the same stories she told when Lucy and I drove her to San Antonio months ago. The difference between this car ride and the previous one is Maisy’s presence, which Vera ignores.

“How many times did we make this drive for football camps and games? You boys were always so rowdy on road trips, but the parents loved packing all of you in the vans we rented and listening to you rib each other.” Wistfulness casts a sheen over her eyes as she gazes through the windshield. “Such fun days. I used to love traveling.”

“Maisy has traveled all over the world,” I say, reminding Vera she has another child—in the back seat.

She summons a glance for her daughter and says, “She has,” before carrying on as if we’re the only two people in the car. “You haven’t been by to see me in a while. What’s keeping you so busy?”

“I met a woman.” For Maisy’s benefit, I add, “She’s special, and I try to spend as much time with her as I can.”

Vera’s expression brightens with a smile I haven’t seen on her face in ages. “Good for you. I hope she’s a nice girl. You deserve someone who’ll appreciate small-town life and value family. Someone to keep your home and raise your kids. Be sure you don’t take anything for granted. You and I both know it can all end in the blink of an eye.”

Her joyous expression falters as sorrow weighs down her features. Irritated by her inadvertent disregard for Maisy, I white knuckle the steering wheel and check the rearview mirror, worried about what I’ll find.

Maisy’s eyes glisten with unshed tears as she stares out the back window, a fist over her mouth and her throat flexing on a thick swallow. The sight of her suppressing the hurt guts me, and I can’t hold my tongue any longer.

“You know, Vera, I’ve always known when I have something good. Something worth holding on to. I took a good thing for granted once, and I’ll never make that mistake again. I wish you’d open your eyes and see what a good thing you’ve had all along.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, shocked by the biting edge in my voice. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Maisy.”

Flustered, Vera clutches the buttons at the collar of her shirt. “Of course I know how wonderful she is. She was a good kid and never complained about anything. And she was such a supportive sister to Logan.”

Logan. Maisy didn’t support Logan. She attended his games and practices because she didn’t have a choice until she was old enough to stay home alone. Even then, she had to choose between being by herself or being with the family who ignored her. I’ll never understand how her parents don’t recognize their shortcomings regarding their daughter. Their obliviousness to how they’ve treated her baffles me.

Silence reigns in the car after our exchange. Vera faces the passenger window, giving me the cold shoulder. Maisy fights tears, struggling to keep it together in the back seat, and she won’t make eye contact with me. I reach between the seats and grab her hand, letting out a quiet sigh of relief when she gives mine a squeeze.

How can Vera not realize the psychological damage she and Richard caused Maisy? And she continues to inflict more harm whenever she steers a conversation toward Logan’s memory and away from Maisy’s existence. I can confidently say her ignorance no longer matters at this point. Vera doesn’t deserve Maisy. Period.

The three of us say little during the meeting with Dr. Garcia. Relief flashes in his eyes when Maisy insists on me joining them in his office, claiming it’s good to have an extra set of ears in case she or Vera miss any details. He must have registered the lack of willful communication between mother and daughter right away. The emotional distance between them is prevalent even when they’re standing side by side.

Dr. Garcia confirms what everyone suspects. Vera has multiple sclerosis, or MS. He gives us a list of resources for patient and caregiver education, medical assistance, and support groups. He explains her treatment options and the plan he recommends trying first. Apparently, Vera’s had mild symptoms for years and hid them. Without treatment, the severity of her flare-ups worsened. Maisy and I are both surprised by this revelation. Vera’s not.

She remains stoic during the appointment, resigned to her fate as the doctor explains the lifestyle changes and outcomes she can expect. Maisy, on the other hand, vibrates like she’s fighting the urge to flee the room. She fidgets in her seat, knee bouncing and lips pressed in a thin line as she listens.

Dr. Garcia’s firm tone conveys the seriousness of the situation when he addresses Vera. “Our priority is to get your symptoms under control so you can resume most daily activities. This will take time, and you will have to manage your condition for the rest of your life. There is no cure, so your honesty with me and the nurses will be the difference between failure or success. Do you understand, Vera?”

“Yes,” she rasps. The tremor in her voice is the first sign of fear she’s shown throughout the meeting, but I find it harder and harder to muster sympathy for her these days.

Once the appointment ends, and Vera’s tucked into the passenger seat again, I guide Maisy around to the back of the car and lean on the trunk. “Tell me your thoughts,” I say, resting my hands on her waist.

Her bottom lip trembles, so she bites down on it and shrugs, helpless. “Who will take care of her? I can’t do it, Jensen. I can’t drift around her, feeling like an unwelcome ghost, for the rest of her life. It’s too hard.”

I pull her between my thighs and graze a thumb in circles along her side. “She can find help on her own. After the way she’s treated you, you don’t owe her anything.”

“So I just abandon her?”

Lifting an eyebrow, I ask, “Did she not abandon you in a way? She prioritized everything else above you, even if she didn’t realize it. Any relationship takes effort from both parties, and you’ve given her plenty of chances to be a mother to you. She hasn’t, so it’s okay for you to be done.”

She blows out a long, shaky breath, and a few relieved tears trickle down her cheeks. “Why does the thought of letting go of her make me feel a hundred pounds lighter? Am I a horrible person?”

“If you lose a hundred pounds, nothing will be left of you but a tooth,” I say, teasing to prevent her from drowning in unnecessary guilt.

She drops her forehead against my chest and lets out an agonizing groan. “Do you think I’ll hate myself if I go through with it? If I cut her off, there’s no going back. We’re both too stubborn.”

I’m more than familiar with Maisy’s savage way of severing ties, but someone has to care about being cut off to be affected by the act. From what I can tell, Vera won’t even notice if Maisy never comes around again. It’s a sad truth and a damn shame.

“You know how I am about helping people. But I can say, with absolute certainty, that woman”—I jab a thumb over my shoulder—“has no right to depend on you for help. No one will judge you for cutting ties with her regardless of her medical situation.”

Raising her head to look at me, she heaves a sigh. “I’ll have to think about it.”

I’m not sure what there is to think about, but ending the relationship with Vera is Maisy’s decision alone. All I can do is stand by and support her in whatever way she needs me.

“Let’s get back to Walford and drop her off, then I’ll teach you how to mix a few cocktails.”

I have to relieve Javi, who offered to open the bar today. We should make it back in time for me to open instead.

She bats her thick eyelashes at me. “Are you putting me to work, boss man?”

“Watch it,” I say, giving her ass a hard squeeze. “Or I’ll put that smart mouth to work.”

“You’re such a tease. All promises, but no follow-through.”

I press a kiss to her forehead and open the back door. “You’ll regret those words later.”

35

MAISY

Pam and Tatum discuss baby names as they spoon chili into their bowls. When Jake travels for work, and with Jensen spending his evenings at Bruno’s, the three of us eat dinner together often. I enjoy cooking with Pam and learning her family recipes, and Tatum adds to the fun when she plays her guitar or asks us random trivia questions she finds online. It feels like old times, with us enjoying each other’s company. While some things may never change, others do. For instance…

I stare at my empty bowl and summon the courage to make a rare request. Choosing not to let my discomfort win, I simply spit out the words. “I think I need help.”

In my periphery, Pam leans forward with her forearms on the table. “With what?” She keeps her tone casual and doesn’t make a big deal of my admission, which I appreciate.

“Making Vera’s house more accessible. You know, ramps, grab bars in the shower, that type of thing. I don’t know if it’s best to hire a company or if I could do some of it myself. Honestly, the less time I spend over there the better, so I think having some help would—”

Tatum squeezes my arm to end my rambling. “Maiz, whatever you need.” Her blue eyes convey an unspoken I’m proud of you for asking.

Pam chews while she thinks, then swallows her food and says, “Menchy should be able to help.”

“I don’t want to put anyone out.”

“There’s no harm in asking for his opinion. He may have some recommendations.”

I slump in my chair. “You’re right. Thanks.”

That wasn’t so hard.

During the remainder of our dinner, I update them on Vera’s diagnosis, earning more sympathetic looks from both women. Tatum leaves after we clean the kitchen, and I wait until nightfall to let myself into Jensen’s house.

With a few hours to kill until Bruno’s closes, I take a walk down memory lane, perusing the Holloway family photos on the shelves and the albums in the curio cabinet. I’m blanketed with warmth as I turn the pages, each one filled with images of a happy family. A family I so badly wanted to be part of when I was a young girl.

The Holloways were a team, sharing in their wins and losses. They hugged and laughed and encouraged one another. Jensen’s mom, Christine, was the sun, and the three special guys in her life orbited her, basking in her unconditional love and positivity.

To my surprise, several photos feature my family when my parents were still married. Before their divorce, the Donovans and Holloways enjoyed being together. Summer barbecues. Afternoon picnics and swimming at the river. Birthday parties for all the boys.

I trace one picture of me as a toddler, sitting in my dad’s lap as he grins at me. Joy and a popsicle stain color my cheeks. What happened to the happy girl smiling at the camera? I vaguely remember my parents adoring me in my early years. Dad singing made-up songs, and Mom smiling as she fixed my hair at her vanity. Then football happened.

Long before grief stole my parents from me, football captured all their attention once they discovered Logan had a natural gift. Contending with a sibling for a parent’s affection is one thing. Contending with a talented sibling is something else altogether. And in a state like Texas where football is a religion, I never stood a chance.

Saddened by the once upon a time glaring at me from this page, I turn to the next one and the next. A pattern forms—an undeniable truth that quells my rising sorrow. In almost every picture featuring me, Jensen’s nearby, his attention on me instead of the camera. Like he appointed himself my guardian, watching out for me with adoring smiles and diligent eyes. Always watching. Always ready to swoop in as my hero.

If I fell and scraped a knee, he was there in a flash with a bandage. If I lost a toy, he formed a search party of one. If everyone else had a slice of cake, a plate appeared in front of me, delivered by his hand.

As I flip through these albums, I chuckle to myself. He could’ve shown me these instead of making those terrible stick-figure drawings of us. Though I’m flattered by his effort to recreate the happy memories not captured on camera. He speaks loudest through actions, and his actions toward me have been telling our story for decades. It’s time I play a conscious role and write our story with him.

I put the albums away and crawl into bed, intent on reading until he arrives. I must’ve fallen asleep, however, because something wakes me in the middle of the night. Three o’clock in the morning, according to my phone. And the space beside me hasn’t been touched.

As I pad barefoot through the house, heavy metal music drifts from the garage, the volume low enough to avoid disturbing the neighbors. I crack the door open, allowing a sliver of light to spill into the space. It joins the dim glow coming from the lamp on a cheap folding table.

Jensen’s lying on the weight bench, pressing a loaded barbell at a furious speed. His arms shake from the strain, and I wonder how long he’s been in here working himself to exhaustion. Sweat drips onto the floor beneath the bench, his hair soaked, skin glistening. He’s shirtless, wearing only athletic shorts and sneakers. The muscles in his abdomen, arms, and neck tremble as he lowers the bar and pushes it up again. The scene before me is both familiar and heartbreaking as I watch him fight against whatever’s happening in his head.

He took my advice from that first day, when he showed up at my house in a panic, and began lifting weights to relieve stress. But I had no clue it got as bad as what I’m seeing right now while peering into the garage. I’ll take the fact he’s not shaped like a professional bodybuilder as a promising sign. He’s muscular, but not overly bulky. Weeks ago, he said he found other ways to stop his meltdowns before they get out of control. I can only hope his new coping methods are healthy because this scene isn’t.

Slipping through the door and leaving it cracked, I tiptoe toward the bench. Aware of my presence, he drops the barbell into the hooks on the rack. His fingers remain curled around the metal bar, and his arms hang loosely above his head.

I lean over him, face to face, our gazes connecting. “One word,” I say.

Chest heaving from exertion, he takes a few thoughtful seconds to find the right one. “Pressure.”

My nod conveys understanding. He needs me to pull him out of his head. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

36

JENSEN

My eyes track Maisy as she crosses the epoxy-coated floor and picks up my phone to pause the music. While she searches for whatever she’s intent on finding, I soak up the sight of her in a white ribbed tank top and black cheeky panties showcasing her perfect, round ass. If I had a pinup of her on my wall in this outfit, I’d never lift another weight in my lifetime. My hand would get enough exercise to eradicate my stress.

Habit had me changing clothes and making my way to the garage as soon as I got home from work. The night was going fine until Lydia and Lucy swept into the bar and declared themselves my campaign managers. They presented me with concepts for slogans, signs, and plastic buttons, and reality hit hard. I’m going along with this election charade because I’m too weak to voice what I want—to put myself first—and stop this train before it crashes. I won’t be the sole casualty when it does.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been in the garage, but my shaky arms indicate I’ve been lifting harder and longer than usual. If I had been thinking clearly, I would’ve found another outlet to relieve the tension. Namely, the alluring woman who fell asleep in my bed. I can be a real idiot sometimes.

A bratty smile touches Maisy’s lips—a sign she’s up to no good—when she finds her prize song. Heavy bass vibrates through the surround-sound speakers I’ve installed. It’s not my type of music, but I’ll play along with whatever game she has in mind. Still grinning with mischief, she saunters toward me, swaying her hips in time with the sultry beat.

“Hands,” she says, holding hers out to me.

I slide my palms against hers and let her guide me to the end of the bench. When I’m positioned where she wants me, seated with my hands flat on my thighs, she speaks in my ear so her voice carries over the speakers.

“No touching. Keep these to yourself.” She attempts playfulness, but her tone drips with seduction. I bet she doesn’t even realize it. Or maybe she does.

Too drunk on the sight of her to speak, I nod. When the beat drops again, she sinks into a low squat, her body writhing as she rises to a standing position and lifts the hair from her neck. She turns around and wiggles her ass in my face, running her palms along her narrow waist, teasing me with every crease and curve. I bite my lip and clench my fists to keep from folding her forward onto her hands and knees and slamming into her from behind. Fuck, she’s sexy.

She spins back around, and whatever expression she sees on my face wipes the levity from hers. Still, I keep my hands to myself. Moving her body like a snake, she raises her arms above her head and thrusts her tits in my face. Trailing the delicate fingers of one hand down her other arm from wrist to shoulder, she entices me further. My dick is hard as steel, aching for me to squeeze it in relief.

Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, and my restraint snaps. I yank her toward me by the hips, but she shoves my hands away.

“Hands off,” she commands.

On the next dip in the beat, she straddles my bare knee, which connects with the heat between her legs. Her damp panties rub against my skin, her lips parting in pleasure when she rolls her pelvis.

Before she can move out of range again, I snag the fabric of her tank top between my teeth to keep her in place. Smirking, I raise my hands to show I’m not touching her, following her instructions like a good boy. In a daring move, she twists her pert nipples as she continues to hump my thigh. Two can play at this game. I raise my knee, taking away her ability to maneuver freely, leaving her no choice but to grind harder on my leg.

I spit out the material and ask, “Are you trying to make me feel better? Or yourself?”

“You,” she says, resting her weight on me and rocking her hips.

In a seamless move, I shove her shirt over her breasts and splay my hands along the bottom crease of her ass cheeks, lifting her enough for my middle and ring fingers to tease her entrance.

“I think you’re a liar,” I say, flicking her nipples with my tongue while holding her gaze. She sighs, her eyelids growing heavy with lust. “Want me to make you feel good, beautiful?”

“Yes,” she breathes, caught up in her own pleasure, but she quickly backtracks. “No. I came here for you. Let me ease your pressure.”

She attempts to slide off me and fall to her knees. Damn, what I wouldn’t give to have her mouth on me. Those luscious lips…just the thought of them wrapped around my dick again has me leaking in my shorts. With an agonizing groan, I stop her descent and tug her onto my lap.

“I’m a sweaty mess, birdie. Let’s save that for another time.”

She pouts—actually fucking pouts—jutting out her plush bottom lip like a sacrificial offering to my dark side. I suck it into my mouth and bite down hard, and my girl gasps. Not a horrified gasp, but a surprised one. Her thighs squeeze my waist, and she grinds her hips faster.

I dig my fingers into her ass cheeks, and a growl rumbles from my chest. My girl wants to play hard, and I’ve never shied away from a game that requires full-body contact.

“You want me rough and raw, don’t you, beautiful? You like the thought of me dirtying you up a little.”

“God, yes,” she moans, throwing her head back to expose her throat, which I lick from the base all the way to her ear.

“Then let’s get dirty,” I whisper.

I haul her across the garage and drop her onto the folding table. The lamp teeters when it wobbles. The table may not be the safest place to fuck, but it’s the perfect height.

“Are you wet enough to take me?” I ask.

Before she can answer, I slide the crotch of her panties aside and stuff two fingers inside her. She’s drenched. At the sound of her throaty groan, I change my plans. Instead of burying my dick inside her right away, I pump my hand faster and graze her clit with my thumb, eager to make her come.

I crook my fingers and find that perfect spot inside her, adding more pressure until she cries out, “Right there, J. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Thrilled by her begging, I increase the speed and fuck her with my long fingers. Because the song ended a while ago, the garage fills with the sounds of my harsh breaths, her mewling cries, and the squelching of my hand between her legs.

“Come for me, birdie. Soak my hand.”

She clenches around my fingers and bucks her hips. A string of curses flows from her tongue. The table shakes in tandem with her legs, and the lamp falls victim to her body’s movements, crashing to the floor. With the lamp shade askew, the light shines upward, cloaking one side of our faces in shadow.

Something about the sight tips her over the edge, and she falls apart beautifully with a visible shudder racking her body, a hoarse cry scraping her throat, and my broken name on her lips. Lips I steal with brutal force, claiming them as I replace my fingers with my aching dick, filling her in a single, unforgiving thrust. Her mouth falls open against mine on a silent scream, her pupils blown with lust.

With each powerful thrust, she cries out again and again, the sound like a cheering crowd under the stadium lights on game night. I grunt each time I plunge deep. Unless she tells me to stop or go easy on her, I’ll unleash the storm wreaking havoc inside my mind and body onto hers until we find the calm that comes afterward.

“Pull my hair,” I command.

Her eyes flare with surprise. “What?”

“Pull my fucking hair. Do it.”

She fists the hair at the back of my head and tugs hard, ripping an animalistic noise from my throat. My hips take on a life of their own, plowing into her without mercy, and the flimsy table beneath her threatens to collapse. I lift her lower half to bear most of her weight, and she clamps her knees on either side of my waist, holding on for dear life. She plants one hand on the table and maintains a painful grip on my hair with the other. The pressure pulling at my scalp tempts my eyes to roll back in pure ecstasy.

“Fuck yes.” My jaw clenches as I dig deep for strength. “My dirty birdie loves getting ruined, doesn’t she? She loves when I stretch her tight, little pussy.”

“Yes!” she cries, tightening her hold on my hair.

I pound into her, wild and unrelenting. Maisy was made to take me in all my versions, in all my forms. My physical strength is no match for her mental fortitude. She’s a fighter, determined and gritty and raw when she needs to be. And her grit keeps her latched on to me when the table sways.

“Don’t drop me!” she shouts.

“Never.”

Despite my strained muscles, weak after hours of lifting, I’d sacrifice my last ounce of strength, down to my final waking breath, to keep her from ever hitting the ground. Countless times, she’s saved me, catching me before I crashed, same as she did tonight by stopping me before I injured myself. I will always do the same for her.

She loops the other arm around my neck and sinks her fingernails into my skin just as the table collapses. Knees slightly bent, I band my arms around her waist to hold her up while she bounces on my thighs, flesh slapping flesh.

The multiple points of pain she inflicts on me—the sharp nails, the stinging scalp, the screaming muscles bearing her weight after I abused them—settle as one point of pleasure low in my gut. After three more hard thrusts, I explode with a loud roar, spilling everything I have into her. All my desires. All my demons. They belong to her, and I trust her to protect them. I’ve always trusted her.

She trembles in my arms, her quickened breaths leaving her chest in a cascade of soft whimpers.

Struggling to catch my own breath, I press kisses all over her face and whisper, “I’ve got you, my beautiful birdie. I’ve always got you. I’ll never let you fall.”

She pulls my head down and slams our mouths together, giving everything she has to the kiss, our tongues attacking with equal fervor and meaning. Hers conveys fierce loyalty, a message that she accepts me for who I am. Mine expresses unwavering gratitude for that acceptance.

“I can’t stand up much longer,” I confess as my knees tremble.

Her soft chuckle ghosts across my lips. “Do you feel better at least?”

“You make everything a thousand times better just by being near me.”

I kiss her once more before slipping out of her. Securing her with one arm, I tuck myself back into my shorts. Then I swing her into a bridal hold and carry her to the shower to perform my ritual. I care for her body and praise it for being strong enough to withstand a monster like me.

37

MAISY

“Psst.”

I look up from tying my sheer sarong after changing into my swimsuit in Javi’s bathroom. Brody waits at the end of the hallway, pressed against the wall like he’s hiding from the cops.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I need to talk to you.” Craning his neck, he peeks around to see if we’re noticed by anyone in the backyard, then he drags me to a corner of the kitchen away from the windows.

“Brody,” I hiss, unsure what he’s up to.

Other than brief hellos at bar events or Tatum’s wedding, we haven’t spoken since high school.

In a hushed voice, he says. “I heard Ainsley cleaned your mom’s house.”

I raise my eyebrows, urging him to continue. “And?”

“Did she—I mean, did she mention me or anything?” He musses his blond hair, a sign of insecurity from the real Brody I uncovered when we were kids.

My mouth turns down in a sympathetic frown. “No, she didn’t.” When his face falls, I say, “You like her.”

“I want to get to know her. I’ve been trying for months, but she’s hot and cold.”

“Months?”

He sighs. “There’s something about her. I can’t explain it.”

“You always did have a soft spot for the loners like me.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah, well, don’t tell anyone.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve kept your secrets.” I say this jokingly, but Brody’s secrets are no laughing matter. And he has quite a few.

“I know you have, and I appreciate it.”

He taps a finger on his thigh, and I feign interest in the cabinet handles, neither of us knowing what to say as an awkward silence settles between us.

“I’ll go outside first,” he says.

He must not want to be seen with me, hence the covert operation to corner me for a chat. It’s like being in school all over again. After I discovered one of his secrets by accident, he began confiding in me and seeking me out for advice. But he never acknowledged our fringe friendship in public.

Shrugging a shoulder to hide the twinge of hurt, I say, “Yeah, sure.”

Brody ducks his head to meet my gaze, sensing where my mind drifted. “Hey. I was never ashamed of you. People would’ve got the wrong idea because of my reputation, and I respected you too much to let them start rumors. Also, I didn’t want Jensen to kick my ass.”

Surprised by both of his reasons for hiding our acquaintance, I focus on the latter. “You knew we were friends?”

His quiet laughter sounds like puffs of air. “Friends don’t threaten every guy in your class for daring to upset you.” He yanks on one of my curls, a throwback to preschool that makes me want to smack him, and says, “See you outside.”

He runs ahead of me and leaps into the pool, landing with a cannonball splash. Jensen wades through the shallow end, smiling as he jokes with Rock and Jake. After a minute of observing them from inside the house, I slip through the patio door.

Javi and Clementine live in one of the nicest houses in town, and their beach-entry pool comes with a grotto, a slide, and a diving board. The women lounge on a raised level of the pool deck, suntanning while keeping out of the splash zone.

Trevor appears to be napping in a lounger on the covered porch, obviously averse to the sun with his straw hat and thick layer of sunblock on his cheeks and nose. When Javi drops into the chair next to his, I take advantage of the opportunity and join them while Jensen’s distracted by the other guys.

I tighten the knot on the skirt covering my bikini bottoms as I make my way over, then sit at the foot of Trevor’s lounge chair, facing Javi. Not one for small talk, I get straight to the point and ask him about Jensen.

“How long has he been like this?”

“Like what?” Javi asks, looking straight ahead at the pool. With our dark sunglasses, it’s impossible to decipher where our eyes are aimed.

“Falling apart.”

Trevor shifts slightly, and I hope I haven’t woken him despite speaking in a quiet voice.

“Since December,” Javi says.

The implication in his response isn’t lost on me. Jensen’s been struggling since I approached him at Bruno’s, our first encounter in years. If he so badly wants to be with me, and I’m here, why is he declining?

“I’m worried about him,” I admit.

Trevor speaks up, evidently not asleep after all. “We all are.”

My stomach dips from the thought of saying the next words aloud. Not because they’re out of line, but because I can’t stand the idea of betraying Jensen’s trust. It feels wrong, like I’m sneaking behind his back. I’m at a loss, but find some comfort in knowing I’m not the only one concerned for his mental health.

I lean back on my hands, portraying a relaxed posture I’m nowhere close to feeling on the inside. “I think he needs professional help.”

A quick side-glance at Jensen, and my heart pounds faster. He’s staring at me with concern crinkling his brow, as if he can somehow sense the guilt and distress thrashing inside my rib cage.

Javi tucks his hands behind his head and crosses his ankles. If he’s faking the lazy vibes, he’s a phenomenal actor. “He does need help, but he won’t accept it. I’ve made the suggestion many times over the years, and he gets defensive—angry, even—which isn’t like him.”

“You give people advice for a living. What should I do?”

“That depends.”

“On what?” I ask, my arm hairs standing on end, knowing I won’t like his answer.

“On whether you plan to stay in Walford or leave. If you’re staying, make sure he knows, then be here to support him. If you’re leaving, cut ties now and let us deal with the fallout.”

“Javi,” Trevor warns.

“No, Trevor. I won’t tread lightly. And I’m not trying to be rude or place blame or run her off. I’m simply trying to eliminate sources of stress.”

“You think I’m a source of stress for him.” My accusation lacks venom because I might agree with Javi on this point.

“Your uncertainty is,” he says. “The thought of you leaving again hangs over his head like a dark cloud. He needs reassurance.”

Leaving again.

“I do reassure him. Often.”

Javi sighs with a subtle, pitying shake of his head. “The only reason he wouldn’t believe you is if you don’t believe yourself. If you’re staying, give him something concrete. Put a label on your relationship, make a plan for the future, tell him how you feel about him. Anything to help him feel secure in what you have. Guys want to know they’re loved, same as women do.”

The first person I can recall saying “I love you” to was Tatum. When we became friends, she said the phrase to me so often, I naturally reciprocated. Graham and Miguel say they love me, but I’m unsure if I’ve ever said it back, though I do love them, as well as Marcus and Judge and Pam.

I love several people in a platonic, friendly way, but I’ve never declared my romantic love for anyone. Regardless, showing people how much I love them is far less terrifying than telling them. There’s a certain amount of raw exposure in saying the phrase I love you, at least for people like me who put a ton of value behind the sentiment.

Trevor must be able to read my mind. He pokes my leg with his foot to grab my attention and says, “I’ve been told I have the emotional depth of a pencil—

“I said that once, and you always bring it up,” Javi complains.

“—which isn’t true. I feel lots of things under the surface but only share my feelings with people who are important to me. Obviously, Javi isn’t important, but Gina is. I try to tell her and show her how much she means to me every day.”

“That’s sweet of you,” I say.

“You’re the only person besides Gina to accuse me of being sweet.”

Javi’s head moves back and forth, which is how I know he’s studying our interaction. “You two are eerily similar.”

“That’s why Jensen likes us better than he likes you,” Trevor says in his dry, matter-of-fact tone.

Not in the mood to stick around for their banter, I stand and say, “Thanks for the chat, boys.”

“Maisy.” The seriousness in Javi’s voice freezes me in place. “Be careful with him. But look out for yourself too. If you notice him getting worse, I’m around.”

On that parting warning, and concerned Javi knows something about Jensen that I don’t, I join the ladies and claim the empty lounge chair on the end next to Lucy. On Lucy’s other side, Tatum rubs her baby bump while discussing home furnishings with Gina and Clementine.

“Everything okay?” Lucy asks, eyeing me as I arrange a towel before lying on the chair.

“Yeah. I was just trying to get some free advice out of Javi.”

“Any luck?”

“Maybe,” I mutter, my gaze trained on Jensen.

When he looks my way, a grin lights up his face. Half a second later, he’s doused by a big splash of water, followed by a tackle from a roaring man-child: Brody.

Taking a risky gamble twice in one day, I ask Lucy, “Have you noticed any changes in him lately?”

She hums in thought and tilts her head, discreetly studying Jensen. “He’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him.”

Interesting, but not surprising, that Javi and Lucy’s observations differ. Jensen hides himself well, showing people only the parts he wants them to see. Javi sees a man in decline, but Lucy sees a man on the rise. Perhaps she doesn’t know him as well as I initially thought.

Tatum adds her very loud opinion on the subject. “He’s happy because of Maisy’s magic sauce.”

Clementine and Gina giggle at her innuendo, but I lose my opportunity to make a snappy comeback when Javi yells, “Ice cream!”

Jake, Rock, and Brody race out of the water like they spotted a shark, and Trevor acts as pool attendant, passing a folded towel to each swimmer.

Meanwhile, the ladies gawk at the man lifting himself out of the pool like he’s in a slow-motion movie scene. All we need is a sexy soundtrack as we drool over the bearded, tanned, tattooed eye candy. From his veiny forearms to his defined abs to his sculpted chest, Jensen’s muscles pop with each movement. He lands in a squat, and his thighs bulge against the hem of his black swim trunks. He rises to his full height and shakes his head, slinging water droplets in all directions. The hand raking through the wet strands, causing his biceps to flex, is what draws several appreciative sighs from our group, including one from me.

“Goddess, have mercy.” Gina attempts to whisper, but her words reach my end of the row, and I bark a laugh. She leans forward to address me. “I’m married, not blind.”

I’m not a jealous person, so I return her blushing grin with a knowing smirk and say, “Nobody, man or woman, would be blind to that.”

As if on cue, and proving my point, all the husbands rush to their wives with bowls of ice cream in hand. We laugh at their obvious efforts to divert the women’s attention away from the bad boy prowling my way.

Rock scoops up Lucy and places her in his lap to spoon-feed her. It blows my mind how over-the-top he is with her when he never showed interest in girls as a teenager. She loves every second of his possessive, doting behavior.

Jensen crawls onto the end of my lounger, stopping on all fours with his knees caging my legs. “Did you enjoy the show?” he whispers in my ear.

Using one finger, I slide the sunglasses up my nose. “Maybe. Five out of ten, if I’m honest.”

“Bullshit.” Water drips from his beard to my neck. He darts his tongue out to lick me, and I fight back a shiver. “Your little see-through skirt hides nothing, birdie. Wrap yourself in a towel if you walk around again.”

When he asked me at the last minute to join him for a swim party, I grabbed the first bathing suit I could find. My cheeky bikini bottoms expose half my butt, perfect attire for an exotic beach but wholly inappropriate for a backyard swim among friends in Walford.

Despite agreeing with him, I bristle at his command. He can be bossy in the bedroom, but I’m my own woman everywhere else. “If you would’ve given me more notice, I would’ve found my one-piece suit. I’ll use a towel, but not because you’re ordering me to.”

“I’m only trying to prevent two inappropriate displays. Like the one currently in my pants because your tits look amazing in that skimpy top. If we were alone, I’d lather you with that coconut tanning oil, slide my dick between them, and play with your nipples.”

“Go away,” I hiss, darting my eyes around to see if anyone’s paying attention to us.

Turns out, everyone’s looking because we’re the new couple, and they’re intrigued by our pairing. None of our friends saw our relationship coming aside from Javi.

“I can’t,” Jensen says earnestly.

“Why not?”

Still on his hands and knees, he drops his gaze to his shorts. Rock and Lucy, nearest to us, grunt and giggle, respectively. Jake whistles low, proving he also heard our conversation. Tatum’s clueless, shoveling ice cream down her throat, as are the two couples at the opposite end.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whisper-yell at Jensen.

I assumed he was joking seconds ago when he mentioned the situation in his shorts. My cheeks heat, flustered from being the source of entertainment for everyone and by his predicament. Believe me, it’s no small predicament.

“It’s your fault for being hot as sin.”

“Fix this,” I say, gritting my teeth.

“Scoot forward and let me sit behind you.”

“I doubt that will improve your situation,” Trevor quips from the foot of Gina’s chair, which is four lounge chairs away from mine.

Everyone’s holding in their laughter, close to erupting. I hide my face in my hands. Death by embarrassment is imminent.

His lips at my ear again, Jensen whispers, “I can stand up and let these ladies see what I’m packing, or I can slide in behind you. Your choice.”

I scoot forward. As I do, I wonder if I’m the only one who notices Brody floating on a raft in the pool, eating his ice cream alone.

38

MAISY

“I’ll drive you to Vera’s house since I’m picking her up anyway,” Pam says from my bedroom doorway.

I stuff an extra shirt in my tote bag because I’m staying at Jensen’s again tonight. More and more of my belongings have made their way to his house in recent weeks. I’m a tampon box away from moving in.

“Picking her up?” I ask.

“I’m taking her shopping today. The guys will finish faster if she’s out of the way.”

With my bag slung over my shoulder, I meet her in the hallway. “Thank you, Pam.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” she says. “I told you I’m happy to help however I can, and I meant it.”

“I’m still grateful,” I say. She’s shown me more support in the past three months than my parents did in twenty-eight years, a kindness I’ll never take for granted.

“We better get going. Can’t let everyone else have all the fun.” she winks, and I shake my head, chuckling. It’s not often that Pam’s sassy or sarcastic, but when she is, she’s golden.

We get Vera out of the house without any fuss. In fact, she’s feeling good today and seems excited about going shopping with a friend, though she and Pam were never close.

Soon after they leave, a convoy of trucks and trailers rolls down the street, led by a black Jeep with the top off and a yummy man whose dark hair whips in the wind. Jensen partially blocks the driveway with his vehicle to ensure no one tries to park there.

I thought we were planning to install a ramp and a couple of handrails, but the number of people with tools and machinery pouring out of vehicles alludes to a larger project.

“What is all this?” I ask.

Jensen gives me a genuine smile, a sign he’s in good spirits today, but agitation lurks beneath his surface. He looks exhausted, the circles under his eyes darkening from lack of sleep and too many nights in his garage. I’m worried his mind will also start to decay, and he’ll become a living corpse, buried under the pressure to be mayor. If he doesn’t withdraw soon, I can’t imagine how stressed he’ll become.

“I brought the cavalry. You just sit back and let the magic happen.” He winks and buckles a tool belt around his waist. And damn, hammers and tattoos make an attractive couple.

Menchy’s apron sags, loaded down with too many tools. He sets up a command post in the driveway, forming a makeshift table out of two sawhorses and a sheet of plywood. He has a notepad in one hand, and tucked under the other arm is a…megaphone?

Lydia appears with two trays of drinks. Close behind her, Tom carries a third tray along with a giant paper bag with his bakery’s new muffin logo on it.

“We brought breakfast for everyone,” Lydia says, her bright white teeth on display as usual.

“Thanks,” I say. My head spins from the outpouring of generosity and the flurry of activity around us. “Follow me, and we’ll set everything on the kitchen table.”

I help them lay out a breakfast buffet of several to-go cups of coffee and an assortment of pastries, and Tom joins the workers outside once he’s satisfied with the display. When I reach for a styrofoam coffee cup to be nice, Lydia stops me with a pat on the shoulder.

“I brought you an iced mint chocolate.” She hands me a plastic cup with a brown liquid, which I’d assumed was iced coffee.

“Mint what?” I ask, accepting the drink from her.

“Hot chocolate with mint, but it’s iced.” Her shrug suggests I should know about this magic potion of which she speaks, but I don’t.

Bringing the straw to my lips, I take a tentative sip. My eyes must light up with joy because a smug grin appears on her face. I suck down half of the rich, sweet drink before deciding it’s too delicious not to savor.

With a nervous chuckle, I glance around Vera’s house and say, “I don’t really know what’s going on right now.”

Lydia pulls me into a side hug. “They say it takes a village to raise a child, and everyone in this village agreed we didn’t do enough for one particular daughter of Walford. So here we are. Better late than never.”

My first reaction is to think they’re here out of pity. I don’t want their help if that’s the case. “I’m sure they have other things to do on a Sunday,” I say.

“When Jensen put out the call, every one of us jumped at the opportunity to help you out. We know about Vera’s situation, and you can’t manage it alone. We pull together in hard times, and I’m sorry you’re finding this out only now,” she says. Pressure builds in my eyes and throat as she walks with me to the front porch, her arm still wrapped around my shoulders. “Tom and I have to get back to our shops. You go on and relax, and these folks will handle the rest.”

“Thanks, Lydia.”

After she and Tom leave, I sit on the bench, my jaw permanently unhinged, and take in the activity. People work together as Menchy barks orders to the men and women flowing in and out of the house. The sounds of saws scraping, hammers banging, and drills whirring fill the air.

Everyone’s here of their own free will, and they’re here for me, according to Lydia. I never imagined this. Personally, I haven’t experienced this side of Walford. I’ve seen how folks rally around their injured sports heroes and support the families in mourning, but I’ve done nothing to deserve the generosity of this community.

As I sit on the bench, leaning against a house devoid of affection, love surrounds me. All thanks to one man. A man who continues to become more agitated as the morning goes on.

Jensen’s responses are clipped and snappy to the point people stop approaching him altogether, eyeing him warily instead. The bigger the stress cloud builds around him, the closer people examine him. Menchy pulls him aside and tells him to go home because there’s not much left to do. Self-control leaks from Jensen as he struggles not to disrespect Menchy by speaking out of turn or saying something hurtful to the older man.

I stride toward him to see if I can calm him down. Sliding my palm against his and twining our fingers together, I say, “Hey. I need your help inside for a minute. Follow me.”

I’m surprised his neck bones don’t crack when his head snaps to attention at my request. I lead him to the guest bedroom and urge him to sit on the bed, and I straddle his lap.

“You said you need my help.” His tone carries a tinge of irritation, though it’s not directed at me.

With my arms draped around his neck, I speak my gratitude into his ear. “Thank you for everything. You’re such a good man, and I want you to know how much I appreciate you.”

“Maisy.” Huffing, he grabs my wrists to unhook my arms, but I grip him tighter.

“I mean it. Now just hold me for a few minutes. This has been an emotional morning, and I need you to hold me.”

His arms fall limply to his sides, loose hands resting on my hips. “This is reverse psychology,” he says.

“Is it working?”

A soft sigh passes through his lips. “Yes. I needed you to hold me too.”

With my head on his shoulder, I toy with his wavy hair. After a few seconds of comforting one another, I say, “I have a genius idea.”

“Lay it on me.”

“Let’s buy a tiny island with room for only the two of us and forget the rest of the world. I’ll do the hunting—”

“Will you be naked when you hunt me?”

“Hush.” My laugh is a gentle puff of air on his neck. “I’ll hunt for meat while you gather berries and shit for soup.”

He chuckles. “Your storytelling sucks.”

Rolling my eyes, I say, “Whatever. You get the gist.”

“You and me,” he whispers.

“You and me.” I press a closed-mouth kiss to his lips to fortify our connection, but we don’t take things further. Sometimes the simplest gestures convey the most meaning. “Let’s wrap this up and go home.”

My referring to his house as home is a slip of the tongue, but saying it feels right.

“Lead the way, beautiful.”

It’s strange to stand in Vera’s yard, waiting for nostalgia to creep in when I’ve never given it much thought. It doesn’t creep. The only happy memories in this house involved Jensen, and this realization strengthens my resolve to step foot inside one last time.

At the sound of his Jeep approaching, I let out a grateful exhale. It’s time to put an end to my one-sided relationship with my mother, and I’m glad I don’t have to stand on my own.

“Ready?” he asks as he strolls toward me.

The natural highlights in his hair catch the morning sun, brightening the dark shade of brown. His green eyes glow with pride when he stops at my side and offers a steady hand.

I nod, feeling confident and strong. “Ready.”

With my hand in his, we step inside. I survey the changes made to Vera’s house last week to improve her quality of life and can’t help the laugh that climbs up my throat. The good people of Walford went above and beyond for a woman who wrote them off years ago. She snubbed them after Logan died, yet they came out in droves to show their support and offer their help with whatever she needed. Months ago, I would’ve been talking about Vera. But now I’m not. I’m talking about myself.

Everyone showed up for me despite the poor way I’ve treated them for years because I thought no one cared. I allowed my parents and brother to make me feel unworthy of love. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Unfortunately, Vera’s napping in her bedroom—which is how she spends her days now that she’s on a leave of absence from work—so my grand farewell will have to wait until she wakes. To kill time, and because this could be my last chance, I tiptoe toward Logan’s bedroom door with Jensen following close behind. Resting a hand on the knob, I waver in my decision to open it. Naturally, I default to worrying if I’ll upset Vera by entering the sacred space.

Behind me, Jensen nods in encouragement. Tossing out the last of my reservations, I twist the knob and push open the door. Shock steals my breath as I take in the sight. The room has been cared for, judging by the lack of dust. However, everything looks like it did the last day Logan stood in the space and packed his bag for the trip to the lake.

Dirty socks lay on the floor next to the bed. An open soda can sits on the nightstand next to a couple of receipts and some loose change. The bed is unmade, the covers tossed back like he woke in a hurry that morning.

Jensen and I wander around the room, examining everything as if seeing it all for the first time. The closet door is open, revealing clothes draped on hangars and spilling out of the laundry hamper. Logan’s small but beloved sneaker collection is organized by color on a shoe rack. He loved displaying his favorite brands, which is why the famous logo on a shoe box covered by a pair of jeans draws my attention.

Pulling the box from the shelf, I know right away it doesn’t hold shoes. I flip the lid off and let it fall to the floor. A stack of birthday cards secured with a rubber band rests on top, not a shocking discovery. I set the cards on the shelf and riffle through dozens of photos from his football years.

In the photos, he stands in various poses with my parents, his coaches, and teammates. One picture catches my eye, because it appears to be the only one with me in the background. Jensen peers over my shoulder, studying it with me.

The image shows my dad walking next to Logan, who’s sweaty in his middle school uniform. Their wide smiles and arms draped across each other’s shoulders are expected. It’s an image I’d seen in real time, over and over again. The two of them celebrating the win as they walked toward the parking lot while my mom captured the moment with her phone’s camera.

What brings the tears to my eyes is the girl in the background, using her coat as a blanket while she sleeps on a bleacher. There’s no one around her. She’s all alone amid the revelry and excitement. Forgotten.

My familiar friend, rejection, sits heavy on my chest. I couldn’t have been older than ten or eleven when the picture was taken. I’m sure if I searched around the house, I’d find many more like it from the years before or after. And I’d ask myself the question I wanted to ask my parents, but never found the courage. What about me?

Jensen pulls me against his chest and wraps his arms around me. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You deserved better.”

Sliding the box onto the shelf, I hold the photo higher and have a better look at my dad. I haven’t seen or talked to him in over a decade because I walked away after high school. Football stole my family from me first, followed by the selfish claws of grief. The only reason I’ve held on to my mother this long is because I lived with her when Logan died. I saw her every day and hoped she would step through the fog and see me in return. I never gave my dad the chance.

“I want to go see him.”

“Today?” Jensen asks, unable to hide the wariness in his tone.

I’m not often spontaneous, but I need closure. What better time than the present? I need to find out if Richard Donovan forgot about me like he forgot about the girl on the bleacher. I want to know if he’s ever tried reaching out to me like I reached for him when I was a child who craved a parent’s love.

“Right now,” I say, answering Jensen’s question.

Photo in hand, I push past him and storm out of the room without bothering to shut Logan’s bedroom door. Jensen’s on my heels, cursing as he rushes after me.

“Maisy.”

“I’m going,” I say, not giving him a chance to change my mind.

“Let me drive.”

“I’m going alone.”

He catches up to me and grabs my arm. “Dammit, Maisy, stop. Just take a breath.” When he reaches up to cup my face, I bat his hand away. “Birdie—”

“Don’t touch me right now.” The longer I stand here, the more upset I become for reasons unclear to me. Perhaps I’m looking for a fight. A fight means there’s something worth fighting for.

Sensing my rising anger, Jensen pulls his keys from his pocket. “I’ll drive you. You don’t have to go alone.”

All I can manage is a stiff nod before he guides me to his Jeep.

Thirty-seven minutes later, I’m knocking on the front door of a simple brick home, one town over. Jensen stands a few feet behind me, his presence both a comfort and a menace. Tension emanates from him, as palpable as my own. When the door swings open, I stumble back a step, but he reaches out a hand to steady me.

“Maisy?” The friendly, baritone voice I remember singing to me when I was in preschool pitches high with surprise.

Richard Donovan looks almost the same as he did when I last saw him in person. His black hair is peppered with more white and thinner at the front. With his thick brows raised at the sight of me on his doorstep, the grooves in his forehead appear. A happy spark of recognition flashes in his hazel eyes when he notices Jensen. That spark upsets me, but his next words fill me with rage.

“Jensen, it’s so good to see you, man. Been a long time.” Smiling, Richard extends a hand.

I never expect Jensen to be rude and don’t fault him for accepting the handshake, though he does so with reluctance. His hesitation causes the happy spark in Richard’s eyes to die an instant death.

“Do you see me?” I ask, my jaw tight and hands fisted at my sides.

Startled by my question and obvious annoyance, Richard’s widened gaze bounces between me and Jensen. “I don’t understand.”

“Have you ever seen me?” I shove the crumpled photo at his chest.

Clearly confused about why I’m not overjoyed to see him, my father frowns as he looks from me to the image. “What is this?”

Jabbing the photo with a finger, I say, “This is a forgotten daughter.”

While he examines the picture in his hand, I study him, unblinking, as I watch for any sign of guilt. I catch the slight wince when his eyes land on the girl sleeping in the background. That wince tells me it wasn’t the first or last time my family came close to leaving me behind at a game.

Richard squeezes the back of his neck and glances around the neighborhood to see if we have an audience. “Maisy, please. Come inside.”

“I’m not going inside. I came here looking for confirmation, and you’ve already given it to me.”

“Confirmation of what?” he asks, his incredulous gaze flicking back and forth between me and Jensen. Why he keeps eyeing Jensen for help, I don’t know. Richard won’t find rescue from the man thrumming with displeasure at my back.

Since my father can’t seem to draw the right conclusion based on what I’ve presented so far, I help him along by saying, “That you and Vera never gave a shit about me. ”

He gasps and has the nerve to gesture at the photo to support his argument. “That’s not true at all. You were there with us. At practices and games—”

“All you cared about was Logan and football. No one asked me what I wanted. Or what I enjoyed doing. Even after he died, neither of you showed any interest in me.”

Richard flinches at the word “died,” but I’m here to be honest and lay out the facts. I’m not here to sugarcoat history.

“I’m sorry if it seemed like we forgot about you,” he says. “Things were hard for all of us after your brother passed. Your mom and I talked about how you were dealing with everything, but you seemed to be okay. Then we drifted apart, and I guess neither of us checked in with you. We should have.”

After their divorce, my parents remained civil. Some people referred to them as friends, saying they were better suited as an unmarried couple. They received praise for their ability to co-parent without contention. The truth is they weren’t co-parenting. They could merely set aside their differences and focus on the common ground they shared in the glory of their superstar son. Another fact I bestow upon Richard.

“You drifted apart because Logan wasn’t there to tie you together anymore. Because I wasn’t worth fighting for enough that you’d both stick around for me.”

His expression is both pleading and exasperated, and the wrinkles around his eyes deepen. “That’s not true. Maisy, we lost our son—”

“But you had a daughter who was still alive. One who needed her parents before Logan died and after. Do you know…not once did either of you ask how I was doing when he died? Not once did you realize I was holding the two of you up like an invisible pillar. I didn’t expect a thanks, but I thought you’d at least see me there. The living, breathing daughter holding your hand through the grief. But you didn’t. When the town gathered around you, you let go of my hand and left me outside the circle. You both just left me there. Alone. Like you always did.” My voice cracks, and I struggle to keep the years of heartbreak from swallowing me whole. I won’t let the heartbreak win.

Jensen’s reassuring hand on my lower back flexes, reminding me of his presence and sending me strength. I sweep aside my self-pity and ask my last question, the one screaming the loudest in my mind.

“Did you try to find me after I left Walford?”

The creases in Richard’s face deepen even more. “How? You were all over the world, and I had no way to reach you.”

Hello, anger. Welcome back.

I take a step away from him, preparing to retreat because I’ve learned everything I needed to know, and then some. “There’s always a way if you want something badly enough.”

Sensing I’m about to flee, my father reaches for me. “Maisy—”

“No!” I put up a hand to halt him when he steps forward. “Just…no.”

Turning on my heel, I rush to Jensen’s car, aware of him and Richard having a quick exchange of words. I tune them out. The only things I have room for in my head right now are unbridled fury and the overwhelming need to run far away from here.

39

JENSEN

Maisy’s seconds away from exploding, unable to sit still in the passenger seat as her hands fidget in her lap. Small sounds catch in her throat, years of pent-up emotions boiling at the surface. She’s fighting like hell to keep her shit together, a beautiful bomb on the verge of detonating.

When she stormed off after Richard dealt the final blows to her fragile heart, I moved to follow her, but he called my name.

“I don’t understand what just happened,” he says. His eyes implore me to give him clarity, but I have none to give.

“No disrespect, sir, but that’s exactly the problem. Something for you to think on.”

Sighing, he rubs his forehead like Maisy does when she’s overwhelmed. Then he meets my stare and says, “You look at her the same now as you did when you were a kid.”

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, unsure where he’s going with this. “How’s that?”

“Like you’re her shield at the ready.”

My relief makes way for brutal honesty. “I wish I had done more to protect her from all of you.”

Richard nods with acceptance clear in his sad eyes. He knows Maisy’s lost to him, possibly forever. Regardless, he makes a plea any father would, though he hasn’t earned the privilege. “I’m proud she chose you. You’re a good man, Jensen. Treat her right. Love her fiercely.”

“I always have.”

We don’t get to choose our parents. Family members are luck of the draw, and Maisy wasn’t so lucky. The saddest part in all this is Richard and Vera doted on both of their children before they got swept away by Logan’s talent and gave all their attention to his sport. It’s a damn shame.

“Pull over,” she orders. Her voice strains, as if she’s holding her breath.

Knowing we wouldn’t make it to Walford before she bursts, I drive down a back road toward a spot on the river where our families spent summer days together. She may have been too young to remember, but I do. I remember every moment with her.

When I round a bend, and the riverbank comes into sight, she yanks at the door handle and shouts, “Stop the car!”

She’s out of the Jeep before the tires stop rolling. I throw the gear into Park and follow her to the water’s edge where she paces, the hem of her shirt twisted in her fingers.

“Birdie,” I say when I catch up with her in the shade of an oak tree.

“Why?” The question comes out on a choked sob. Anger, heartache, rejection, loss…all of it wants to break free from her tightly coiled body.

I encourage her not to hold back any longer. “Do it, birdie.”

“Why?” she yells, louder.

“Do it,” I say, fueling her fire.

“Why?” she screams at the top of her lungs. The force of the scream causes her to crumple to the ground, like a marionette with its strings swiftly clipped. “Why? Why?” she wails. Her body racks with heavy sobs as she rocks back and forth, hugging herself.

I kneel beside her, not touching, but close enough in case she reaches for me. She’s breaking, and I’ll collect every piece that falls to the dirt so she doesn’t lose a single part of herself.

“No one,” she cries. “No one saw me. They still don’t. Why, J? Why can’t anyone see me? Why don’t they love me?”

Inching closer, I fist my hands on my thighs to keep from grabbing her. “Let go. Say what you feel.”

Shaking her head, she angrily swipes the tears from her cheeks. She knows what I’m demanding. In all her years of being neglected and left alone, she hasn’t admitted how she feels about her family. She complained a little about their disregard for her, but aside from the day I showed up when she was yelling at Vera, she’s never expressed how being ignored affects her deep inside.

Perhaps she hasn’t spoken her feelings aloud because doing so means accepting reality. It’s an admission to herself that the family she was born to failed her in every way possible. They did fail her, epically.

After Richard’s initial reaction to seeing us on his porch, my girl has every right to be furious. He glossed over her presence like he sees her every day, aiming his joy and attention at me. I don’t blame her for wanting to rain hellfire on those familial ties and burn them to ash.

“Let it all go, Maisy. It’s just us. Tell me what you feel.”

“They make me so angry,” she whispers harshly, her hardened gaze locked on the ground and hands clenched in tight fists. “I hate that I felt sorry for them. And I feel stupid for trying to get them to notice me for so long. It was pointless. They didn’t want to see me. They didn’t want to see the lonely girl who needed a little attention and a fucking hug now and then. I hate that I’m still that girl. I’m so pissed off that I know nothing about love because they didn’t teach me. I hate that I feel inadequate because of them. And I fucking hate football.”

When her eyes clash with mine, my chest tightens. Despite the fire raging inside her, she’s losing hope.

“How could anyone want me when my own family didn’t? I’m an outlier, an error.” The tears dripping from her chin ring out like silent, little warning bells as she narrows her hazel gaze on me. “You shouldn’t want me, Jensen. Not when you can find someone better who knows how to love. Someone who can give you what you need. I’ll never make you happy.”

“Maisy—”

When she springs to her feet, her tone becomes level, resolute. “I need to get out of here. I have to go.”

“Go where?” I ask, rushing after her toward the Jeep.

“Anywhere.” When she climbs into the passenger seat and looks back at me, the answer’s written all over her face. Anywhere but Walford.

“No!” I shout, catching the door before she can slam it shut, my hand close to being crushed. I’m the one with the keys, and we aren’t leaving until we work through this. I wrench the door open. “You don’t get to run away because you’re hurting or scared.”

She shuts down—arms crossed, lips thinned, eyes straight ahead. I nudge her jaw, urging her to face me.

“Look at me. It’s you and me, beautiful. It’s always been you and me. When shit gets hard, we reach for each other and hold on tight. That’s what we do.”

Her lip quivers, eyes glued to my chest as a rainfall of regret coats her flushed cheeks. “But I didn’t hold on, did I? I pushed you away. You were the only good thing in my life, and I pushed you far away. Why didn’t you forget about me like everyone else did?”

My voice is breathless, shaky with desperation, when I beg for her to believe me. “Because I love you. I’m so in love with you, it’s bordering on insanity. Nothing can ever change how I feel. And nothing will ever come before you.”

“You can’t guarantee that,” she cries.

“It’s the easiest guarantee I’ll ever make.” Gripping her thighs, I spin her toward me and stand between her knees, my hands cradling her face. “Have faith that I see you and I’m here for you. Believe I want the best for you and will support your dreams. I can’t give you the world, but I’ll do everything in my power to help you go out there and make it your bitch. I love watching you soar, birdie. But when the gig ends, and it’s time to come home—when life deals its blows, and you feel like running away from it all—run to me. Let me be your finish line and your final resting place. Lay your head on the pillow next to mine, and drop your burdens on my table. I’ll help you sort through them, same as you do for me.”

Her shoulders quake as her emotions break loose. “I don’t deserve you.”

I brush her tears away with my thumbs. “No, you don’t. You deserve someone who’s much stronger than me. Someone without a broken brain who won’t drag you down. But I’ll try my hardest to be worthy of you every day. To be the man you trust with your whole heart because you’ll know, without a doubt, that I am where you belong.”

A strangled sob escapes her, and she buries her head in my chest, clutching my shirt between her fingers. I wrap my arms around her. With my body creating the shield she needs to feel safe while her walls are down, she unleashes decades of repressed heartbreak. All I can do is close my eyes, hold her through this, and pray she doesn’t let go and run again.

40

MAISY

I fall asleep on the drive back to Walford, my mind and body numb after the onslaught of adrenaline. Jensen carries me into Pam’s house and lays me on the bed. They have a hushed conversation, but I’m too drained to care about what they’re saying.

He kisses my temple and whispers, “Come home to me when you’re ready.”

I roll over and let the exhaustion take me under again. When I wake hours later, the bedroom is pitch black. My fear of the dark grips me for a moment until I remember where I am. I feel around the bed and let out a sigh when my fingers connect with my cell phone. The screen gives off enough light to see and confirms I slept through dinner, the clock showing it’s just after midnight.

Thinking back on the events of the day and the conversation with my father, I find I’m, oddly, at peace. I got the answers to questions I’ve asked myself since I walked away from him years ago. Our interaction further strengthens my resolve to do the same to Vera.

I’m ready to rid myself of the uncertainties in my life—in my past—leaving room for the certainties. And there are four things I know for certain.

I want to succeed in my career.

My parents don’t deserve me.

My friends accept me for who I am, unconditionally.

Jensen Holloway is my home. Not a house or a town or any physical place. Him.

All the times he pleaded for me to come home to him, he knew this truth. So did I, even though I denied it. After the day I’ve had—hell, the months I’ve had—there’s no place I’d rather be than with him.

Satisfied with the denim shorts and tank top I’ve worn all day, I brush my teeth, throw my hair up, and tug on a pair of sneakers with no laces. The hot, sticky air clings to me as I walk the two blocks to Main Street. The lampposts glow on the empty sidewalks, and all the businesses have closed for the night.

Beyond the darkened bar area inside Bruno’s, light shines from Jensen’s office. Relieved he hasn’t gone home yet, I pound a fist on the glass door. He steps into the hallway and, realizing it’s my face pressed to the glass, rushes over and unlocks it.

“What happened?” he asks, eyes sweeping over me for signs of damage or distress.

I jump, wrapping my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist, and he catches me. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Everything,” I murmur against his throat. “For being you. For loving me. For today.”

The lock clicks, then we’re moving. “I’ll always hold you up when you need support,” he says.

“I know you will.” A pause, then we laugh because he’s literally carrying me right now.

In his office, he sets me on the desk and rests his hands on either side of my hips. “Today was a lot.”

I heave a sigh. “It was, but I got closure I didn’t know I needed.”

“Are you okay?” He grazes my jaw with a knuckle, and I lean into his touch, relish it.

With a nod, I say, “Strangely, I am. It must’ve been the scream.”

His devilish grin appears. “I hear screaming is good for the soul.”

“Stop.” I chuckle with a halfhearted shove to his chest. Sliding my hands to his shoulders, I toy with the hair touching his neck. “Seriously, I’m glad you were with me today. I couldn’t have faced him alone. And I’m sorry for threatening to leave. I panicked.”

He studies me, the intensity of his gaze searing my brain. “Are you really okay?”

“I really am.”

“Then what made you come here tonight?”

Cramming down my discomfort with expressing my feelings, I swallow thickly and confess, “You asked me to come home to you. Here I am.”

“Birdie.” My whispered name breaks apart on his lips. Then he’s grabbing my face and claiming me with a kiss so passionate and consuming, my eyes fill with tears. The kiss goes on and on, and I’m comforted by the thought of it never ending. When we come up for air, he asks through panting breaths, “What happens now?”

Equally breathless, I say, “We move forward. I sever ties with Vera. You withdraw from the mayor’s race. After that, you’ll sling cocktails, I’ll make people feel pretty, and we’ll live happily ever after.”

When he closes his eyes and drops his brow to mine, a gust of relief fans my face. “That sounds like the perfect plan.”

To lighten the mood, I say, “More perfect than me being naked on this desk?”

His head jerks back, and desire darkens his gaze. “Watch it, birdie. No one’s around to hear you scream again.”

Leaning back on my hands, I spread my legs wider. “So make me scream, Mr. Holloway.”

Within minutes, I’m naked on his desk while he ruts into me, the only sounds our harsh grunts and his belt buckle knocking against the wood surface with each thrust.

He sucks on my nipples, gripping my ass to keep me from sliding across the desk because my hands are busy tugging his hair, eliciting endless groans of pleasure from him as we approach climax.

“I won’t last,” he pants. “Fuck, I’m not gonna last and you haven’t come.” Slipping a hand between us, he rubs feverishly at my clit, desperate for me to finish before him, always putting my needs first.

Though I’d love to reach that blissful pinnacle of pleasure, I have another plan. When he bucks his hips faster, a sign of his imminent orgasm, I yank his hair hard enough to wrench his head back. A strangled noise catches in his throat. His muscles tighten. He rears back while driving his hips forward, and a deep, bellowing roar accompanies his release.

My spine curves from the power of his final thrust. Before I can reclaim the breath he stole from me, he collapses on top of me, crushing me under his full weight.

“Shit. What was that?” he asks, gulping air into his lungs.

Wheezing, I croak, “Who’s the screamer now?”

Tatum shimmies her shoulders, excited about dance night at Bruno’s.

“Be still,” I say. Stabbing a pregnant lady in the eye with a mascara wand, though accidental, seems like a not nice thing to do.

“I haven’t danced in months,” she says.

“It’s been years for me.” Lucy leans against the wall in Tatum’s bathroom, looking sexy and ready to go with a high sleek ponytail and a tight red dress that ends just below her butt. Her smoky eye makeup and dark red lips are flawless, if I do say so myself. “Rock doesn’t know how to behave himself at a club,” she says.

“He dances?” Surprise pushes my freshly sculpted eyebrows high on my forehead.

The three of us spent yesterday at a spa in Austin getting massaged, plucked, and waxed before shopping for our outfits for tonight. Jensen tried to be sneaky and sent Lucy enough money to cover all of my spending without telling me it was from him, but she spilled the beans right away. Normally, I’d balk at the idea of being a kept woman, but I freaking blushed while Tatum and Lucy cooed over his gesture.

“Pfft. Hell no,” Lucy says, chuckling. “You’ll see what happens when Rock gets on a dance floor.”

“Sounds intriguing.” Tatum adjusts her pink sequined dress when she stands from the vanity bench. Her dress isn’t as short as Lucy’s, but it’s just as tight and shows off her pregnant belly. “Should we be concerned?”

Lucy smirks, her eyes twinkling with mischievousness. Something tells me Rock’s possessiveness will be put to the test, and he’ll be hauling her out of the bar over his shoulder before the night ends. They’re certainly the most entertaining couple I’ve ever met.

“The only person we should be concerned about is Jensen when he sees Maisy in this outfit,” she teases.

My short, gold halter dress is backless and has a plunging neckline that reveals ample cleavage. With my curls piled on my head, I’m showing a lot of skin. Maybe too much. Add the sparkly stiletto heels that make me four inches taller, and I feel like a bombshell, ready to flaunt what I own.

Capping my tube of signature lipstick, Murdered Merlot, I smack my lips and say, “Let’s do this, ladies.”

The moment we walk through the door, Jensen’s piercing gaze caresses every inch of me. From behind the bar, he eyes me while filling a pint glass with beer, and I can imagine all the scenarios happening in his mind. I toss him a cheeky wink—a promise for later—earning a smile from him.

I’m impressed by the transformation of Bruno’s. The staff went all out to make the bar feel like a club. Low lighting with colorful strobes, tables moved aside to make more space for dancing, a DJ’s bass beats vibrating off the walls. Tatum must be in heaven.

When Rock and Jake appear, she grabs Jake by the hand and drags him to the dance floor. The rest of us follow and lose ourselves in the music. Jake and Tatum bop around with big grins on their faces despite his lack of rhythm. She loves to dance, and he loves her, so he’ll happily go along with whatever her heart desires.

Rock promised to give Lucy some space to enjoy herself, so he stands within three feet of her at all times. On occasion, she uses him as a stripper pole, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s too busy glaring daggers at every man within a ten-foot perimeter while Lucy drops, dips, and grinds against his statuesque form.

I’m content dancing alone, pushing away from a couple of brave souls who come up behind me. Jensen and I steal glances at one another, and I bite back a smile when I picture him abandoning his post to dance. I’d pay money to watch him swivel his hips while fully dressed.

Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I turn to find Peyton Riggs, of all people, smiling down at me. I haven’t seen him—or thought about him—since high school. He made himself scarce after Jensen pinned him to a locker and threatened his life.

“I heard you were back in town,” Peyton says, loud enough for his voice to carry over the music.

“For a minute,” I say, my lips curving into a coy smile.

He leans in closer. “How many seconds of that minute are you willing to spend on me?” Gag.

Faking a giggle, I peek at Jensen, who’s watching us with a blank expression on his face, though his eyes blaze. It’s not jealousy in his penetrating stare; it’s protectiveness. He remembers the game Peyton tried to play with me.

Embarking on my own game of revenge, I spin to face Peyton and say, “How about a dance? That’s more than I’d give anyone else.”

He grins, broad and victorious, certain this night will end in his favor. It won’t. He twirls me around and grabs my waist, gyrating his hips while spouting nonsense in my ear like, “How is it possible you’re sexier now than you were in high school,” and “I notice you don’t have a ring on your finger. Lucky me.” It’s cute how he thinks he stands a chance.

I allow him to regale me with his sloppy dance moves and lame pickup lines. When I roll my eyes at his comment about my “banging body,” they connect with Jensen’s. One corner of his mouth quirks up, amused by the show I’m putting on for him.

Having reached my limit with Peyton’s boorish commentary, I rise on my tiptoes and put my lips next to his ear, lowering my voice to a seductive purr. “Thanks for the entertainment. I love a man who makes me laugh, and it’s good to know you’re still a joke.” I pat his chest and walk away, pleased with the baffled, yet annoyed, expression on his face.

I’m not surprised to find Jensen leaning against the wall when I exit the ladies’ room. However, I am surprised when he walks me backward into his office and shuts the door without turning on any lights, cloaking us in darkness. He spins me so I’m facing the door and cages me in with my back to his chest.

“Did you have fun toying with me, birdie?” he whispers, ghosting his lips along my ear.

“I always enjoy teasing you.”

“Were you trying to make me jealous?”

The answer is no, but I can’t resist asking, “Did it work?”

“Not at all. Because I know something Peyton doesn’t know.” He lightly trails his hands down my waist, showering me with sparks, and squeezes my ass. “These sinful curves belong to me.” He cups me firmly between my legs, a finger stroking me through my panties. “This perfect pussy belongs to me.” The other hand glides to my chest and settles over my left breast, his pinky brushing my nipple. “This fierce, beating heart has always belonged to me.”

I tremble, my panting breaths coming faster as I sag against the door in a helpless heap of desire. He slides the hand on my breast upward and wraps it around my throat like an anchor holding me in place. I reward him with a needy whimper.

His low, satisfied chuckle vibrates through me, intensifying my shudder as he continues stroking my slit. “Have fun dancing with your friends. Tempt all the men with this unholy dress. Because when we get home, I’m tearing it from your body and laying you on the table like a feast of the finest cuisine. Prepare yourself for a long night ahead, birdie. Your man is quite famished.”

Holy. Hot. Damn.

41

MAISY

MIGGY

Meet me at this address in one hour.

TATE

What are we doing?

MIGGY

Using our imaginations.

ME

Sounds dangerous. I’m in.

TATE

Can I bring a snack?

MIGGY

Oh! Is there a third Holloway brother? Bring him.

GRAHAM

I’m in this group chat, darling.

MIGGY

I jest. You know graham crackers are my favorite snack.

TATE

Aww.

<heart eyes emoji> <kissing face emoji> <pretzel emoji>

GRAHAM

Pretzel?

TATE

It’s cracker adjacent.

ME

We’ll be there.

Acting cagey, Tatum ditches me at the last minute. She gives a barrage of lame excuses about why she can’t join me to meet up with Graham and Miguel. As I pull up to the address Miguel provided, I’m wishing I would’ve made my excuses as well.

The destination looks like something straight out of a horror movie about summer camp. It’s not just the creepy remoteness or the gnarly trees making my skin crawl; it’s the dilapidated mobile home sitting in the middle of an overgrown clearing.

Graham stands by a rental car, his head on a constant swivel, eyes big and alert as if someone or something could jump out of the trees at any moment and snatch him.

“What is this place?” I ask through my rolled-down window, afraid to get out of the truck. Plus, I’m not willing to give up the air conditioning for the blistering July heat unless I have to.

“According to Miguel, it’s the site of our future home.”

I glance in the rearview mirror at the rugged dirt road behind me and say, “You’ll definitely have privacy.”

We’re literally in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t know anyone lived this far on the outskirts of Walford. Tire tracks embedded deep in the soil under a tree catch my notice. They aren’t fresh, as if someone passed through. They’re permanent, like a frequently used parking spot.

“Does someone live here?” I ask.

Graham wipes his hands down the front of his floral shirt like he’s drying his sweaty palms. “The real estate agent Jake hooked us up with said the place hasn’t been occupied for years.”

The mobile home with a caved-in roof leans to one side. Its crusty windows are impossible to see through, and the makeshift wooden porch lost most of its railing.

“I can tell,” I say, my skin prickling with unease at the sight. “Where’s Miguel?”

“Inside.”

Since it appears we’ll be here for a while, I shut off the car and join Graham in the first to die in the movie circle, right out in the open. The door to the sad structure nearly flies off the hinges, and Miguel leaps down the steps while holding his nose.

“I love it!” he exclaims, his voice nasally. He’s wearing bright yellow, cropped chinos, flip-flops, and a loose tank top with—wait for it—a floral ascot tied around his neck.

I point to the accessory and say, “Absolutely not.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “I’m dressed for the occasion, angel.”

“What occasion?”

Before he answers, Graham cuts in. “Are there any dead bodies?”

“Something’s definitely dead,” Miguel says, waving a hand in front of his face. Gross.

I carefully climb the janky steps and stick my head inside the door. One sniff, and I gag. The interior reeks of urine, rotten food, and a carcass—not that I’ve ever encountered one. The home should be condemned.

“This is where you want to build?” I ask Graham, who looks even less certain about this spot than when I arrived.

They’ve discussed buying land around Walford and building a home, but I didn’t expect them to be looking so soon. They surprised me with this sudden trip, but I’ll take any chance I can get to spend time with them.

Graham props a hip on the car and slides his sunglasses on top of his head, squinting against the bright sunlight. “It’s secluded, and there’s a lot of acreage. We can fix the road and clean up the overgrowth. It’ll be nice once the eyesore is gone.”

“I want to keep the mobile home,” Miguel announces. “Think of it like the tiny house trend, but we can call it glam mobile.” He accentuates the name with showy hands.

Ignoring him, I tell Graham, “I’d love for y’all to move here so I can see you more.”

He smiles, cheeky with a dash of Hollywood flair, and pulls me into a hug. “Spoken like someone who’s decided to stay.”

I haven’t made an official proclamation that I’m staying in Walford. Over the past few weeks, the decision came gradually, bolstered by the realization that I haven’t given a single thought to leaving since my meltdown at the river. I have no reason to run anymore. On the contrary, I have an extraordinary reason to stay.

“I guess I am,” I admit, hugging Graham in return, my cheek against his chest.

At my back, Miguel wraps his arms around us, squishing me between them, and says, “We should do this more often.”

On the outside, I chuckle and roll my eyes. On the inside, I couldn’t agree more.

The first sign I’ve been tricked by Jensen and my friends today? Multiple cars line Jake’s driveway. The second sign? Tatum’s grinning face peeks through the curtains of a fully illuminated window, then she gestures excitedly for someone to turn off the lights. She must not realize I can see her as clear as day.

Jensen shuts off the engine, and I cross my arms over my chest, refusing to budge. “I’m not going in there.”

“You are. Everyone flew into town for your birthday.”

“Why are you doing this to me? You know I hate being the center of attention.”

He drapes an arm over the back of my seat. “You don’t realize this, but every person waiting inside that house thinks the world of you.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I observe. I’ve seen it. If you weren’t special to them, they wouldn’t be here.”

“They could just send me a birthday text,” I grumble.

“Maisy.” He sighs my name, like he always does when my stubbornness exasperates him. “We want to celebrate you. Let us.”

Growing up, my summer birthday came and went during one of Logan’s football camps, so I never got to have a party with friends. After moving to California, my birthdays passed during Tatum’s tour season. If anything, we had a quick celebratory dinner when my friends could trick me into it. I’ve only celebrated one birthday with Graham and Miguel, so I guess it won’t be too bad to spend another one with them.

“Fine. But I’m not giving a speech or anything. And if anyone starts singing to me, I’m leaving.”

“Deal. Let’s go,” he says.

Before we step onto the porch, he stops and produces a hibiscus flower, which he sticks behind my ear.

“What’s with the flower?” I ask.

“It matches your dress.”

The dress he suggested I wear has a bright, tropical pattern, spaghetti straps, and a flowing skirt that reaches my knees. My mind flashes to Graham’s floral shirt and Miguel’s ascot from earlier, and I know for certain I’ve been bamboozled. They kept me occupied while everyone else plotted behind my back.

Jensen says, “Tatum’s been so excited about surprising you. Just play along, okay?”

“This is the opposite of loving me, you know.”

“You’ll have a good time. I promise.”

I sigh and wave a hand toward the house. “Let’s get this over with.”

When he opens the door, urging me to enter the dark house first, Tatum whispers, “One, two, three.”

Everyone yells, “Surprise!” Then the room falls silent because, apparently, they didn’t assign anyone the job of turning on the lights.

Jensen flips a switch, flooding the kitchen with enough bright light to make everyone shrink away.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, shocked by the number of people in the kitchen and the tropical decorations everywhere.

Giant flowers and loads of streamers hang from the ceiling. Every flat surface has some kind of island-themed decoration. Big jars of sand. Conch shells. Colorful umbrellas sticking out of coconuts. And all the partygoers are dressed like we’re at a beach resort. The California crew consists of Marcus, Judge, Graham, and Miguel. The Walford bunch includes Rock, Lucy, Jake, Tatum, Brody, Pam. All my loved ones are here, plus…

“Menchy?” I ask, the surprise obvious in my high-pitched voice when he steps forward.

“Happy birthday, Maisy,” he says with a sheepish grin that garners more than a few surprised reactions. “I hope you don’t mind that I invited myself.”

“Of course not,” I say, wondering why he would do such a thing.

“Hug me!” Tatum yells. She wraps herself around me and whispers in my ear, “Why is Menchy here? And why is he smiling?”

“I’m so confused,” I whisper back. “And I hate you right now.”

“Happy birthday, Maiz,” she says, laughing as tears well in her eyes already.

My own eyes sting and water. “Don’t make me cry.”

“Angel!” Miguel steals me from Tatum and embraces me like we didn’t see each other hours ago. “Open my gift first. It might be a pair of moccasins, and you’ll love them.”

My heart pounds. If everyone wasn’t chattering, they would all catch my audible gulp. “Gifts?” Oh no.

He gestures to the table piled with cards and wrapped presents, and I take a step backward, bumping into someone. Surely they can’t expect me to sit front and center while opening presents. I’m the worst at faking happiness, and I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings—like Miguel’s once he realizes how much I hate the moccasins he bedazzled for me, no matter what they look like.

The hand on my shoulder stops me from running out the door. “You don’t have to open your presents tonight,” Graham says loud enough for everyone to hear, and I’ve never been more grateful for someone coming to my rescue.

Miguel pouts while I hug Graham a little too long and collect myself. Soon, I’m passed around from person to person. Several of the guys lift me off the floor, but I keep my grumbling to a minimum until I end up at Jensen’s side again.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his eyes searching mine for any sign of distress.

“Yeah. I’ll kill you later.”

He barks a laugh and puts a hand on my lower back, directing me to the dining room. “All the excitement will settle when we eat. Come on, birthday girl. Pick your seat, and I’ll make you a plate.”

I choose the chair at the far corner, opposite from where the beach-themed cake sits at the head of the table. Jake shouts to get everyone’s attention.

“In honor of Maisy, we have a large assortment of appetizers and desserts, all of her favorites. This next part, Tate told me I have to say.” He holds up a flower lei and winces. “Snacky birthday, Maisy. I hope you get laid.”

A collective groan rolls around the room, but Tatum and I grin at each other. She’s pleased with herself, knowing I secretly enjoy her cheesy humor.

Marcus drops into the head chair—the one I assumed Jensen would occupy—at my end of the long table. He looks like a different person in a tropical shirt and linen shorts. An uncomfortable person.

“Have I ever seen you in shorts?” I ask, eyeing the hairy leg closest to me.

The opportunity to tease him further vanishes when he doesn’t take the bait. Because he’s no freaking fun. “Your man organized this whole thing. You picked a good one,” he says.

“As if there’s ever been another choice for me.”

Our gazes slide to Jensen, who chats with Pam and Judge while piling food on a plate. He looks relaxed and happy, genuinely at ease in this social setting.

“Have you told him that?” Marcus asks.

“No,” I admit. “Feelings are scary things.”

“Especially for the person waiting to find out if those feelings are reciprocated.”

Studying him, I ask, “Have you told Roni that you love her?”

He clears his throat and squirms in his chair. I imagine in life-threatening situations he’d never lose his calm. But we’re discussing relationships, an unfamiliar battleground for us both. “I have,” he says.

Amused by his discomfort and pleased that he found love, my lips tug at the corners. “I’m happy for you, Marcus.”

With a straight face, he leans in close and says, “Just a little happy? Or are you mega happy?”

“Get out of here.” I shove his arm, laughing as Jensen slides a full plate of food in front of me. He plants a kiss on the top of my head and sits at my side.

While we eat, my friends tell embarrassing stories about me. I may be blushing fiercely and tempted to hide my face in my hands, but I relish the memories being shared, even the ones that make my eyes water or bring fits of laughter at my expense.

Jensen carries my empty plate to the kitchen and returns with two flutes of champagne, one for each of us. Everyone else has a flute too, some with fruit juice in place of the alcohol. When he stands at the head of the table near the cake, my stomach sinks. The only thing I find more daunting than giving a speech is being the subject of one.

He clinks a fork on his glass, drawing everyone’s attention. I shakily set my flute down and plant an elbow on the table and a fist at my mouth. I’m nervous for both of us.

“Thanks for showing up to celebrate Maisy tonight. Some of you traveled a long way for her, and she—I mean, you—hold on.” With a deep breath, he removes his cell phone from his pocket and swipes the screen. “It’ll be easier for me to read my speech.”

He clears his throat. “I’ve had several opportunities to observe Maisy’s relationship with each of you, and I noticed a pattern. One by one, you pull her aside—into a corner, into the shadows—for secret conversations. All hours of the day and night, her phone pings with notifications from people vying for her attention, her blessing, her advice. You all love her, but there’s one person who shares a deep connection with her, one I know she cherishes above all others. I’m sorry to put you on the spot, but I’d like to ask this person—you know who you are—to stand up and say a few words.”

Four people stand up.

Tatum glances around, slack-jawed, and cries, “It’s obviously me!”

Graham looks at me, brows raised high on his forehead, to see if I’ll back him.

Miguel gasps, outraged that anyone has the audacity to consider themselves first.

Marcus narrows his eyes at the others—a silent threat.

They bicker among themselves, and Jensen whistles to get their attention. “Thank you for proving my point. We all love Maisy, but I’m the person she cherishes most, so I’ll remain standing while you four take your seats.”

Pouting, huffing, and grumbling under their breaths, the four sit down, not pleased with his joke. Then Jensen sets his phone on the table and addresses me as if we’re alone.

“Maisy, you allow people to love you in the shadows, but everyone here wants to love you in the light—proud and out loud. We respect the hell out of you. In fact, most of us have come to you for help or advice because you’re trustworthy and you accept us as we are.” Murmurs of agreement float around the table before he continues. “There’s something intriguing about you that makes people want to scale your walls. For those of us who succeed, the rewards are endless. Your smile is a gift. Your sense of humor keeps us on our toes. And your heart…it’s loyal, protective, and bigger than you let on. We’re lucky to call you a friend. And despite several people at this table claiming to be your best friend, I’m honored to have been the first to hold that title. Happy birthday, beautiful. Cheers.”

A chorus of cheers and birthday wishes rings out, but I stare at Jensen in awe, tears streaming down my cheeks. When he winks at me and sips his champagne, all is right in my world.

He organized a themed birthday party—a first for me—and invited all the people I love. He gave a speech and crushed it. I’m so proud of him, and I’m beyond grateful to have him in my life. I plan on expressing my gratitude many times over when we get to his house.

42

MAISY

“Are you mad about the party?” Jensen asks as he empties his pockets on the kitchen counter.

“Not anymore. You sort of made up for it with your speech.”

“Sort of?”

I lift myself onto the center island and shrug. “You won’t have my complete forgiveness until you give me a gift.”

Alarm flares in his eyes. “I didn’t think about a gift.”

Humming, I drag up the hem of my dress and point to a spot on my exposed inner thigh. “Right there.”

His gaze snaps to mine. “What?”

“This is where I want my gift.”

“Explain.”

I hold out a hand. “Come over here.”

He shifts his weight from foot to foot before he approaches. I place his hand between my legs, and he runs the back of his knuckles along my panties.

“Your panties are soaked. Why?”

I lick my lips, nervous about voicing my fantasy. The thought of it actually happening floods my cheeks and my core with heat. “I want you to bite me.”

He’s bitten me a few times when we’ve had sex, and I’m curious to find out if the biting intensifies my orgasms. I have a feeling I know the answer already.

His eyes pop wide open in surprise. “Bite you? On your thigh?”

“I just want to try it.”

Like he’s deep in thought, he absently strokes my center while staring at my leg. “Birdie, are you sure?”

“Don’t I seem sure?”

When the silence lingers, I wriggle away from him, wishing I could take back my request. The hand on my thigh clamps down, stopping my escape. He draws circles on the spot where I pointed and presses a finger into my flesh, as if he’s imagining the bite.

“I won’t draw blood,” he warns. Biting my lip, I nod. “But it won’t be a little nibble either.”

My core clenches, and I try to squeeze my thighs together. Because he’s standing between them, he catches my physical reaction to his statement.

Intrigue threads his voice when he says, “You really want this. It turns you on.”

“Please don’t shame me,” I whisper.

“No, no. I’m not.” Blunt nails scrape my inner thigh. “I’m about to grant your birthday wish. Take off your panties and lie back.”

He pulls a stool around to the end of the island. Then he tugs my hips to the edge of the cool surface and plants my calves on his shoulders, massaging my shins. “Should we have a safe word in case I bite too hard?”

“By the time I use a safe word, the damage will be done.”

“True.”

Sensing his hesitation again, I hike myself on my elbows. With him sitting between my propped-up legs, our positions remind me of being at a gynecologist appointment. “If it makes you feel better, we’ll have a safe word. How about rodeo?”

He stills, and amusement brightens his eyes. “You can’t cry rodeo while I’m getting you off.”

I shrug a shoulder. “Mustard then.”

“Mustard? Do you know any sexy words?”

We’re both grinning now, and I’m relieved the awkwardness has passed.

“You pick one.”

Humming, he runs a hand up my thigh until he reaches my core and slides a finger in and out of me while he thinks. His voice drops lower, the rough sound causing me to shiver. “You never need a safe word with me. I know just how far you’ll bend before you break.”

“Jensen,” I moan, dropping my head back.

He withdraws his hand and plants my heels on the counter. “I’ll take care of you, my beautiful birdie. Try not to scream too loud.”

The moment he swipes his tongue along my slit, I whimper and weave a hand through his hair, fisting the strands. He’s merciless with his teeth and tongue and greedy, supple lips. Those lips suck on my clit with the rhythm of a pulsing heartbeat. He shoves two fingers inside me, finding my pleasure spot as my legs tremble and my hips buck wildly. Between his mouth, his hand, and the delicious assault of his beard on my flesh, I’m close to soaring.

Intense pressure builds in my lower abdomen, a foreign sensation that makes me convulse as I fight against it. Without knowing if releasing the pressure will end in humiliation or pleasure, I squeeze my eyes shut and say, “Do it. Do it now!”

Without disrupting the steady work of his masterful hand, he licks down my thigh and sinks his teeth deep into my flesh. My mind goes blank. My vision turns fuzzy. A guttural, keening cry escapes me when the most embarrassing thing happens.

“Holy shit,” he whispers in awe.

My eyelids are squeezed shut, and I’m certain my face is a deep shade of red. I can’t look at him. I can’t handle the humiliation or the shame.

The stool scrapes against the floor, and then he’s leaning over me. “Look at me, beautiful.”

Lips clamped between my teeth, I shake my head.

“Birdie,” he says, softening his tone. “I want to hold you and comfort you, but my whole arm is dripping wet.”

I whimper.

He plants gentle kisses all over my flaming face. “Don’t be embarrassed. That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen or heard in my life.” His belt buckle thumps against the countertop, followed by the sound of a zipper. “I’m so fucking hard for you right now.”

When his erection nudges my entrance, I open my eyes. The green ones staring back at me, shining with fathomless wonder and love, grant me permission to relax and breathe. Jensen pushes into me and groans, gripping one of my hips with his dry hand while holding the other out to the side. Frustrated because he can’t move me at his whim, he peels off his shirt and wipes his arm before burying his fingers in my hips and plunging into me with long, even strokes.

“Could you be any more perfect?” Thrust. “More beautiful.” Thrust. “More mine.”

I’m enchanted, lost in his adoring words while he coaxes more pleasure from my body, his movements languorous and worshipful. Holding me a little closer, a little tighter, he comes with a quiet groan against my lips.

“I love you, birdie. I’m keeping you forever.”

Satisfied with how this fantasy played out, and imagining all the ones we can explore in the future, I grin. “You caught me. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You said that once before.” He leaves a path of light kisses from my mouth to my ear and whispers, “You lied.”

ME

On my way. Don’t hold me hostage.

JENSEN

No promises.

ME

I’ll give you a drive-by kiss.

JENSEN

That’s not enough to last me a week.

ME

Fine. You can have a peek at my ankle too.

JENSEN

Scandalous.

Everything seems to be coming together as I make myself at home in Walford. I’ve technically moved into Jensen’s house—half of my belongings are still at Pam’s—and we’ve established a routine of sorts. He eats me for breakfast, and I deliver lunch to him at work. During the afternoons, I handle domestic chores, which I find surprisingly satisfying. Not that I enjoy doing laundry or dusting shelves. Rather, I’ve discovered satisfaction in knowing I’m taking care of Jensen in small ways, ensuring his basic needs are met.

One afternoon, while cleaning, I imagined gathering toys scattered around the floor and tossing them in a cute, hand-carved toy chest. Gasp. My mindset on love, my outlook on life, and my daydreams of the future continue to change and flourish.

I’ve been putting off my conversation with Vera, but for good reason. I don’t want her to douse my excitement about the new project offer I accepted in Jamaica, a swimwear photo shoot for the same designer who launched the perfume campaign. The team didn’t give me a lot of notice or time to consider, but I didn’t need it. My answer was a speedy, resounding yes.

I heave my oversized suitcase into the trunk of my new car, which is another big change and a symbol of permanence. Jensen took me car shopping, and I never want to suffer through that ordeal with him again. Apparently, car manufacturers don’t make enough safety features for his liking, not when it comes to my safety.

At Bruno’s, I head straight for Jensen’s office, but he’s not here. I spin around in his chair, waiting for him to get back from wherever he is. Chewing my lip, my gaze clashes with the keys lying on his desk with every rotation. He said the second floor is unsafe and off-limits, but I’m curious to know what it’s like up there.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, swiping the keys off the desk. I’ll take a quick peek and be back downstairs in a jiffy, faster if a furry creature jumps out at me.

The dark, creepy stairwell echoes with the creak of each step I climb. The battered door at the top doesn’t have a lock, so I twist the knob and open it. I wish I hadn’t.

My breath catches.

My heart stops.

My mind rejects the scene in front of me.

What. The. Fuck.

43

JENSEN

As I lumber down the steps of the town hall, sweat gathers on my forehead from the blazing sun and overwhelming stress. I can’t focus. My mind’s a hazy fog.

My plan to withdraw my candidacy failed. Going in, I felt anxious, but Gloria eased my worries when she didn’t ask questions after I informed her of my decision. Then I made the mistake of asking who else is on the ballot. Her answer sent me into a spiral. No one.

Everyone in Walford put their faith in me. They’re so confident in my ability to lead the town, not a single person chose to run against me. Not even the interim mayor, Mr. Olson. How could I possibly let that many people down? I can’t leave the town’s government in a lurch, and I’m not equipped to stand in judgment before the disappointed faces of three thousand citizens. Before, the pressure to become mayor smothered me. Now a crushing force presses against me from all sides.

Maisy will be so disappointed. She’ll think I’m a coward. I convinced her and myself I could fight for me—put my needs first. Apparently, I can’t. I’m a failure. Now I’ll be a stuck in a position I don’t want.

Why did I do this to myself?

The sight of her car brings a mixture of relief and apprehension. I hope she’s not upset with me because I need her support right now. I need her to hold me, tell me everything will be fine, and promise me we’ll find a solution.

She’s not waiting inside her car as I expect, so I search up and down the empty sidewalk. No sign of her. Approaching Bruno’s, I reach in my pocket for my keys. My pocket’s empty. I stop moving. The twisting in my gut demands attention. Something’s not right.

I push on the glass door and, sure enough, it’s unlocked. The bar is dead silent, not unusual for this time of day when I’m here alone, but this silence carries a stench. I locate the source of the stench when I walk into my unlocked office and step into a big pile of dread.

My keys draw my focus. How could they not when they dangle from the doorknob across the room? The wide-open door leading to the stairwell taunts me. A gaping maw ready to chew up my world and spit out everyone I love, leaving me alone in the dark pit. I’ve been there before. I knew I’d return one day, but I had hoped for more time.

Resigned to my fate, I forge ahead, placing one booted foot in front of the other. Shame and trepidation squeeze my chest like a vise, and I’ve never climbed these stairs as achingly slow as I do now.

She’s up there. I can sense her presence—her disgust. My failure to take my name off the ballot pales in comparison to what I’m about to face, but it’s a worry nonetheless. A man can only carry so many bricks before he crumbles under the weight. The cracks in my mind can’t withstand any more pressure.

My heart pounds in my throat. My stomach churns violently as my intuitive gut screams for me to not step foot in that room with her. This is the end. I can feel it.

At the top landing, I rest my fingertips on the door and force myself to drag in a fortifying breath. Then I slowly push it open and face my absolute greatest fear: my darkest secret coming to light.

Maisy sways in the tree swing I built for her all those years ago, which is now bolted to the ceiling. She looks so pretty in a yellow sundress with a plaid ribbon tied in her hair. The bright sun to my darkness. I should tell her to be careful. The swing isn’t safe anymore. I can’t stomach the thought of her being hurt.

“I should’ve known it was you.” Her level tone gives nothing away as she runs her hands along the fraying ropes. “Why did you let Logan take the credit?”

I lean against the doorframe with my shaky hands buried in my front pockets. “You were happy. I didn’t want to ruin the moment.” My voice sounds muffled, like I’m trapped in a glass jar. She wields the hammer, poised to break me open and spill all my secrets at once.

She nods slowly, absorbing my explanation, but won’t look me in the eye. I can tell she’s trying to hold back the monsoon of emotions raging inside her, same as I am.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” I say, offering a partial truth, a weak attempt to temper the storm coming to sweep away our happiness. Our future.

I’m met with silence again, but this silence screams as it travels through my ears and punctures my brain.

“Please say something, birdie, because I’m really fucking scared right now and I don’t—what should I—I can’t—” I can’t find the words to explain.

When she rises to her feet, I shrink before her. She approaches with confident, purposeful steps and stops inches away, reaching around to my back pocket and retrieving my phone. I remain frozen, an iceberg in a raging, nightmarish sea, as she holds the screen to my face and unlocks it to uncover another of my ugly secrets.

With a few swipes of her finger, she navigates to the tracking app and deletes my access to her location. There’s no flinch, no shock, no expression on her face at all, which means…

“You knew,” I say, stepping into the room with her at last.

“I figured it out a while ago.” With relaxed shoulders and a casual stance, like she’s unbothered by the terror wrenching my soul from my body, she tosses the phone onto the papasan chair. “You know, all these years, you thought what happened on the porch pushed me away. That was only half of it. The first shove happened the day you and Logan left for the lake trip. You were in his bedroom, and he asked you about me.”

My body turns rigid. The organ sprinting in my chest comes to a screeching halt.

“He asked if there was anything happening between us. Do you remember?” Yes. Make this stop. “And what did you tell him, Jensen? What did you say about me?”

Her fierce gaze remains steady as it burns into mine. She’s so fucking strong. Meanwhile, I’m fighting hard to keep my hands out of my hair and fisted at my sides.

“Please don’t make me say it. It tore me apart to lie like that. To paint you in a negative light.”

“It tore you apart?” She lets out a short laugh, a mirthless sound of disbelief. Disgust. “You destroyed me. I never knew words could obliterate me like that, but coming from you…” She shakes her head, her gross disappointment flaying me open, one square inch of flesh at a time. “So I gave you a chance to make it right. The day on the porch was as much for you as it was for me. It was your shot, your chance to come clean and confess how you felt about me. To redeem yourself. And what did you do, Jensen?”

I failed you.

“Birdie,” I whisper, her name a broken plea on my lips.

“What did you do?”

“Please,” I beg, but she shows no mercy. A strong woman never backs down.

“You denied me. You lied to me and yourself. Told me I was imagining things. You called me silly. You gave me the final shove—right off the fucking cliff—when all I needed was for you to tell me I was wanted and loved. You were my last hope for happiness in a lonely life. And you knocked me in the back with both hands and watched me fall.”

Stop this. Please. I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t move. All I can do is silently beg for someone—anyone—to end this nightmare before it ends me.

44

MAISY

I refuse to let him crawl inside his mind and hide from this. As much as I want to hold him, comfort him, and guide him safely through this rip in our reality, I can’t. He has to face the mirror, once and for all, and accept that he needs help. Despite my heart crumbling from the possibility I’m nothing but an infatuation of his after all, I push him harder.

“Tell me what you said to Logan that day, Jensen. Repeat the words to my face.”

His expression is wretched, the lines carved deep with pain. “I can’t.”

“Say it. Man up and own your shit. He asked you, ‘What’s up with you and Maisy?’ And your answer?”

“I can’t do this!” he yells.

“Say it!”

A guttural, wounded noise tears through his chest like he’s being clawed apart by the memory. “Fine! I said, ‘I don’t know, man. Your sister’s crazy. I think she’s obsessed with me.’”

“Obsessed.” The word thrums in the silent air surrounding us. Air filled with the combined scents of Jensen’s cologne, stale makeup, and the perfume I got for my fourteenth birthday, which sits on the dresser behind me. I spread my arms and say, “Look around us. This isn’t normal.”

“I’m not normal!” he shouts, jamming fingers against his temple. “I’m fucked in the head! You know this, and you’re the only person who makes it all make sense.”

“That’s a lot of pressure to put on me, Jensen. You really need—”

“Don’t say it.” He steps forward and points at my face in warning. “Don’t you dare fucking say it. The only thing I need is you.”

“That can’t be true. Look at this!” I gesture around the room again, trying not to look too closely at all of my childhood belongings. I don’t want to believe this is real.

“This only happened because you were away from me. I needed you close. Things never would’ve gone this far if you hadn’t broken your promise.”

“Do not try to make this my fault.”

“You fucking left me!” His voice booms, hands clutching at his shirt, like he might rip it from his body.

When I step back, his face crumples with instant regret at whatever expression he sees on mine. Shoving all ten fingers in his hair, he drops his head and sucks in deep breaths, fighting to summon the calm.

My heart’s racing. Not from fear of him—he won’t hurt me—but from watching him crack and splinter, unsure if I should save him this time or not. Honestly, I don’t know if I can save him anymore.

After a long minute of his labored breathing, he rasps, “You left me, birdie. I had already lost so much. My parents. Logan. The chance to play college football. I picked myself up after every loss because I knew I still had you, my heart.” He shakes his head. “But losing you...I went off the rails, Maisy. Something inside me snapped and hasn’t been right since. I work so fucking hard every day to appear normal. It’s exhausting. So I created this place where I can come and let my fucked-up mind run free. Don’t fault me because I could only find peace in my memories of you.”

My voice strains when I say, “We were kids, J.”

“We were us. And then we weren’t.”

The defeat in his tired gaze cries out for my comforting embrace. We stand feet apart, lost in each other’s desperate eyes, unsure where to go from here. I know where he needs to go, but he won’t. Not without being forced. And my stomach lurches at the thought of issuing an ultimatum.

I scrub my hands down my face and sit on the bed next to the window, my shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You can tell me how to fix this. Maisy”—he falls to his knees and grips my thighs—“please. I’ll do anything to not scare you away.”

Tucking hair behind his ears, I push out a breath. “I’m scared for you, not me. And I worry I’m not healthy for you. You were doing fine before I came back into your life.”

Tears leak from the corners of his eyes. “No. It was all a lie. I faked it. I’m a mess without you holding me together.”

I cup his face in my hands, my nails grazing his beard. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, encased in dark circles and deep lines. I haven’t noticed the worsening changes because I’m with him every day, but I see them now.

“Jensen, baby, look at yourself. You’re shattering.”

His voice is raw and shaky, barely audible. “By your hand and at your feet. You’re hurting me, Maisy.”

“We aren’t supposed to hurt each other, remember? You said that to me once.”

At my reminder of the day on the porch, he buries his face in my lap and moans, a weary and mournful sound. “I’m so sorry, my beautiful birdie. I’m so sorry I couldn’t say the words you needed to hear. I was scared of saying the wrong things—scared I’d ruin what we had—and I ruined it anyway.”

“It’s time to stop being afraid of everything. The world won’t fall apart around you if you let some things go. But your life will fall apart if you keep holding on to everything. You’ll lose it all, Jensen.”

“What about you? Am I losing you again?” The groan he lets out is long, dragging miles of agony behind it. “God, this feels like it did before, but so much worse.”

An ache builds in my throat, but I suppress the encroaching sob, knowing I need to ease his worries with soothing lies and more strength than I feel. “No, J. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be around to keep an eye on you, but I need to figure some things out for myself. Alone. And you need to work on you—find your footing. And when your feet hit solid ground, you run to me, okay? As fast as you can.”

He looks up at me, all flooded eyes and devastating, beautiful wreckage. “I love you so much, birdie. More than I’ve loved anyone who’s ever walked the earth. Please don’t give up on me. Please.”

Leaning forward, I press my tear-soaked lips to his, trying to absorb a tiny fraction of his pain before I pull away. “Love yourself for a little while, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Sniffling, he nods and rests his head on my lap again. Neither of us move, our desire to hold on to each other unwavering, until he reminds me, “You have a plane to catch.”

“I’m finding it really hard to let go.” My words stumble over the sob that breaks free.

“You have to. I don’t want you to be here for what comes next.”

“Jensen—”

“Go, Maisy. I’ll be fine.”

He won’t be fine, but he needs me to be the strong one here, and I can’t fail him. With one more kiss to the top of his head, I drag myself away, each step toward the door a grueling trek in the wrong direction. I cast one last glance at him on his knees with his head bowed, arms hanging at his sides. The perfect silhouette of a broken man.

Every instinct tells me to stay, but staying won’t help him when it’s clear I’m the reason he reached this breaking point. For once, I admit to myself I’m incapable of fixing him. I never could. In the past, I offered him temporary relief, a distraction to keep him grounded until he needed me to come to his rescue again. How naive was I? And how much damage did I cause us both with my misplaced confidence? I now understand Jensen can only get better if he rescues himself.

The soft click of the door closing echoes like a cannon’s blast in my bones. Halfway down the stairs, I sink to my butt and wait. In less than thirty seconds, the roars and crashes begin. They continue for four minutes. Four excruciating minutes of listening and doing nothing as he causes maximum destruction to the room and himself. The ancient door fails to muffle the sounds of shattering glass and self-deprecating insults. Each sound cuts me deeper.

When he quiets down, I wipe my cheeks and send a text to Tatum.

ME

Jensen needs help. He’s in the room above the bar.

Don’t bring anyone but Jake. Please be gentle with him and don’t judge.

She immediately calls, but I decline to answer, shutting off my phone so I can have a minute to process everything I’ve witnessed—everything I thought I knew about us both. Maybe he’s not the only one who needs professional help. I’m shattering too.

45

JENSEN

“What the hell?”

Lying in the middle of Maisy’s childhood bed, staring at the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stickers, I ignore Jake.

A loud gasp pierces the brief silence. “Oh my gosh,” Tatum whispers. “Is this—”

“Maisy’s old bedroom,” he answers.

A pause hangs in the air. I assume they’re taking everything in. The twin bed with neon purple and yellow bedding. The zebra-print papasan chair. The white dresser covered in cosmetics. And the most alarming sight to someone who doesn’t know our history—Maisy’s dolls. Twenty-seven of them in perfect alignment on her bookshelves.

“She saw this.” Tatum’s strained voice sounds appalled. Disgusted.

Jake shoves my feet. “Jensen, you need to explain this to me.”

“Get out,” I say, my tone lifeless. I don’t want them here. They don’t belong in this room. No one does.

“We’re not going anywhere.”

“It’s like a shrine,” Tatum says.

The sound of things being moved around, picked up, and set down rattles me. I pop up, feeling wild and untethered. “Don’t touch anything!”

Jake steps in front of Tatum, hands raised. “Whoa, man. I get that you’re upset, but don’t yell at Tate.”

“Please don’t touch anything,” I say. “Please. It’s all perfect.”

It was until I wrecked everything, including my relationship with Maisy. I haven’t had a chance to put everything back where it belongs—to put everything right. I’ll clean up the mess after they leave. Anything I broke, I’ll find a way to mend.

They share a concerned look before Tatum cautiously steps through the rubble of my life and sits on the edge of the bed. “Jensen, let us help you. Talk to us.”

I fall backward, my head landing on the pillow. Maisy’s hot pink satin pillow. The bright colors and loud patterns aren’t comforting, but they’re a comfort to me.

To get them out of my sacred space, I give them a half-honest excuse for having her things. “Her mom wanted to throw it all away. I offered to haul everything to the dump but decided to keep it here instead.”

Tatum’s hand rests on my shin, her touch hesitant. “Lots of parents turn their kids’ rooms into guest rooms once they leave.”

“Birdie grew up there. These are her things. Her choice was taken from her. What if she wanted to keep some of it, like her dolls? She loved these dolls, so I kept them safe for her.”

Jake’s sigh is so heavy, the weight of it crushes my chest. “You’re my brother, and I love you, so I’m going to be very real with you right now. This isn’t okay.”

Unable to face the inevitable disgust or disappointment in his eyes, I stare at the ceiling and offer an argument in my defense. “You built a house for a girl you never thought you’d see again. It’s the same thing.”

“It’s not the same. You know it isn’t. I lived in the house, welcomed people inside. I didn’t hide it from anyone because I felt no shame in it. The fact you’ve had this hidden for years tells me you know it’s wrong. Deep down, you do.”

I roll onto my side, refusing to explain myself to either of them. “Call Javi.”

They’re both quiet for so long, I chance a peek. Tears are streaming down Tatum’s face. She’s worried about Maisy, but she’s also sad for me. Jake stares at the comforter, avoiding my gaze. My own brother can’t even look at me.

After a few minutes of tense silence, apart from the sniffles, Tatum gets up and moves about the room, careful not to step on the mess I made on the floor. “Is there more than this room and the board?”

“What board?” Jake asks.

“Behind the door,” she whispers. Apparently, her eyes did a full sweep of my shame.

Jake looks over his shoulder at the cork board hanging on the wall. Inching closer to it, he examines the contents pinned with thumbtacks. Everything from a copy of Maisy’s state-issued cosmetology license to Tatum’s concert schedules over the years. Anywhere in the world Maisy went, I kept tabs—or tried to—because I was proud of her.

There are printouts of any photo published with her standing next to or behind Tatum. I yearned to catch the tiniest glimpse of Maisy because I missed her.

“You called her ‘birdie’ earlier,” Tatum says gently, as if speaking to a frightened child. “I’ve never heard you call her that before.”

Our nicknames are special. We got used to sharing them in secret. It became second nature to not say them in front of other people. Maisy slipped in front of Graham on karaoke night months ago. Today is my first time referring to her as birdie to someone else, as far as I know.

Jake whips his head around, eyes wide with realization. “Your tattoo.”

Turning my back on them again, I say, “I don’t need this right now. I’m not a freak of nature that you can sit here and pick apart.”

“We’re not picking things apart. We’re piecing it all together, man. It’ll help if you tell us what’s happening. The day after the wedding, you told me you’ve loved Maisy since you were kids. Is this love? Or does this all go away because she finally gave in?”

Outraged, I spring to my feet and get in his face. “Fuck you, Jake. She was—this isn’t—I had her right—you don’t know—fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I yell, ripping out my goddamn hair, wishing it was my stupid, incapable brain I could wrench from my skull.

“Tate, go downstairs.” His command is sharp, and he guides her behind him with one arm shielding her. From me.

Without hesitation, she rushes out of the room. And that one moment—seeing my pregnant sister-in-law’s terrified face as she flees for her safety—finally does me in.

I lose all feeling, all control, and go completely numb. No words, no thoughts, no light as I fall into the pit. Jake catches me by the shoulders, directing my body so it crashes to the bed and not the floor.

“Jensen,” he says, his urgent voice as distant as my muted soul. “What’s happening? What should I do?”

In my head, I answer him. Call Javi.

46

MAISY

“Thanks for hanging out with me again,” I say to Ainsley.

I never got on the plane to Jamaica. I didn’t even drive to the airport. As soon as I left Bruno’s, I pulled to the side of the road, emailed the production team saying I had a family emergency, and booked a room at the Walford Inn.

Ainsley found me hiding at the bed-and-breakfast when she made her rounds cleaning rooms yesterday. After her shift ended, she sat with me for a little while. We didn’t talk much. I assumed she knew about Jensen because she didn’t ask why I was crying. She also didn’t try to console me, and I appreciate someone who’s willing to be present without feeling the need to make a fuss.

Tying the laces on her sneakers, she says, “It’s no trouble. I know you don’t want to be alone. Besides, this is way nicer than my place.”

If a stale, outdated room at a bed-and-breakfast is an upgrade compared to where she lives…yikes. The carpet’s geometrical pattern clashes with the floral bedding, and the mismatched furnishings are littered with nicks and scratches.

“I’m not trying to drag you into this or use you for information.”

“Maisy, it’s fine. I knew something was off at the festival, maybe before then. I wish I would’ve said something sooner.”

“And I should’ve looked closer,” I admit.

I’ve spent two days recycling what ifs and should haves. None of them make the situation better.

“Don’t blame yourself. Whatever’s going on, he has to face it head-on. He doesn’t have to do it alone, but he has to make the choice to get help.”

Narrowing my eyes at her, I say, “You’re wise for someone so young.”

She barks a laugh, though it’s a humorless sound. “I haven’t felt young in a long time.” Swapping her plain white T-shirt for the Bruno’s shirt that she pulls out of a huge duffel bag, she says, “I need to get some things done before my shift. Will you be here again tonight?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll let you know either way.”

“Just text me,” she says, then the enigmatic girl is gone.

An hour later, a light knock on the door startles me. I shouldn’t be surprised by Tatum’s face when I check the peephole. If anyone is intent on finding me, it’s her. I open the door, and she drops a box on the floor. From the loud thump, it sounds too heavy for a woman who’s six months pregnant to be carrying around.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the unlabeled banker box with its lid taped shut.

“That’s something for you to look through when you’re ready.” She slides her gaze from the box to me, and sympathy glistens in her eyes. “You’re not in Jamaica.”

“Nope. How did you find me?” I shut the door and reclaim my dented spot on the bed, pulling the T-shirt I stole from Jensen over my bare knees. I’ve given up on wearing pants at this point.

After I checked into the hotel room, I turned off location sharing on my phone so I could be alone with my thoughts. I’m still unsure if I’m ready to talk to anyone who has a history with me or Jensen, hence my willingness to have Ainsley as company. The pain is too fresh, too confusing, to face it with anyone from our past.

Tatum rolls her eyes. They’re puffy and red at the edges, and I’m sure mine look the same. “Did you really think Marcus only uses one tracking app? Mr. Diligent? The minute your flight was supposed to land, he knew where you were and told me. I thought you’d want some space for a couple of days, so I left you alone.” She toes off her shoes and lies on the bed, facing me. “Talk to me, Maiz.”

My throat swells before I can explain myself. “I couldn’t leave him. I walked away but wanted to stay close in case...”

“In case he needs you,” she says, finishing my thought as she rubs my arm. “We all think you’re making the right decision by staying away.”

“This doesn’t feel right, Tate. I feel like I’m being torn in two.” Avoiding her gaze because I don’t want to see the truth in her eyes, no matter how she answers, I ask, “How is he?”

Thankfully, she doesn’t mince her words. “He’s not good. The guys have been taking shifts at his house, but he hasn’t spoken since Jake and I found him after you texted me.”

She tells me about the condition of the room and how Jensen reacted to their probing for an explanation. When she describes his angry outburst, I shut my eyes and push the vision of it happening from my mind. Jensen would’ve been horrified about scaring Tatum, and I don’t want to imagine the terror on her face, much less his once he realized what he’d done. They don’t understand that his outbursts are caused by frustration, and he’s angry with himself, not them. He would never hurt anyone.

“We’re hoping Javi can get Jensen to talk, but he won’t be back until tomorrow,” she says.

“Where is Javi?”

“He’s leading a hike for troubled teens. Once he gets within cell range, he’ll have a thousand messages waiting for him.”

“Why does everyone think he can help?”

Javi has been with Jensen all these years. Did he miss the signs too? Had he never gone upstairs at Bruno’s, a place where he spends so much of his time? I have many unanswered questions, especially for those who were with Jensen every day while I was gone. Someone had to notice his behaviors. I’m not looking to point blame at anyone, but he needed help long before now.

Tatum holds my hand as if she’s about to deliver terrible news. “Trevor told us that Jensen went through something similar after Logan died, and Javi helped him through it.”

I recall Jensen saying he “went off the rails” and snapped, but I’m certain his problems had little to do with Logan and more to do with me. Thinking back on my conversation with Javi at the pool party, he’s aware of what triggered him. I’m sure of it, and Javi’s poor attitude toward me is making sense.

Shoving all the curiosity about Jensen’s past aside for now, I ask my best friend the question that’s been plaguing me for the past forty-eight hours. “Is this love, Tate? The hurt I’m feeling right now. The guilt because he’s suffering, and I can help him simply by going to him, but know I shouldn’t. Is this really love?”

“When you care about someone, you want to help them. When you love someone, you want them to help themselves. Sometimes that means taking a step back, even though it hurts.” Her voice trembles with understanding.

I have no doubt I love Jensen. I’m in love with him. Madly in love, if I’m measuring on some scale. My feelings for him are sound, certain, and undeniable to my heart. The question is…

“What about his love for me? Do you think it’s real?”

I first asked myself this question when Jensen and I began our relationship. Back then, I considered I might be an infatuation of his, and I’ve spent the past two days thinking my concerns were valid.

Tatum’s thoughtful, choosing her words carefully before she speaks. “I think Jensen loves you so much it consumes him.”

“An obsession.” My greatest fear coming true.

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, but I can’t tell if she doubts her opinions or Jensen’s authentic feelings for me. “I think, once he gets some help and sorts out everything troubling his mind, his love for you will be the only thing that doesn’t change.”

I pray she’s right and I’m not abandoned by the person who claims to love me the longest, the hardest, the most.

When I have no response, she adds, “Jake and I locked up the room. No one else has been up there. We aren’t sure if clearing it out will hurt or help him, so we’re leaving it alone for now. Did you want to go back and salvage anything?”

My answer comes without hesitation. “No.”

The only thing worth saving is him.

47

JENSEN

I don’t remember coming home. Hushed voices drift from my living room. People want to see me, talk to me, invade my privacy. None of them are Maisy.

Jake acts as gatekeeper during the day, controlling who enters the house and learns my secrets. He’s allowed Trevor to come inside and Lucy to drop off meals. They talk about me, and Jake says everything will be okay. He doesn’t mention Maisy.

Where’s Javi?

Trevor acts as a babysitter at night. From the recliner he dragged into my bedroom, he works on his laptop, naps, and encourages me to eat, drink, shower. I don’t.

Where the hell is Javi?

I lie on the bed, my face pressed into Maisy’s satin pillow. She slept beside me a few nights ago, and her scent lingers, a tropical blend of coconut and ocean breeze. I imagine us lying on a beach. Maybe we’re on the island she wants to buy for just us. She wears the sexy red bikini I like with her aviator sunglasses, smiling at me over her shoulder as I rub oil on her tanned skin.

Then she fades on the horizon, vanishing in the flare of light during that moment when the setting sun kisses the sea.

Hurry, Javi. I’m losing her.

Jake’s strained whisper reaches me from the foot of the bed. “You can’t keep on like this, man. I’m worried about you. You’ve been in here for three days. You need to eat or at least drink some water. Or talk to me.”

I can’t talk, Jake. I’m numb.

The darkness holds me hostage. Black bedding, black curtains, black pit of despair. Without Maisy, light ceases to exist. I cease to exist.

48

MAISY

“I’ve been expecting you.” I hold the screen door open as Javi, Trevor, Jake, and Tatum file into Pam’s kitchen.

My long cardigan stretches when I wrap it around me to hide the camisole and cotton shorts I slept in last night. Then I rejoin Pam at the table where I’ve been staring at a bowl of cold soup she made me an hour ago.

Tatum claims the seat beside me and draws me into a long hug, whispering reassurances in my ear that Jensen and I will both be okay and come out of this ordeal stronger. Jake and Trevor also gather around the table while Javi leans against the kitchen counter, his arms folded across the mandala pattern on his faded shirt.

Holding Javi’s tired gaze with my matching one, I say, “You blame me.”

“When you first returned to Walford, I did,” he admits.

“Join the club. I’ve kept Jensen’s secrets for years, so it’s easy to blame myself.”

“What secrets?” Jake asks. When I hesitate to respond, chewing my lip, he says, “Maisy, we can’t help him if we don’t know where to start.”

Cue the never-ending waterworks of late as tears well in my eyes. “It feels like I’m betraying his trust.”

“It’s the only way,” Javi says. “You have the answers. You can help us help him.”

Their exhausted faces snuff out what little sparks of hope I have for Jensen’s mental state improving with each passing day. Pam gives me a subtle nod in support. She stayed up with me last night, listening as I spilled every detail about what happened with Jensen. I told her our entire history while crying in her arms.

Pressing my fingers to my forehead to fend off the ache, I begin. “He, uh…he struggles with managing stress. I guess that’s the simplest explanation. When he can’t cope with the stress, he thinks he’s a failure. He blames himself. Punishes himself.”

I tell them everything I’ve witnessed and what Jensen told me directly. How his thoughts spin out of control, and he becomes self-deprecating and destructive. How he pulls his hair out when he’s on edge, though he’s better at controlling the urge now. I confess to helping him discover weightlifting as an outlet to redirect the negative energy when he’s overwhelmed. I confess all, and I’m a trembling mess of guilt when I finish. Reciting everything again reminds me I didn’t do enough to help him from the start.

Jake leans forward, elbows planted on his knees, as he soaks in my every word with rapt interest and deep concern. “That’s a lot for you to deal with alone, Maisy. You were a kid. Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“He trusted me. Your dad knew how to calm him down, but Jensen sought me out more and more after I first helped him. Then your parents died, and he relied on me alone. I thought I could manage, but it was hard sometimes, like the episode during his senior year. He was completely unhinged, and that was the only time I didn’t think I could pull him back.”

I’ll never forget that day. Jensen called me, ranting and cursing at himself for being a “stupid fucking loser.” The rant seemed to go on for hours, and he wouldn’t listen to anything I said to calm him down. He pleaded for my help, but I had no way to get to his house. This was after his parents died, so he was home alone while Jake was with friends. Jensen kept threatening to come to me, but he was in no state to drive. With no other options, I began singing into the phone, which caught him by surprise. In the end, he was laughing because I’m a terrible singer.

“Do you remember what set him off?” Javi asks, finally taking a seat.

“He got detention for snapping at his English teacher after he failed an essay test. A triple whammy.”

“Triple?” Trevor pauses his ten-finger assault on the keyboard. When I squint in suspicion at his open laptop, he explains, “I’m taking notes.”

I count on my fingers. “Detention. Being disrespectful. Failing.”

“What’s the connection?” Tatum asks. She’s been gripping my hand this whole time, or I’ve been gripping hers.

“They could all lead to disappointment, and he doesn’t like to disappoint anyone. It’s too much for him to handle.”

“Because he’s a perfectionist and a people pleaser,” Jake surmises.

“I’m pretty sure we all know that’s putting things mildly,” I say. A longer look at Jake’s shadowed eyes and creased brow makes me realize how worried he is for his brother. He’s likely feeling a tremendous amount of guilt as well. “Are you mad at me, Jake?”

Sighing heavily, he says, “No. I’m mad at myself for not noticing anything was wrong. I know he gets worked up when things aren’t going right, but I didn’t know his issues ran this deep.”

“He hides it well.” Pam joins the conversation, her soft voice a balm to our somber mood as she looks us each in the eye. “None of you have done anything wrong, and you aren’t to blame for any of this. What matters is that you work together to support him and encourage him to get help.”

Everyone agrees with parts of her statement, more or less. Then we fall into quiet rumination, each gaze around the table aimless, contemplative. Jake plucks his bottom lip, Javi rubs a hand along his buzzed head, and Trevor stares at a spot on the ceiling. They’re likely replaying past incidents or interactions with Jensen and wondering how they missed the signs, what they could’ve done differently, and if they’re to blame in any way.

Something Jensen mentioned in the room eats at me, so I say to Javi, “Tell me what happened after Logan died.”

“You mean after you ended the friendship,” he says, but I don’t flinch at his brutal honesty. None of us are in the mood to sugarcoat reality. “He crashed hard. Lost his job, stopped paying the bills for the house. He slept all day while Jake was at school, then he drove around for hours at night before parking down the street from your house until sunrise. I followed him for several days, and it didn’t take me long to realize he was mourning you instead of Logan.”

Jake rises to his feet and paces, his irritation evident in his cinched features. “He said he got laid off because business was slow at Bruno’s. How many lies has he told? How many secrets does he have? I feel like I don’t know my own brother at all. And after everything we’ve been through.” He chokes on the last words.

Tatum reaches his side in an instant and wraps her arms around his waist. “He’s been hiding from himself, Jake. Not from you.”

“How did you help him back then?” I ask, my focus still on Javi.

Sighing heavily, he slouches in his chair and admits, “I didn’t. I confronted him and got him to confess his feelings for you. But, like you, I left him to his secrets as long as he didn’t hurt anyone. When things weren’t getting better, I told him Jake still needed him, and that seemed to snap him out of it.”

Need.

“The magic word,” I whisper softly enough for no one to hear. Louder, I ask, “Did you know about the room?”

Affronted by my accusing tone, Javi scoffs. “Of course not. He had the only key, and I never had a reason to doubt him when he said it wasn’t safe.”

The room wasn’t safe—not for Jensen. As he feared, all his secrets are now exposed. He can no longer hide from the people who love him most.

Trevor drums his fingers on the table, deep in thought as he stares at me. “Do you love him? If he hadn’t forced his way into your life in recent months, would you have come back to him one day?”

Well, that question is unexpected coming from Trevor. When I blow air between my lips and open my mouth to respond, he holds up a hand to cut me off.

“We’re not the ones who deserve the answers. That’s between you and Jensen. It’s just something for you to think about while we get him some help.”

Ready to go, Javi stands and pushes his chair under the table. “I have someone in mind I can call. In the meantime, lean on your friends. Jensen’s not the only one struggling. You are too, and you have a big decision to make. Do you stick by him and see him through this? Or is he too much for you to handle? I’m not a psychologist, so my opinion doesn’t mean much, but I’m guessing there’s no one-and-done solution here. He’ll face his mental health challenges forever. Are you willing to face them alongside him?”

Shoving my chair back, I ball my hands into fists and invade Javi’s personal space. I’m fed up with him not trusting me, and the hard edge in my voice lets him know it. “I’m not leaving him. Don’t ever doubt me again, Javier. Especially when it comes to my feelings for Jensen.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Fair enough.”

“What happens now?” Trevor asks as he slides the laptop into his bag. “How do we get him out of bed?”

Four sets of hopeful, pleading eyes beg me for guidance, and I drag my hands down my face, hesitant to hand over the key to unlocking Jensen. Maybe. “If what I’m thinking works, we’ll be manipulating him. We could do more harm than good.”

Jake clasps my hand between his. “Maisy, he hasn’t eaten in days, and we need to get him out of his fucking bedroom. How do we bring him back?”

Hoping I’m right, I say, “Tell him I need him.”

The guys leave, but Tatum stays behind with me and Pam. We move to the couch, where they sit on either side of me. I’m lucky to have their support, and I’m beyond grateful I don’t have to face the coming battle alone.

“Thank you,” I say to both of them. “The last few months would’ve been too much for me if I didn’t have your help. With Vera and what happened in Philly and now with Jensen…I needed you both. Need you both. I couldn’t get through this without either of you.”

“But you will get through this.” Pam puts an arm around me, and Tatum does the same, sandwiching me between them.

“I will,” I say, more determined than ever to stand by Jensen the way he stands by me. Looking at Pam, I remind her of our conversation on the night I first broke my silence and spoke to him. “You told me I’ll know when I’ve found my place because I’ll fight tooth and nail to hold on to it. Well, I’m here. And I’ll fight like hell for Jensen.”

The pride shining in her eyes brings tears to mine.

Tatum lays her head on my shoulder. “He’s worth it,” she says.

With every tired bone in my body, I agree. “He is.”

49

JENSEN

“Jensen.” The mattress dips when Javi sits on the edge. “I’m turning on a light.”

The lamp on the nightstand illuminates my pit, and I drag the covers over my head. I’m comfortable hiding in the dark. Shame can’t find me here.

Javi’s tone is solemn, regretful, when he speaks again. “I should’ve paid closer attention. I’m sorry.”

He has nothing to apologize for. Nobody does. I’m the one who broke so many rules and lied to everyone I care about. I’m the disappointment. That reminder makes me think of…

“Maisy.” The blanket muffles my ragged whisper. Her name is the first word I’ve spoken since Jake confronted me in my secret room at Bruno’s.

“Let’s focus on you, man. Don’t worry about anyone else right now.”

“Please, Javi. I have to know.”

He hesitates, and I prepare myself for the worst. “She’ll be okay. Tatum and Pam are with her.”

Wait. Maisy should be in Jamaica right now. I told her to go. Surely, a week hasn’t passed already. I should feel a lot worse, physically, if I’ve gone seven days without food or water, which leaves only one explanation for her being in Walford.

I drag the blanket halfway down my face and squint against the harsh light. “She stayed?”

He nods, his gaze meaningful when he squeezes my leg. “She stayed.”

A choking noise catches in my throat, and my eyes sting with equal amounts of relief and guilt as I stare at the ceiling. “I messed up. I ruined everything. She—”

“She needs you.”

Need.

The simple, four-letter word usually fills me with dread. However, when spoken in association with Maisy, I’m overcome with a profound sense of purpose. My stiff, unused joints ache when I push aside the covers and rise to a seated position, planting my feet on the floor.

With my elbows braced on my knees and hands buried in my greasy hair, I whisper, “What have I done?”

The shame overwhelms me. My heart races when I consider all the consequences of my actions. Layer upon layer of fear fills my head.

Sensing my increasing anxiety, Javi puts a hand on my shoulder. “Nothing that can’t be undone. Please, man, accept our help. You have more to lose than ever if you don’t.”

My birdie. She’ll fly away and never come back.

“I don’t want to be like this, Javi. My mind is…it’s broken.”

“You’re not broken,” Jake says from the doorway, his voice rough. Tired.

The sight of purple shadows beneath his eyes and his overgrown stubble elevates my level of guilt. He should be at home, living in newlywed bliss with his pregnant wife, but he’s losing sleep over me instead.

I track him with my gaze as he approaches and sits at my other side. “Jake, I—”

“Don’t apologize.” He drapes an arm over my shoulders. “Don’t say anything yet. Take a shower, get some food in you, then we can figure everything out.”

I nod in response.

Javi says, “Help is on the way. A friend of mine from Austin agreed to come and talk to you. She’ll be here within the hour.”

Thirty minutes later, I’m forcing myself to eat a sandwich at the kitchen island when Javi walks in with an older woman. She has long silver hair, coke-bottle glasses, and a shitload of beaded necklaces. First impression? She’s a witch, and Javi hired her to cast a spell on me. I wouldn’t put it past him.

The woman approaches me with a hand extended. “Jensen, I’m Dr. Marjorie Sims, a psychologist and a friend of Javi’s.”

Shaking her bony hand, I say, “Nice to meet you.”

“No, it’s not. I’m the last person anyone wants to meet.” She chuckles to herself, and I relax. Her directness and sense of humor put me at ease. They remind me of Maisy.

Dr. Sims joins me at the island and encourages me to finish eating while we chat. I agree to let Javi and Jake stick around for this first meeting.

We start with the common knowledge: the election, the room, Maisy. In fact, we spend half the afternoon discussing her. I explain how much I love her, how I scared her, how I lied to her. The doctor asks me pointed questions I’m not comfortable answering in front of my loved ones, but I do so anyway. If I plan to get better, I’ll need their support. If I want their support, they have to know some of my secrets.

When we circle back to the topic of the room, Dr. Sims asks, “How long ago did you move her belongings to the room?”

“Six years ago.”

“And how often did you go up there?”

Hesitating, I glance at the guys when I answer. “Before she came back to Walford, every day.”

Javi doesn’t react. His gaze remains glued to my face as he watches for any twitch or hint of a lie. Jake won’t even look at me. He rests his forearms on the countertop and stares at his clasped hands. I can imagine how each of my unveiled secrets horrifies him more and more. His eyelids shutter when I confess to tracking her phone, and his silent disapproval rings loud in my ears. Can’t say I blame him. I did some pretty appalling things.

Dr. Sims clearly has experience with people like me because she registers my worsening mood and the tension in the room. “Why don’t we continue this conversation in private? We’ll start with a virtual visit tomorrow. Once we sort out the pesky business side of things—insurance and paperwork and what not—we’ll schedule some in-person visits as well. Sound good?”

“Sure,” I say, walking her to the front door.

She smiles warmly at me and says, “Time and honesty. If you invest those two things into this process, you’ll get a lot more in return.”

I can only hope she’s right. As I’ve proven repeatedly, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep Maisy. Maybe this time I’ll succeed.

In my living room, I tape the bottom of a box I’ll use to store my mother’s knickknacks. Jake has been helping me pack away some of our parents’ belongings as part of my therapy. “I can only do one more today,” I say.

Three weeks have passed since all my secrets surfaced. With some therapy sessions under my belt, I’ve become better at vocalizing when I reach my limits. The four boxes stacked in the corner, filled with memories of my parents, represent my limit for today.

In our first week of sessions, Dr. Sims identified my fear of changing anything associated with my childhood or teenage years. Although she’s working with me to diagnose all of my struggles, she encouraged me to tackle this fear right away, claiming any progress is good progress. I agreed to make her recommended changes to my home, but I can only tolerate them in bite-size chunks.

She came at me fast and hard from the start. Fast, because she scheduled two office visits and one video session each week. Hard, because she implemented a six-week period of no contact with Maisy. Initially, the idea didn’t go over well with me, and I behaved like an addict during a hostile intervention.

Jake, Javi, and Trevor were here when I had my first virtual visit with the doctor in my bedroom. They got physical with me to keep me from running out the door and going straight to her. I was afraid if I let her out of my sight for too long, she’d leave me forever. Six weeks allows her ample time to realize I’m not worth keeping.

Once I calmed down enough to listen to reason, Dr. Sims explained how the no-contact approach is often used to break a patient’s bond with another person, like when someone has trouble getting over an ex-partner. In my case, however, she believes with Maisy out of my life temporarily, I can focus on my treatment with no distractions.

During the separation period, no one’s allowed to talk to me about Maisy, and I’m not allowed to ask about her. I go along with it, counting down the days until the six weeks come to an end. I’m playing by the rules for both our sakes because if I’m the best version of myself, I’ll be a better man for her.

Javi manages the bar alone for now. I’ve taken a leave of absence but will return to work next week. As far as everyone in town knows, I burned out and needed a long vacation. Javi and Trevor persuaded Tom to step forward as the next interim mayor, at least until the town’s government can sort out its special election process. I’m relieved they found a solution for now, but every day I seem to care less and less about the town’s collective needs. And I’m caring more and more about my own.

Standing by a shelf, Jake turns over a decorative glass bowl in his hands. Pensiveness crinkles his brow when he asks, “Do you think they’d be proud of the men we’ve become?”

Kicking the empty box aside, I shake my head. “Not me. Not yet. But they’d be damn proud of you.”

“I’m proud of you, Jensen. Proud you’re doing what needs to be done to unstick yourself.” He sets the bowl on the shelf and faces me, his expression pleading and eyes wet with unshed tears. “Don’t keep any more secrets from me. Believe I can handle the truth, no matter how hard it is for you to say or for me to hear. You don’t have to protect me anymore, especially from you.”

I draw him into a tight hug. “Sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you, Jake. I never meant to hurt you or anyone else, and I’m trying to do better. For you. For Maisy. For me.”

Clearing his throat, he pulls away. “Talk to us, okay? Give us the chance to protect you from yourself when you need help.”

“I promise.” I clamp a hand on his shoulder and give him a shake. “Thank you for being patient with me.”

Before he can respond, the front door flies open. “Knickers and knockers!” Brody shouts, backing through the doorway with an empty furniture dolly.

Per the doctor’s orders, I’m required to haul everything out of my house as soon as it’s packed up. This way, I don’t have a chance to reconsider getting rid of anything. The guys have been coming by to load up boxes at the same time each day because I need a routine. Javi’s at work already, so he assigned Brody to pickup duty this afternoon.

“What does that even mean?” Jake asks.

“It’s like saying ‘knock, knock’ but with panties and tits.”

“Dude. My question was rhetorical.”

“Bro. My answer wasn’t.” Brody parks the dolly and points to the stack of boxes. “Are these good to go?”

“I’m packing one more, so make yourself at home,” I tell him.

He grabs a drink from the fridge and settles into a recliner while Jake and I wrap and pack breakable items. Jake casts intermittent glances at Brody, so I look over my shoulder to find out what has him distracted.

Brody stares at nothing, his usual jovial expression wiped from his face, his eyes empty and distant. Jake and I share a wary look, communicating subtly with our shifting eyebrows about whether we should engage.

“I’ll pack the last of it,” I say, giving him the opening to check on his friend.

He drops onto the couch with an exaggerated sigh, as if he’s been laboring hard all day. “What’s up, man?” he asks Brody.

I can’t see Brody’s face when he answers, but the melancholy in his voice is clear as day. “I’m tired of being alone.”

Jake chuckles, a forced reaction to hide his concern. “Alone? You’re never alone. You’ve got women all over you, left and right.”

“Funny how you believe that,” Brody says, his tone thick with annoyance. “When’s the last time you saw me with a woman, Jake? Huh?” There’s a pause before he continues. “You can’t answer that because I haven’t had sex in six years.”

I don’t make a move, frozen with a roll of packing tape in my hand and my jaw on the floor. I’m shocked by both his bitterness and the admission he just made.

Jake splutters while searching for a response. “Wh—what are you talking about?”

Brody’s laugh is far from humorous. “Yeah. Walford’s biggest slut is abstinent. How’s that for a surprise?”

“Brody—”

“Forget it, Jake.” Brody cuts him off as he rises from the recliner. “I’ll just load these boxes and go.”

As soon as he leaves, Jake and I stare at each other with identical poses and expressions. Hand on hips. Eyes wide. Mouth open.

“What the fuck?” he whispers.

“Who the fuck?” I ask. Because the man who just stormed out of my house is not the Brody we know.

50

MAISY

“What about this one?” I ask, holding up a yellow paint swatch in Menchy’s Hardware Store.

Graham’s eyes light up. “I have boxers that color.” He’s said that about the last six paint colors I’ve considered for Jensen’s kitchen.

“Don’t you think you should ease him into your preferred color palette?” Tatum asks, her nose scrunched in disapproval.

She has a point. I may plan to move in with Jensen after our six-week separation ends, but he’s going through enough changes without me splashing bold, primary colors all over his life.

Part of his therapy involves updating his house and wardrobe. Jake and Tatum keep me apprised of his progress and what changes are on his list, then I go shopping. I’m okay with Tatum taking the credit for my contributions because I’ll do anything to ensure he remains on an upward trajectory. That includes hiding my involvement in his healing.

I huff at her and say, “Fine. We’ll go with the boring beige you chose.”

“It’s more of a taupe.”

“Cream, beige, tan, taupe. The only feeling any of those stir inside me is boredom.” I grab a gallon of matte paint and heave it into the cart, shooting Graham the stink eye for wandering off to try on hard hats instead of helping me.

“I can’t wait for their house to be built,” Tatum says with a squeal of excitement.

Graham and Miguel bought the creepy property on the outskirts of town. Once they remove the run-down mobile home, they can start building the home Miguel is designing.

“I wish Marcus and Judge would move here, then we’d all be together again.”

Her grin falters as sadness dims her eyes. “They’re Cali boys, through and through, and they’re growing up. We’re all spreading our wings, so let’s enjoy each other while we can.”

“They’re older than us, Tate. Fully grown men. And you and I are doing the opposite of spreading our wings. We’re nesting.” I wave a hand at my paint can and her swollen belly—her baby’s due in October—to emphasize my point.

“Speaking of grown men,” she murmurs as Graham and Miguel dance a waltz in front of Menchy’s cash register. The old man doesn’t look impressed. With his glasses perched on the tip of his nose, he scowls at their antics.

The door swings open, aided by a gust of wind, and Marcus and Judge hustle through like they’re being chased. Judge looks downright frazzled as sweat drips from his brow, the August temperatures in Texas unforgiving. He moves away from the front windows, hiding from someone’s view.

After everything that happened with Jensen, my friends gave me some time to process before flying to Texas to support me. I sobbed in each of their arms, and we embarked on a week-long slumber party, spending some nights at Tatum’s and other nights at Pam’s house, much to her delight. She enjoys any chance she has to dote on the Cali boys.

Tatum waddles over to Judge, who’s red in the face, and fusses over him. “What happened?”

“Judge was accosted by a handsy old lady with a vibrating poodle,” Marcus says, gritting his teeth. “We barely got him away from her.”

“Evelyn Truman,” Tatum and I say in unison, her with pity and me with amusement.

Judge grimaces and waves a hand in front of his nose. The only thing worse than Ms. Truman’s inappropriate advances is the stench of her strong perfume.

“This town is full of crazy people. I don’t get why any of you want to live here,” Marcus says, eyeing Graham and Miguel in disapproval as they continue spinning around the store.

I used to feel the same about Walford, but not anymore. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. “You’re welcome to join us,” I say, wrapping an arm around his waist.

He shoots me a perplexed look because I’m hugging him in public, so I quickly detach myself. “Not a fucking chance,” he says before pushing open the door and barking, “Judge! Let’s go.”

The guys and Tatum leave with promises to meet up with me later. I have one more errand to run—one more wound to close—before I can move forward with the future of my choosing.

There’s a happy gleam in Menchy’s eyes when I hand him my credit card and confirm the delivery of the tiles I ordered for the backsplash in Jensen’s kitchen. He gives me the receipt and says, “I’m glad you’ve decided to stay.”

I look around the empty store to make sure he’s not talking to someone else. “Um…thanks.”

He produces a toothpick from his apron and wedges it between his lips. “Have a nice day.”

Paint can in hand, I leave Menchy’s and prepare myself for the next stop. My mother’s house.

It’s been two months since I was last at Vera’s house. She hasn’t contacted me, not even to ask why I went into Logan’s room, which proves she doesn’t need me. She can get by on her own. Her failure to reach out also proves, since returning to Walford, I’ve wasted my time and energy caring for the wrong person.

Today, my second attempt at a final farewell, I don’t linger in the yard or reminisce. Without hesitation, I unlock the front door and drop my house key into the bowl on the entryway table. A spoon clinking against a ceramic mug signals Vera’s location, so I raise my chin and take confident strides toward the kitchen.

Papers are strewn across the table, medical bills and other documents that look important. Her eyes land on me, greeting me with their sad, empty gaze. I give it right back, my stare dead and facial expression devoid of emotion. For once, I don’t have to fake it. I’ve spent weeks evaluating my one-sided relationship with her, and I can’t be bothered anymore.

Before she has a chance to speak, I say, “I’m done.”

“Done?” She sets her mug on the table and straightens in her chair.

“I’m done putting in all the effort between us. If you want me in your life, you’ll have to earn me.”

Stuttering noises catch in her throat. “I-I don’t understand.”

Same thing my dad said.

My hardened posture withers on an exhale. “You and Dad gave one hundred percent of yourselves to Logan when he was alive. He’s gone, and he’s never coming back. But I’m here. If y’all really love me, both of you need to step up. If you make an effort to know me, I’ll consider meeting you halfway.”

With her brow pinched, she shakes her head. “Effort? I’m confused.”

She hasn’t moved from her seat, and the thought she could be having one of her bad days crosses my mind. Before I know it, I’m standing by the table with my hands on the back of an empty chair, closing most of the distance between us despite what I said seconds ago about meeting halfway.

“Show up for me like you did for Logan. Until then, I’m done showing up for you.”

Her mouth opens and closes, failing to capture the right words. “Parenting is hard, especially when you have more than one child. Logan’s football kept us busy, and I thought we were all a team, supporting him together.”

“But don’t you see? You never supported me.” When she stares like I’m speaking a made-up language, I sigh, exhausted from trying to get my message across. My parents need to do some deep soul searching if they ever hope to see things from my perspective. “It’s not my job to help you understand why you haven’t been a good parent to me. You’ll have to look back and figure it out on your own.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re acting like we pushed you aside or something. Where is this coming from?”

I unclench my teeth after being called silly and tighten my grip on the chair to rein in my anger. “I wasn’t pushed aside, Mom. You just forgot I was there. And please don’t ever call me silly again. Every time you say it, you belittle my feelings, not that you’ve ever cared about how I felt.”

Tears well in her eyes, but I find it hard to believe they’re meant for me. “I’m sorry if it seems like I don’t care. I do. I’ve just been going through a difficult time.” In a panic, she shuffles a few papers around and clears a space at the table. “Do you want to sit down and talk about this? I don’t want to lose you too.”

My jaw drops open, but I snap it shut. Ignorance must be bliss if she believes our relationship has any substance, any value that makes it worth salvaging in its present state. The “difficult time” she mentions has lasted twenty-nine years on my end. It’s too late for her to make excuses now, and she can’t blame a lifetime of negligence on her recent health problems.

In my gentlest tone possible, holding back my sass and snark, I ask, “Can you call someone walking away a loss if you didn’t cherish the person in the first place?”

She sniffles and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. “I’m sorry, Maisy.”

My wilted smile is sympathetic, resigned. “Me too, Mom. Take care of yourself.”

Shutting the front door with a soft snick, I glance at the wooden bench and nod once, satisfied with my new never. I never have to look at this damn bench again. It’s a reminder of the day I cast aside the person who loved me most, same as my parents did to me. How lucky am I that Jensen kept loving me regardless?

Back in my bedroom at Pam’s house, I open the banker box Tatum delivered to the bed-and-breakfast when everything crumbled. At least a dozen journals are packed inside. I flip through a few of them, seeing page after page of Jensen’s neat handwriting.

Nestled under the covers with the sunlight pouring through the window, I read every letter he wrote to me during the thirteen years we were apart.

51

BIRDIE

Birdie,

Happy seventeenth birthday. It’s been one year, three months, and eleven days since you last spoke to me. Maybe you never will again, but I’ll keep talking to you through these letters. I miss hearing your voice.

I miss you. -J

Birdie,

You graduated yesterday. I watched you walk across the stage. Why does it feel like those were your last steps in Walford?

-J

I messed up. Really bad. When Jake finds out what I’ve done, he’ll hate me. I hate myself right now. Where are you, Maisy? I need you.

Birdie,

Congrats on finishing cosmetology school. I heard you moved to California to be with Tate. I should be happy that you’re spreading your wings, but I’m not. Sometimes I hate you. Other times, I feel…I don’t know…lost.

-J

Vera said you came home for one night. One fucking night. Is this how it’s gonna be? Once a year…sneaking in and out of town like a thief? Yes, you’re a thief. You stole something of mine when we were kids. I want it back.

-J

Birdie,

When I picture you in my mind, you’re smiling. When was the last time you smiled, Maisy? Other than in my dreams.

-J

Birdie,

I saw you on TV again with Tate. You’re more beautiful than ever. I like the green highlights in your hair. Bright and bold suits you. Don’t ever change.

I still miss you. -J

Birdie,

Do you remember the first time we swam in the river? You were six, and you wore a green hat and matching flip-flops with little strawberries on them. Logan said sharks would eat your feet. You were scared and held on to me, and I promised to keep you safe. To never let anything hurt you. I’m sorry I broke that promise. I’m sorry I was the one to hurt you.

I miss you. -J

Birdie,

I’m a business owner. Bruno’s is all mine. I plan to gut the whole place and start over, but I’m keeping the original bar. I think it’ll look perfect once I clean it up. Some things are worth holding on to. Remember that.

-J

Birdie,

It’s been a while since I last wrote to you. I’ve had a girlfriend for a few months now. She’s okay, I guess. Is that a terrible way to describe a relationship? If I marry her, have a few kids…I’ll have an “okay” life. All my friends are married, and Trevor has a baby on the way. Lives around me are changing, but I’m standing still. I can’t decide if I should settle for okay or wait for something special. Something colorful and bright and one of a kind. Tell me, birdie. Should I keep waiting?

-J

Birdie,

I finally finished college. The courses were online, but my finance degree is the real deal. You’re the only person I’ve told. Not sure why it’s a secret. Some things I just want to keep to myself. The English and history classes were the hardest—lots of essays. But I found a tutor who helped me, and I passed the classes on the first try. Hope you’re proud of me. I am.

-J

Dear Maisy,

I’m thirty years old today. It’s been ten years, ten months, and thirteen days since that day on the porch. When you spoke your last words to me. When you last looked at me. When you kissed me, and I couldn’t kiss you back. When I wanted to tell you how much I’ve always loved you. I started to, but it wasn’t the right time. Do you understand, Maisy? It was right…but it wasn’t the right time. I guess it’s too late now. You may not speak to me, but I finally hear you loud and clear.

So, for my birthday, I’m gonna give you a present. I’m setting you free from the cage in my heart. I never should’ve kept you there. It wasn’t fair to either of us for me to hold on this long.

Can I also make a birthday wish? I wish for you to find happiness, birdie. I truly do. And someday, I hope to see your beautiful smile again, even if you’re smiling for someone else. Even if that someone is only you.

Yours forever and always,

-Jensen

52

JENSEN

“What changes have you made this week?” Dr. Sims asks from her oversized chair.

Her tiny office in Austin is crammed with large furniture and an abundance of potted plants. Somehow, the crowded space feels cozy.

After weeks of confessions, assessments, and evaluations, she gave me her initial diagnoses. Yes, plural. The long list of disorders and phobias is a lot for me to take in, so we’re tackling them one by one, where possible.

I suffer from impulsive and compulsive behaviors, as well as depression and anxiety. No surprise there. I met with a colleague of hers, a psychiatrist, who prescribed medications to help balance my mind. He said we may have to make adjustments until we find the right combination and dosage that works best for me, so I shouldn’t expect miracles overnight. But most of my healing will happen through talk therapy.

Dr. Sims also referred me to a speech pathologist to work on my difficulty putting thoughts to words when I’m anxious. With more testing, I’ll know if my speech struggles are associated with my ADHD, another new diagnosis. Like I said, the list is long.

In response to her question about my weekly change, I say, “My brother helped me take down the wood paneling in my parents’ house and paint the walls.”

Jake has all the tools and skills from doing renovations on his home, so we’ve been knocking out the updates on my to-do list.

“Your house,” Dr. Sims says, correcting me.

She says it’s important for me to identify things as they are in the present. The house no longer belongs to my parents. I live there. The deed is in my name.

“My house,” I murmur.

“How did you feel about the change? It’s your biggest one yet, correct?”

I inhale and release a deep breath. Although I have a long way to go before I’m comfortable changing things associated with my childhood, she assures me we’re making progress in my treatment. “Yeah. I wasn’t excited about it, but afterward…I don’t know. The house felt brighter, I guess.”

“I’m not asking how the house felt.” She doesn’t baby me, that’s for sure.

Shrugging, I say, “I felt lighter.”

“Light space, light mind,” she says, chuckling to herself. “And you’re wearing a grey shirt. That’s new.”

Pinching the fabric, I study the solid, light grey T-shirt that fits a little looser than what I’m used to. “My sister-in-law bought it for me.”

Tatum bought me a colorful variety of shirts, most of which I’ll never wear. It’s funny how Jake gets to wear black shirts, but I’m being forced to switch up my wardrobe. I should’ve never mentioned the “light space, light mind” concept to Tatum. She’s taking it to the extremes. The walls of my parents’ house—my house—are now a color called Dreamy Creamy Latte.

“Go, Team Jensen!” the doctor cheers, pumping a liver-spotted fist in the air. She’s a quirky old woman. “And who did you say no to this week?”

I scrub a hand against my shorter beard, then rake it through my trimmed hair and blow out a breath. Denying even the smallest request for help isn’t easy, but it’s freeing in a way. I’m not stretched as thin or always exhausted.

The downside to not being busy is the room left in my schedule for thinking. As always, I only think about one person.

I can paint walls or donate my mother’s wedding dress or reframe the family photos. I can say no to every request, pushing against my need to help others. But nothing will ever change when it comes to Maisy. To silence the doubters, I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut and pretend otherwise.

Answering the doctor’s question, I say, “Lydia, who owns the coffee shop, asked if I could help her haul a chair she found at a resale store.”

“And what was her reaction when you said no?”

“She patted my arm and said not to worry; she’d ask Menchy for help. He owns the hardware store.”

Dr. Sims nods, a pleased smile smoothing the wrinkles in her lips. “You’re doing well, Jensen. You should be proud of your progress so far. It’s not easy for most people to accept change. Humans are creatures of comfort, after all. But you’re breaking the barriers your mind has constructed, and each wall that comes down is a win.”

“Thanks.”

She eyes me for a few seconds, her pen hovering above her notepad while I shift in my seat because I know what comes next. “Have you tried to make contact?”

“No.”

She tilts her head, eyebrows raised, silently asking her standard follow-up questions.

Have you followed her?

Have you looked at her social media?

Have you inquired about her?

Have you driven by her house?

I repeat the honest answer I give her every session. “No.”

Maisy’s still in Walford. As promised, she stayed. I’ve seen her around town, going to lunch with friends and such, but I’ve kept my distance. If I had been close to her during this time, I wouldn’t have noticed the changes in her. She’s relaxed. She smiles more and wears less makeup. These differences may seem insignificant to anyone else, but they’re big and meaningful. She’s settling into Walford, and I hope and pray she’ll be settling down with me in the end. I’ll find out soon enough.

Dr. Sims clasps her bony hands together and says, “Tomorrow’s the big day.”

“Tomorrow’s the day,” I say. Despite my easygoing nod, my heart rate spikes from the thought of talking to Maisy again. Or worse, not talking to her because she wants nothing to do with me.

“How do you feel? Are you ready for whatever comes?”

I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Honestly, I’m nervous.”

“If she wants you in her life, she’ll come to you. Respect her choice, no matter what decision she makes.”

My stomach dips when I ask, “And if she doesn’t choose me?”

With a sympathetic smile, she says, “You call me, and we’ll talk about it,” but I catch her unspoken message. Don’t lose your shit.

Back in Walford after my appointment, I’m walking into the rear entrance of Bruno’s an hour before the bar opens for the day. Charlie waves from behind the bar where he’s marking off tasks from the opening checklist. Javi’s in the kitchen prepping food, so I pop in to relieve him and let him know he doesn’t need to stick around tonight.

At the sight of him, I stop short, and the swinging door nearly hits me in the face on the rebound. “Are you wearing a dress?”

Slicing tomatoes at the prep counter, he glances down at the blue garment with white stitching along the hems. “It’s a long tunic.”

“My mistake. The matching pants threw me off.” When he carries on with his slicing, unbothered by my comments, I add, “Is this like a messiah complex thing or…”

He huffs in annoyance, and I bite back a smile because he’s not as chill as he pretends to be. “I like to be comfortable. Plus, this outfit’s made from recycled materials. It’s earth friendly.”

“He also has it in ecru.”

I jump when Trevor’s voice startles me. He’s on the bench in front of the employees’ cubbies with a laptop perched on his knees.

“What are you doing here?” I ask with more bark than intended. Then I take in his blue plaid shirt and matching shorts paired with brown loafers. Who dresses my friends?

His gaze remains on his laptop when he says, “Clearly, I’m working.”

Before I complete my eye roll, Javi asks, “How was your appointment?”

Arms crossed over my chest, I lean against the prep counter. I’ve been open with the guys about my therapy and the goals I’ve set. Along with Jake, Tatum, and our other friends, these two have supported me every step of the way.

I rub a palm across my beard and say, “Good. I’m making progress.”

“You’re nervous,” Trevor suggests, and he is not fucking wrong.

Every minute ticking closer to midnight—to tomorrow—my nerves become more frenetic. I’m not sure if I should go to Maisy or if she’ll come to me. Hell, she may have moved on. I’m in the dark where her intentions are concerned, but I intend to look her in the eye, apologize, and right my wrongs.

Javi’s eagle-eyed stare bores into me like he’s counting the smallest vessels in my organs. “What’s your fear?”

Ah, the new question those closest to me ask when I show any signs of anxiousness. As I’ve discovered in therapy, I have a shitload of fears. The major phobias are fear of change and fear of disappointing others, but I also fear the people I love will be injured or killed in an accident.

It only took half a session with Dr. Sims to identify the roots of that particular phobia. The seed was planted when Maisy’s bicycle was hit by a car, and it grew exponentially after my parents’ fatal crash and Logan’s accidental death, which I witnessed and felt responsible for. Still do. Overcoming my guilt regarding Logan will take a long time, if I succeed at all.

A host of other fears keep my brain on high alert, so I try to be honest and put a word to what I’m afraid of, similar to the “one word” approach Maisy made up when we were teens.

Without knowing, she uncovered a coping method that allows me to narrow my mind’s focus to a single word, which calms me down. And I love her even more for having good instincts, a fact Dr. Sims validated. I’ve always claimed Maisy rescued me when I was spiraling. Turns out, she did.

In response to Javi’s question about my current fear, I say, “Abandonment.”

He and Trevor stop what they’re doing and gather around me, and Javi grasps my shoulder. “Since you only have half a day left of the no-contact period, I’ll cheat a little and say you have nothing to worry about.”

My gaze pings between them. “Do you think so?”

“We know,” Trevor says with an awkward, light punch to my chest. He’s not a touchy guy.

“Trust us,” Javi adds. “We’re absolutely certain.”

With a relieved exhale, I say, “Thanks, guys.”

Sensing Javi’s about to propose a group hug, Trevor takes a step backward, removing himself from the huddle.

Javi embraces me and whispers, “You’ve got this. You’ve got her.”

I pound a fist on his back. “I’m glad I have you as a friend, man. Thank you for everything.”

When we separate, I ask him to stick around for half an hour longer. There’s something important I need to do before I begin my workday.

53

JENSEN

The next morning, when I pull into my driveway after dropping off clothing donations, Maisy’s waiting on the steps of my front porch. With our eyes locked in a stare, I climb out of my Jeep and move toward her. Even with Javi and Trevor’s confidence backing me, my uneasy gut doesn’t have a clue how this reunion is about to go down. When I reach the bottom step, I tuck my hands in my pockets and lean against the railing.

“You stopped writing,” she says, trailing a finger along the edge of the notebook in her lap. One of my notebooks. “But you didn’t set me free like you said in the last letter.”

I blow out a breath and resist raking a hand through my hair. “I tried, but not loving you is impossible for me.”

Worry grips my chest when she doesn’t respond. I study her face for the smallest hint of what she’s thinking, but find nothing. When she sets the notebook aside and looks up at me again, her hazel eyes glisten in the late morning sun.

“How are you?” she asks.

“Better now.” Always better when you’re near me.

“That’s really good to hear.”

Our gazes remain fixed on each other as silence blankets us. Her relaxed features mimic the ease I feel in my soul whenever I look at her, sit beside her, breathe her in.

She’s not wearing makeup today, the sixty-three freckles across her nose and cheeks on display. I counted them while she slept once, an act I’m not ashamed of, but I’ll keep it to myself.

When the silence goes on for too long, I make a confession. “I didn’t stop writing, actually.”

Eyebrows drawing together in confusion, she asks, “There’s more?”

“One more.” I retrieve the folded paper from my back pocket and offer it to her. “I wrote this one yesterday.”

Chewing her lip, she considers taking the letter but doesn’t. “Can you read it to me?”

Shit. Reading aloud isn’t usually a challenge for me, but I’m nervous as hell. With a thundering pulse and shaky hands, I unfold the paper, clear my throat, and begin.

“Birdie. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done to lose your trust and make you question whether I really love you. I do. My love for you is deep, unconditional, and endless. I could make excuses for my actions and blame them on my fears, but I won’t. The last time we spoke, you told me to ‘man up and own your shit,’ so I’m taking responsibility for all my wrongdoings.

“I’m sorry for tracking your phone and invading your privacy. And I’m sorry for showing up at places uninvited and taking away your choice to talk to me. I’m sorry for recreating your childhood bedroom, but I’m not sorry for holding on to your things when Vera tried to throw them out without telling you. I’m sorry for hiding the extent of my struggles from everyone, especially you. I’m sorry you have to get the worst of me to get the best. I’m working on making my worst a little better, and I hope you can forgive me enough to stand by me as a friend. If that’s as far as we go, I’ll accept your decision and be grateful to still have you in my life. Above all, our friendship means the world to me. It’s the one thing I never want to live without. So I’m asking you, birdie, will you forgive me and be my friend again? Yours forever and always, J.”

Maisy leans on her hands. I don’t know what to make of her casual demeanor, but at least she’s not running for the hills. “That was a long letter,” she says.

“I have a lot to apologize for.”

“You were eloquent in your delivery. Gold star.” The corners of her mouth twitch, and mine do the same.

Calmed by her humor, I fold the letter and return it to my back pocket. “So? Friends?”

She hums and says, “I don’t know. You may not want to be friends with me after you hear what I have to say.”

Pushing off the railing, I stand taller and search her face for meaning. She extends a hand, and I pull her to her feet. Her smooth skin touching mine again brings me so much relief, a shaky exhale flows from my lungs.

“Explain.”

“Everyone kept me updated on your progress. I’m so proud of you for getting help, Jensen. And for putting yourself first. I can see positive changes in you already. But something’s still missing.”

“What’s that?”

Her shrug is small, her smile shy. “Me. You’re the most important person in my life—the man I love. And I want to be by your side, walking this journey with you.”

A sob builds in my throat, so I rub a trembling hand across my mouth to hold it in. “You love me?”

“My whole life.”

The sob breaks free. “Tell it to me straight?”

“I love you, Jensen Holloway, and I wasn’t born to be just your friend. You said it yourself, I’m your everything. And you were born to be mine.”

She smiles—big and beautiful—as the truth spills from her eyes and trails down her cheeks. Tears coat my own skin, and I do nothing to hide them or wipe them away.

“I love you so much, birdie. Please don’t ask me to stop.”

“I won’t. You’re stuck with me now.”

Hands on my hips, I nod and sniff repeatedly while building the courage to ask for what I need. “Can I hold you?” Please. I need to feel you.

She shakes her head, dashing my hopes, but I recover when a wry grin plays at her bare lips. “You never have to ask again.”

Closing the distance between us, I hop up two steps and lift her with my arms around her hips. Eye to eye, I carry her inside the house.

Maisy Donovan said she loves me. This is the happiest day of my life, and I need to turn the mood around quick before I bawl like a baby.

She runs her hands across my shoulders and down my chest, smoothing the fabric of my shirt. “Green looks good on you. It makes your eyes shine brighter.”

“Freckles look good on you. They make you look like my Maisy.”

Her smile grows bigger, and I hope she never stops looking at me like I’m the reason she’s happy. “I think we’re obsessed with each other, if I’m allowed to use that word.”

“I think we are. And fuck anyone who judges us. No one gets to tell us how to love.”

“No one,” she agrees.

She steals my lips in a punishing kiss, our fight for dominance arriving in full force. I set her on the kitchen island and stand between her legs. She licks and bites along my neck, turning me all the way on, but I can’t let things go any further.

“Wait,” I say, gently gripping her arms.

With great reluctance, I pry her off me, and she groans in protest. Her shoulders slouch, and the most adorable pout forms on her lips.

Cupping her flushed cheeks in my hands, I explain. “As much as I want to rip your panties off and bury myself inside you, I think we should take things slow. Go on a date with me.”

We went from former friends to lovers overnight because I pressured her to be with me. We skipped all the building stages of a relationship. Since she’s never been in one, I want to give her the full experience and allow us to progress naturally. She deserves dinners and flowers and long conversations with no expectation for more.

She digs her heels into my ass, drawing me closer and testing my resolve. “I love that idea. Will you hold my hand at the movies? Or we could walk arm in arm through the park.”

Rubbing her thighs, because I have no plans to stop touching her, I say, “If you’re trying to start a scandal, we could share a milkshake at the café. Maybe use the same straw.”

“Now you’re talking dirty just to mess with me.” Her teasing expression turns earnest when she drapes her arms around my shoulders and plays with my hair. “I like the idea of going slow. We have a lot to work on, and we need to set some rules. I accept your apology, but you have to promise you’ll respect my boundaries from now on. If there’s anything you struggle with, be open and honest about it, and we’ll find a compromise. And I’ll work harder on being open with you.”

“I can do that.” I brush my lips against hers once, twice, three times. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being you. For staying.”

Her soft, sincere gaze imprisons mine, and I’d gladly remain her captive forever. “You’ve always believed in me, J. I’ll prove how much I believe in you too. And the best place to start is right here, where I belong.”

Excitement floods my veins. “You’ll move in with me? All the way in?”

“I packed my bags weeks ago.”

The flesh I’m kneading with my fingers reminds me of our new restriction, and I groan. “Damn, it’ll be hard to not have sex if we’re living together.”

Her eyes twinkle with confidence. “It’s a good thing I’m stubborn. I’m the queen of holding out.”

Don’t I know it. She held a grudge for nearly half her life without batting an eye. A few weeks of abstinence should be a piece of cake for her, but I’ll have a hell of a time keeping my hands to myself.

After sealing our deal with a deep, meaningful kiss, I say, “Let’s go get your bags, birdie. Our future starts now.”

54

MAISY

“So gross,” I whisper while lacing up my tan roller skates. Supposedly, the rental skates are disinfected, but I’ll believe that when I see it happen with my own eyes.

Jensen stands from the bench, testing his mobility on eight wheels. “You picked the date,” he reminds me.

The vintage roller rink in a town near Walford smells like stale popcorn, dirty socks, and hasn’t been renovated since the 1980s. It was a popular birthday party spot back in grade school, and I haven’t been here in decades.

We’re settling into cohabitation with ease, though I’m not surprised. Jensen and I never tire of each other. At home, we cook breakfast together, work on updating the house decor, and we’ve gone antiquing to find unique furnishings to fit our style. We spend quality time together, learning more about the adults we’ve become and growing closer than we’ve ever been.

He’s also followed through with taking me on dates. Since nighttime outings are off the table because of his job, we find things to do earlier in the day. A morning stroll through the park is our favorite activity, but the rain prevents us from being outdoors today. Enter my backup plan: good old-fashioned roller skating.

Because it’s so early, the place is empty. Apart from the two of us, there’s a tired-looking woman reading a book and four young boys zipping around the rink. Top 40 music hits blare from the speakers, but the strobe lights add little to the party atmosphere since half of the overhead lights are on as well.

With my head down, I peek at Jensen from my hunched position. The black skates on his feet shouldn’t work with the beard, tatted arms, jeans, and grey T-shirt, but they do.

“You undressing me in your mind, birdie? Do these babies turn you on?” He shuffles his feet, showing off his skills.

Rolling my eyes, I scoff. “Please. You look ridiculous.”

With my laces knotted, I push myself off the bench, unprepared for the wheels to spin. My arms flail, and I bend back and forth at the waist while regaining my balance before he steadies me.

“On the way here, you bragged about being a good skater,” he says.

I shove his arms off my shoulders and grab his elbow. “I said I used to be good at skating. It’s been twenty years. Now shut up and lead the way.”

With ease, he escorts me across the carpeted floor to the low wall surrounding the rink. “Do you want to hug the wall or me?”

“Neither. I know how to skate.”

Quirking a brow in challenge, he gestures with a hand, inviting me to enter the rink first. The second my wheels touch the hardwoods, a young boy zooms past me. He almost knocks me down but swerves at the last minute. I’m all windmill arms and curse words as my feet go in different directions. Always steady, Jensen rolls forward and lifts me off the ground.

“I’ve got this,” I say through clenched teeth while dangling in his arms.

“If you say so.”

He sets me down by the wall and takes off, skating backward with a smirk on his face. I cling to the wall and growl at him, but he can’t hear me over the music or his laughter. Pretending to be unbothered by his graceful movements, I adjust my oversized red sweater, which got twisted during my near fall, and pick invisible lint off my checkered leggings.

After he makes a full, cocky circuit around the rink, he returns, plants a hip on the wall, and rests a forearm along the top. “I haven’t seen you here before. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Playing along as myself, I reply, “The fastest way to strike out is by calling me ‘sweetheart.’”

His gaze sweeps me from head to toe. “Is that right? Well, I’m sure you taste sweet, and you have my heart racing, so the name seems fitting.”

My breath hitches before laughter explodes from my chest, and he joins in until we’re both holding our bellies. Wiping my eyes with a sleeve, my amusement fizzles on a long sigh. “Oh my god. That was awful.”

“Wait, wait. Let me try again.”

He wipes the grin off his face and gives me a smoldering look, which causes my laughter to resurface. I can’t take him seriously. Not in the middle of a dingy roller rink with neon stripes painted on the wall.

Tilting his head down, he stares at me through lowered lashes and grazes a knuckle along my jaw. “From across the room, I knew you were the one. A piece of my heart had always been missing, and I found it the moment I saw you smile.”

Warmth suffuses my cheeks. I want to look away from his piercing gaze or roll my eyes again or something, but I can’t. Instead, I say, “Okay, that one wasn’t too bad.”

He bends down and whispers, “Because it’s the truth.” Then he kisses me. It’s a closed-mouth kiss since we’re in a family-friendly venue, but we let it linger.

Pulling away, he offers me his arm. “Together, birdie? I promise I won’t let you fall.”

I loop my arm through his. Safe. Secure. “Fine. But don’t go too fast.”

Standing in Jake and Tatum’s living room, I hold out my hands and say, “Give me your baby.”

Tatum’s wearing a onesie with gold and blue stars, twinning with her newborn son, Lennon. She pulls him tighter to her chest and angles her body away from me like I might snatch him and run.

“Excuse me?”

I wiggle my fingers. “Hand him over.”

“Um…” Her alarmed gaze swings toward Lucy.

Our friend lazes comfortably in leggings and a long sweatshirt on the opposite end of the leather sectional. Because she’s used to our antics, she ignores Tatum’s silent plea for help and continues flipping through one of the many parenting magazines on the end table.

“You want to hold him?” Tatum asks, seeking confirmation.

To be fair, I deserve the dubious expression on her face. I’ve never held a real baby, including the one my best friend gave birth to five days ago. Jensen and I were cleaning out the closet in Jake’s old bedroom when our phones pinged with a text alert. Tatum was in labor two weeks early.

We rushed to the hospital, and she gave birth to her perfectly healthy son a few hours after we arrived. Jensen, the proud uncle, smiled from ear to ear with watery eyes as he held his nephew. Meanwhile, I fussed over Tatum, hoping no one would notice I didn’t hold baby Lennon. Apparently, she noticed.

“Yes, I want to hold him.”

“Why?” she whispers, wide eyes darting around again. “Am I being punked?”

With a huff, I explain, “I need to know if I have motherly instincts.”

“Motherly instincts,” she repeats. “And you want to use Lennon as a test baby?”

“Exactly.” When she gawks at me like I’ve lost my mind, I repeat my request with a kinder tone. “Please give me your baby.”

“Hold Marcella.”

I glance at the toddler in question. Marcella learned to walk, and she’s using the coffee table for support while adding squats to her mobility repertoire. A pacifier hangs from one side of her mouth like a cigar as she stares at me. Always staring.

“She doesn’t like me,” I grumble.

Lucy laughs and says, “Marcella likes you. She’s just an observer like her dad.”

I definitely feel observed.

Minutes later, I’m cradling Lennon while Tatum breathes down my neck. She shows me how to support his head, how to position my arms, how to speak in soothing tones. She’s quite bossy.

“I want to get my phone and take a picture of this, but I’m scared to leave you unattended,” she says.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

A soft squeak comes from Lennon, and I look at her with panic written all over my face. “Babies make noises,” she assures me. “Just relax. He can sense how stressful this is for you.”

I shuffle my butt away from the edge of the couch and sink into the cushions. Tatum hums a song in her light, soothing soprano, and we gaze at him while he sleeps. Although he’s only days old, there’s no doubt he’s a Holloway with his dark, thick hair and olive undertones. I see Jake’s face when I look at him. And Jensen’s face.

Lennon’s tiny cheek feels silky soft against my knuckles. The phrase baby smooth makes perfect sense now. His little pink mouth moves, and the fuller bottom lip becomes more prominent. Another Holloway trait. He’s adorable, and my hypothetical baby would look similar to Lennon.

My baby.

Not a doll. A living, breathing person who will depend on me and need me when I’m off helping strangers feel good about themselves. Plenty of women have what it takes to be badass working mothers—role models for their children. But do I? I can’t help but feel like I don’t deserve to have a successful career and a loving family. I worry I’ll have to choose, and regretting a decision only leads to resentment.

Once again, I question if motherhood is right for me. Thankfully, I don’t have to find the answer any time soon.

Tatum wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Does someone have baby fever?” she sing-songs.

“I don’t know. I’m horny as fuck, and I can’t figure out why.”

“Maybe it’s because you and Jensen finally have some breathing room. You’re able to focus on each other without all the distractions.”

She makes a good point. Jensen and I dealt with a lot of other issues at the start of our relationship. We weren’t able to focus on us as a couple because we spent our time either having sex or helping each other through hardships, often both. There was no downtime in between. From what I’ve witnessed in other happy couples, the downtime is when foundations form and love grows.

“He wants to take things slow, which means no sex. I agree with his reasons, but when I look at him, I want to tackle him to the ground and rip off his clothes.”

Lucy offers her words of wisdom. “I bet if you tell him you want a baby, he’ll end the sex ban.”

I gaze intently at the baby in my arms. “Honestly, I can’t picture myself as a mother.”

Tatum presses her face to mine, cheek to cheek, as we admire her beautiful son. “Caring for people comes natural to you. I’m living proof of that. Jensen’s living proof. Marcus, Graham, Miguel, even Vera. You’ve cared for us all and asked for nothing in return. You have more patience and perseverance than anyone I know. Two qualities that make a great mom.”

“What if I don’t want to be a mom?” I whisper, ashamed for voicing the question while hugging a newborn close to my chest.

Lucy asks, “What if you do, just not right now? You may think differently in a few years.”

I sigh. “Jensen wants kids, but I’ve made no promises. We have a lot of work to do on ourselves before we can think about bringing a baby into our lives.”

They don’t argue with my reasoning because we all know it’s true. Instead, Tatum encourages me to sniff Lennon’s hair, and oh. My. God. Is there a better scent on earth than a baby’s head? I don’t feel weird admitting this to Tatum and Lucy because, of course, they agree.

Quiet minutes go by before I’m unable to hold my tongue any longer. “Your face has been touching my face for a long freaking time,” I say to Tatum.

Because our cheeks are pressed together, I feel her smile. “And I’ve enjoyed every second of being this close to you.”

“Creep,” I say, fighting the grin tugging at my lips.

She lets out a long, contented sigh. “I love you too.”

55

MAISY

“This doesn’t count as a date,” I say.

Jensen opens the door to an art studio in an Austin shopping strip. “We’re doing something outside of the home. It’s a date.”

“If you say so.”

He bumps into my back when I come to an abrupt stop inside the spacious studio. I assumed we’d be the only two in attendance for the trial art therapy session, but several people seated at tables forming a square are staring at us.

“You didn’t tell me this was a group thing,” I whisper.

“I didn’t know. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Searching for a clock on the walls, I ask, “Are we late?”

He checks his watch. “No. Just the last ones to arrive, I guess.”

This knowledge doesn’t put me at ease. I don’t know why I’m so worked up. He’s the one who gets flustered about punctuality. If he isn’t worried, why should I be? My stomach’s in knots, and I’m seconds away from declaring this experience a stupid idea. At least it isn’t my idea.

I joined Jensen’s last virtual session with Dr. Sims. We spent most of the appointment discussing my thoughts and feelings about his behaviors, actions, and how I coped during the no-contact period. By the end of the meeting, I knew I needed to seek counseling for myself. Despite all the improvements I’ve made in my life—prioritizing my needs and opening up more to my friends—I still have trouble conveying my emotions, which is what brings us here today.

Dr. Sims recommended art therapy as a potential method for learning to express my feelings. The idea piqued my interest, and Jensen sprang into action and found a trial class. I’m glad he took the initiative because, honestly, I would’ve put it off as long as possible. I’m also relieved he joined me, claiming this could be a good outlet for us both.

A red-headed woman wearing baggy overalls and a ribbon tied in her hair approaches. Feeling his eyes on me, I look sidelong at Jensen. He smirks at my denim overalls and the bandana looped around my curls.

“You dressed for the occasion,” he says.

“Shut up,” I whisper without moving my lips.

The woman extends a hand when she reaches us. “You must be Maisy and Jensen. I’m Irina.” We exchange pleasantries before she leads us to a long table tucked in the corner against one wall. “After you choose your supplies and take your seats, we’ll get started.”

The art supplies spread on the table include everything from coloring books to sketchpads to modeling clay. I crinkle my nose when Jensen chooses a sketchpad and pencils. I’m familiar with his drawing skills or lack thereof. But hey, art is about expression. If he wants to give drawing another go, more power to him.

I choose a tabletop easel and a small canvas. Because my hands are full, he carries the tray holding jars of paints and brushes for me. We claim the two empty chairs and trade wary smiles with the eight people waiting for us to get situated. Instinctively, I arrange my paint and brushes for maximum efficiency, as I would with the makeup I’d use on a client.

Irina draws the group’s attention. “Welcome, everyone.”

She introduces herself and lists her credentials. I’m relieved when she assures us we won’t have to share anything about ourselves today. Telling strangers about myself doesn’t appeal to me. At all.

“The purpose of art therapy is to enhance your self-awareness,” she says. “To explore your feelings and express them through creativity. It doesn’t matter if you have experience or skills. What matters is getting the emotions out of you in order to process them and find healing. Today, you’ll pick one moment, something prominent in your memory. Consider the feelings the memory conjures and then”—she spreads her hands apart—“create.”

For the next forty-five minutes, I zone out. Nothing breaks through my bubble while I paint. No sounds, no smells, no activity in my peripheral. All that exists are me and the memory of Jensen kissing me in the alley months ago. The crude image taking shape isn’t bright and happy, but the shadows formed by each brush stroke evoke warmth, hope, and relief.

In my painting, a man in a black hoodie extends his hand, offering a hummingbird a safe landing place in the cradle of his palm. He asks the bird to trust in him. To believe in him. To come home.

That day, if Jensen hadn’t crashed through the first wall guarding my heart, I never would’ve confronted or accepted the truth about my parents. They molded my fears and made me believe I was unworthy of love. Without his persistence, I’d carry on being the woman who appeared bold and brave on the outside. On the inside, she was a scared, lonely girl who cowered in the dark.

I never would’ve realized I have a family that loves and supports me unconditionally. One I wasn’t born to but chose. Jensen has always been part of that family—the first member, in fact—because I chose him long ago. I choose him still, and he chooses me.

When I lay down my brush, I’m smiling at the canvas. It’s an amateur painting at best, but the image is clear. Well, as clear as can be when looking at it through wet, blurry eyes. With a long exhale, I turn my head to examine Jensen’s work, but I’m drawn to his gaze instead. His glistening eyes hold me captive, the pride in them fierce and gripping.

He leans over and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I love you,” he whispers.

“I know.”

His lips spread into a wide grin, then he leans back and gestures toward his sketchpad as if presenting a masterpiece. I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle a burst of laughter.

He drew Medusa—a stick-figure version of her anyway. The snakes sprouting from her head aren’t bad. And her aviator sunglasses are recognizable. What has me bending at the waist, fighting to hold in my laughs, are her combat boots with flowers on them.

“You didn’t take this seriously,” I say, attempting a stern tone.

His gaze softens, earnest and adoring. “This date wasn’t for me. It was for you.”

I’ll never deserve this man, but I’ll continue showing my appreciation for him. So, like he’s been doing every day since he started therapy, I step outside my comfort zone. In front of a group of strangers, I rest my head on his shoulder and sigh.

“Thank you, J. I really needed this.”

56

JENSEN

Sixty miles feels like a thousand when you’re sporting an erection in the driver’s seat. The October day is unseasonably warm, not uncommon in Texas. With the Jeep’s top off, the air whips through the vehicle, and the sun shines on the beautiful, relaxed woman sitting next to me.

Maisy rests an elbow on the doorframe and has one knee drawn to her chest. Before we left Austin, she adjusted her bandana to cover her curls, but the loose ends fly in the wind. I haven’t told her about the paint smudge on her chin because I love seeing it there. It’s a reminder of how I felt watching her get lost in a single moment of our love story. The moment I broke the lock on the cage protecting her jaded heart.

At the end of our session, Irina invited us to discuss our creations. Maisy didn’t speak, but her lips twitched as she considered it. I hope she pursues art therapy as an outlet for working through her emotions. She’s a creative person, and I could tell she felt comfortable baring her soul to the canvas. Today, she made a promising first step.

With a loose grip on the steering wheel, I meet my reflection in her mirrored sunglasses when she turns her head at the same time as me. It’s the reflection of a happy man. A man who has everything he’s ever dreamed of. And my everything is smiling at me like I make her life complete.

I reach over and rub her thigh, which doesn’t help the situation in my pants. I crave her and need to feel her. I want to lose myself in her over and over again, wrapping myself around her heart until I’m the only protection she needs. I’ll be her strength, her shield, the guardian at her back. If I can help it, she’ll never know hurt again—only love and devotion.

Shutting off the engine in our driveway, I say, “Wait there.”

I open her door, unlatch the seatbelt, and lift her into my arms. Knowing where this is going, she kicks off her shoes as we cross the yard, letting them fall to the grass. She waves at a nosy neighbor, but I don’t care about him. I’m too busy calculating how long it will take to get her naked.

Once inside, I kick the door shut behind me and haul her toward the couch. “Why are you wearing so many fucking clothes?” I ask between frantic kisses.

Furiously working to unbuckle her overall straps, she says, “Help me undress.”

I groan and set her on her feet long enough to shove the overalls down her body. Then I fall onto the couch with her straddling my lap. One hand’s already between her legs with a finger in her panties, teasing her entrance. “Undo my pants.”

While she tugs at my belt, I bury the finger inside her. She’s soaked, but it’s been three months since we’ve had sex, and like she says, I have a mega dick. I add a second finger to stretch her, which proves difficult in our current positions. She struggles to push my pants and underwear down, so I lift my hips to help her free my throbbing erection.

“Are you ready for me?” I fist the front of her tiny thong and rip that fucker right off.

“Yes!” A whimper follows her yelp. “Ow. That was like a painful wedgie.”

“Sorry.” Definitely not sorry. “I’ll make it up to you.”

She notches the swollen head of my cock at her entrance, and I squeeze her plump ass cheeks and spread them apart as I lower her onto me, going slow so it’s better for her.

“Holy fuck.” I grit my teeth as she sinks down further, strangling every inch of me.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she chants, her sharp nails digging into my neck.

“Am I hurting you? Tell me if I need to stop.”

“No. Don’t stop.” She widens her thighs, taking more of me, and moans. “God, you feel so good.”

With controlled thrusts, I work my way deeper and deeper inside her. She’s so damn warm and tight, and when her ass settles on my thighs, we both sigh.

“Hold on to me, beautiful. It’s about to get wild because I really missed your pussy.”

I get to work, guiding her up and down my length. Her throaty moans fill the room as I punch my hips to meet her halfway. She makes the sexiest damn sounds on the planet. Our foreheads press together, our lips touching while panting air into each other’s lungs.

“Lose the shirt and the bra,” I say.

She wastes no time stripping them off. As soon as a nipple appears, it quickly disappears right between my lips. I suck on it hard before biting her breast. She rewards me with a loud moan while clamping down on me. I swallow her moan with a dirty, unforgiving kiss, plundering her mouth like it’s the last kiss I’ll ever have.

“I can’t control myself, birdie. I want to ruin you.”

“Ruin me. I’m begging you,” she pleads into my mouth.

Fuck. Yes.

My body takes over, pounding into her at a relentless pace. She cries out, both from pleasure and pain, but mostly pleasure because my woman loves the pain. Bouncing on my lap, she crashes against my thighs, claiming me faster, harder, deeper, as if I’m the one who might run away.

Her fingernails slice into my skin when she says, “I’m so close. Oh my god, J. Do it now!”

I bury my face in her curls, breathing in her tropical scent, and slam our bodies together. Her inner muscles clench, gripping me tight as she reaches the edge of oblivion. My release builds like an explosion waiting to happen. When the tugging sensation stirs low in my gut, I drag my tongue across her collarbone and sink my teeth into her shoulder.

A hoarse cry fills the room, and all her muscles tense before she convulses through a powerful orgasm. Her release gushes out of her and soaks my balls. I hold her tight against my drenched thighs and grind my pelvis like I’m burrowing into her body.

I shoot my cum into her with a rumbling shout of “Fuck me!”

I’m dizzy. Weak. Her featherlight weight on me feels unbelievably heavy when she melts against my chest, the effort to hold herself upright too much as we catch our breaths.

Then the craziest thing happens. Maisy Rae Donovan giggles.

I peel my sweaty head off hers and look at her, my jaw gaping. “Did you just giggle?”

She shrugs a shoulder and tries to hide her smile, but can’t. Then she giggles again.

“Did I break you? Should I call a doctor?”

In answer, she breaks into full-on laughter, which does my tender dick no favors. I wince and slip out of her, but I don’t let her go because she’s still laughing, and I never want it to end.

“Are you laughing at me?” I ask.

“Yes,” she squeaks.

“I just fucked you through an epic orgasm, and you’re laughing at me?”

Lips clamped between her teeth, she nods, fighting to contain her amusement as her face turns purple.

“I’m returning you. You’re defective.”

“No!” She swats a hand on my chest. “I’m just happy.”

I give her an expectant look. “And?”

“And you yelled ‘fuck me’ at the end. After I already did.”

“That’s not what I yelled.”

“Yes, it is.” It totally is.

“You can’t laugh at me for anything I say in the throes of passion. It doesn’t count.”

“The ‘throes of passion?’ Seriously?” The question barely leaves her mouth when her laughter bubbles over again. She flings the back of a hand to her forehead and fakes the worst Southern Belle accent I’ve ever heard. “Fetch the smelling salts, sir. I might swoon from all this passion.”

“You’re broken. I broke you with my mega dick. There’s no other explanation for what’s happening right now.”

“Do not bring up the mega dick. You can’t use my drunk words against me.”

“You can’t use my orgasm words against me!” I tickle her sides, and she squirms and squeals on my messy lap.

“Fine! Okay! Truce! I’m sorry. I love you.” She’s wheezing now, and a goofy grin is stuck on my face.

Hearing her laugh like this transports me back twenty years or so. To a time before the people who were supposed to love her turned their backs on her, including me. Our heartbreaking moment on the porch is one I’ll regret for the rest of our lives. But this? The sight and sound of pure joy that’s kept buried for so long? It’s what I’ve been waiting for. Her happiness makes everything we’ve been through worth the struggle. And I’ll claw my way from the pit a million more times if my reward is watching her soar freely.

So fucking worth it.

I tease her lips with mine and whisper, “Tell me again.”

“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

“And I love you, my beautiful birdie. Now kiss me like you own me, then let’s get ready for this party.”

57

MAISY

Tatum, Lucy, and I set out empty platters for appetizers, burger toppings, and condiments in Jensen’s kitchen—our kitchen. It’s been a month since I moved in, and Lucy came up with the idea of a house re-warming party, which I thought was genius. It’s a chance for me and Jensen to claim the house as our own. To usher in our lives together with a fresh start.

The windows and patio door are open, allowing us to enjoy the crisp fall air. Laughter and lighthearted banter flow from outside where the kids play and the men argue about the best way to grill a burger. The only people who couldn’t make it today are Marcus and Judge. They’re busy launching their own personal security company. Potential clients are knocking on their door, and I’m thrilled the cousins’ hard work is paying off.

My professional reputation took a hit after I withdrew from the Jamaica job at the last minute. I’m working hard to redeem myself, reaching out to my limited number of contacts and the connections I’ve made through Tatum and Graham. I express my willingness to take on any job available to regain a small foothold in the industry. Until then, I’ll continue working on myself, help Jensen when he needs me, and lean on our friends for support.

Jake strolls inside with Lennon in his arms, like he knows Tatum misses her son. They don’t exchange words. She kisses Lennon’s head, and Jake wanders back outside.

“That was sweet,” I say through sniffles while slicing an onion.

Lucy piles leaves of lettuce on a plate. “All our men are sweethearts. We picked some good ones.”

Tatum and I share a doubtful look before she asks, “When is Rock ever sweet?”

Lucy tilts her head to one side and sighs, her eyes taking on a dreamy, faraway look. “When he’s begging me to let him come.”

“Who’s coming?” Jensen asks, his eyes darting between the three of us as he strides into the kitchen.

To hide my smile, I turn toward the sink and wash my hands. Lucy and Tatum are hopeless, breaking into a fit of giggles at his expense.

He crowds me against the counter and speaks low in my ear. “You ladies are trouble.”

“Only one of us,” I say, jerking my chin at Lucy.

Chuckling, he kisses my cheek before pulling the container of hamburger patties out of the refrigerator. He stacks the packages of buns on top and asks, “Who wants their buns toasted?”

Lucy raises a hand and says, “Me.” She smirks like she knows something we don’t.

A deep growl comes from nearby, and we all turn to find Rock with Marcella in his arms. Because I’m the closest to him, he hands me his daughter and commands, “Watch her.” Then he throws Lucy over his shoulder and takes off down the hall while she laughs. Those two are absolutely shameless.

Jensen shakes his head and says, “Just like old times,” referring to the days when Rock lived here after college. He adds, “You might want to turn on some music. They get pretty loud.”

Once Tatum finds a playlist and connects her phone to the Bluetooth speaker, we get back to work prepping food. We try our best to ignore the moans coming from down the hall—Rock’s moans—but we fail epically, snickering like schoolgirls.

I help Tatum as much as I can with Marcella planted on my hip. The toddler and I came to a mutual understanding during one of our many staring contests. She smiled at me. I smiled at her. And now we’re besties for life.

Graham and Miguel, the last couple to arrive, come rushing through the front door. Miguel has a gift bag in one hand and drags Ainsley behind him with the other. Her facial expression can only be described as dazed and confused.

Miguel announces, “Everyone, meet Ainsley. She’s adorable, and I’ve adopted her.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not how adoption works, Miggy.”

“We know Ainsley,” Tatum says, her gaze bouncing between the unlikely pair. “Where did you two meet?”

Graham ruffles his already tousled hair. “She’s our neighbor. We were checking out our new place and met her by the mailbox.” The resignation in his eyes tells me he argued with Miguel about claiming a grown woman, and he lost.

“So you just threw her in your car?” Tatum asks, jaw gaping.

My jaw’s on the floor too. Not only because they potentially kidnapped Ainsley but also because they’re talking about her like she’s not standing here.

“Of course not,” Graham says. “We gave her a ride.”

I wasn’t aware anyone lived near the land the guys purchased. Addressing Ainsley, I ask, “Where do you live?”

She fidgets with the hem of her Bruno’s shirt. “Oh, um…I was on my way here anyway because you invited me.”

“Exactly. We carpooled,” Miguel says, throwing up his hands like he’s exhausted with having to explain himself. I’m about to repeat my question to Ainsley about where she lives, but he shoves the gift bag at Jensen’s chest. “Open my gift,” he says.

Surprised, Jensen shuffles the meat container to one hand. He fumbles with the bag, but I catch it before it falls. Marcella’s pudgy, little toddler fingers go straight for the bow, but we don’t need to open it because Miguel ruins the surprise.

“It’s an autographed picture of me for your bathroom.” He waggles his eyebrows at Jensen, who turns and raises his own at Graham.

Graham shrugs and says, “I can’t help you, friend.”

Apparently, Miguel misunderstood the gift assignment. Everyone agreed to give us framed photos of me and Jensen from the years we were apart. We have plenty of pictures of us together as kids, and a few from recent months, but we don’t want to leave any gaps in the history we’ll hang on the walls.

Our changes to the house are coming along, as are the changes within me. Adding to the bi-weekly virtual visits I’ve scheduled with Dr. Sims, I signed up for a monthly group session at Irina’s studio, which starts next week. In the meantime, I’ve been painting my feelings and watching online videos to learn proper techniques.

Needless to say, Jensen will not be joining me at art therapy. He’s making good progress with Dr. Sims and the speech pathologist he’s been seeing. While he still has plenty of hard days, the number of good days increases. Soon enough, he’ll have more good ones than bad.

The circus disperses to the backyard, leaving me, Tatum, and Marcella to our kitchen duties. Brody drifts inside looking for more bagged ice for the drink coolers and takes her from me. She pats his cheeks until he makes funny noises, drawing laughter from her.

For a moment, his mask slips. Without his usual pretense, his smile reaches his eyes. He’s genuinely happy playing with Marcella, and I wish he would be himself all the time.

Lucy reappears—not looking like she got railed in a bathroom—and rejoins our food platter assembly line. Rock, who definitely has sex hair, trails after her with a swagger in his step.

Taking Marcella from Brody, he says, “Don’t let Jensen catch you flirting with his woman.”

I’m about to defend Brody, and point out Jensen’s not a jealous person, but he speaks for himself. “He has nothing to worry about. Maisy’s one of the few women who was never down to hop on my ride.”

Rock grunts and retreats to the backyard with his daughter. Now that his hulking mass is out of the way, I notice Ainsley standing a few feet behind Brody. She doesn’t seem shocked by his comment. Rather, her lips turn down in disapproval, and he visibly tenses when she speaks to me.

“I need to head out. Sorry I can’t stay and eat. I’m helping Charlie open the bar.”

“Do you need a ride?” I ask.

Her ponytail swings when she shakes her head. “I can walk. It’s not far.”

Sensing she’s ready to bolt, I don’t push the issue. “Okay. Thanks for stopping by. Let’s hang out soon if you get any free time.”

“I’d like that.” She gives us all a shy wave and leaves.

Brody taps a finger on his thigh, stealing glances at the front door. After a minute passes, he says, “Be right back,” and goes after her.

Tatum, Lucy, and I exchange knowing looks.

“I said it to Jake months ago, and I’ll say it again. There’s something going on there,” Tatum says, frowning.

“Definitely something,” Lucy and I say in unison.

We gather up the loaded platters and head outside, leaving our curiosity about Brody and Ainsley behind for another day.

58

JENSEN

Conversation and laughter fill the backyard after we fill our bellies with burgers and the seasoned fries Maisy made from scratch. She’s better at cooking than she previously let on, so I’ve added more running to my workout routine. I still lift weights because I enjoy it, but running keeps me in peak condition with less chance of injuring myself.

“The house looks great,” Trevor says, wiping ketchup off his Halloween sweater. It has a big fucking pumpkin on the front.

“Thanks. I have to give Maisy most of the credit.”

In one of our couples sessions with Dr. Sims, Maisy confessed she chose the paints and new decor for my house during our six-week period of no contact. She’s also the person responsible for my new colorful wardrobe. Not Tatum, as everyone led me to believe. Learning this information reinforced the truth that Maisy never considered leaving my side for a second. I’m unworthy of her devotion to me, but I’ll continue trying my hardest to earn it.

Javi chimes in, always ready to give his two cents. I now realize his two cents are worth a lot. “Give yourself plenty of credit too. None of these changes would’ve happened if you weren’t putting in the work.” He taps his temple for emphasis.

Trevor adjusts the straw hat on this head. If I had a bale of hay, I’d stick him in my front yard as a seasonal lawn ornament. “It’s true,” he says. “You’ve come a long way. Never thought I’d see the day when you’d have an inspirational quote on your bathroom wall.”

I send a scathing glare to Javi because he’s responsible for the quote. He showed up one day while Jake and I were cleaning out the attic. When I took a restroom break, I noticed the framed poster above my toilet that reads, “When life gives you crap…flush.” Maybe I’ll replace the poster with Miguel’s autographed photo.

Maisy and I continue updating the house at a pace I’m comfortable with. We removed the floral wallpaper in our bedroom and painted the walls a soft cream color, adding burgundy accents to the decor. She insisted on keeping the black sheets, and I joke that our room looks like a cozy vampire’s den. A lot of biting happens in there.

She spends most days painting and has become better at expressing her emotions. I’ve caught her crying a few times in her new art room. When I ask why she’s upset, she tells me. In detail. I’m proud of her for admitting she needed help too and throwing herself into therapy with the same drive and determination she applies to everything else in her life. She’s tough—a total badass—and no one can stop her from accomplishing her goals.

After we clean up the mess from the cookout, most of the adults hang around the fire pit while the kids watch a movie in the living room.

Tatum walks outside with Lennon in her arms and says to Jake, “We need to get this little man home.”

Seated next to me in a lawn chair, his adoring gaze stays on his wife and son as they make the rounds, saying goodbye. “Your turn,” he says, referring to marriage and kids.

I stare at Maisy through the hazy flames rising from the pit. She and Lucy laugh at something Tatum says. Every day, Maisy laughs a little louder and a lot more.

“Not yet. Maybe one day.”

Jake bumps my knee with his. “Y’all have time. Just enjoy each other.”

“Says the man who got Tatum pregnant within weeks of getting back together.”

He chuckles and rubs his belly. “This is our round two. We moved fast. You and Maisy are still on round one.”

“It’s a forever round. Infinite.”

Nodding, he says, “I see that now. Don’t know how I never noticed it when we were kids.”

I sink further into my chair and spread my legs wide, enjoying my view. “What Maisy and I have belongs to us. It’s not meant for other people to notice, and we like it that way.”

When Jake stands, I bump his fist without looking at him. We usually hug when we part ways, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off Maisy. She’s in leggings and an oversized sweater that slipped off one shoulder. With the front of her hair pulled back, her beautiful smile and sparkling eyes shine in the firelight. She’s stunning. And she’s mine.

“Damn. You’ve got it bad, man,” Jake says, clapping me on the shoulder. Chuckling, he tosses a wave to the group as he leaves with his family.

Our other friends follow suit, saying their goodbyes with sleeping children in their arms. Soon I’m left alone by the fire pit, gazing at the dying flames. I’m amazed at the wealth I’ve accumulated in life. Friends, family, a thriving business. But my most valuable and prized possession is my relationship with Maisy. It’s priceless, and I’m a lucky man to be trusted with the heart of such a strong, independent woman. She doesn’t need me, which makes her wanting me that much sweeter.

The patio door closes, and she climbs into my lap with a blanket wrapped around her. Resting her head on my shoulder, she says, “You’re deep in thought. What’s on your mind?”

I rub a hand along her thigh. “You.” Always you.

“Oh yeah? Are you having dirty thoughts or sweet ones?”

“Neither. I just realized I forgot to tell you something important.”

Brows creased with concern, she adjusts her position and straddles me, searching my face for answers. “What is it?”

I cradle her head in my hands and press my lips to hers, lingering as I breathe in her presence, her realness, her love. Pulling away to gaze into her pretty eyes, I say, “Welcome home, my beautiful birdie. I’m glad you finally found your way.”

Her breath hitches before she throws her arms around my neck. Squeezing me tight, her tears wet my cheek, and she whispers, “Me too, J. Me too.”

EPILOGUE

THREE YEARS LATER

JENSEN

Cheeks flushed and eyes burning with angry fire, Maisy growls at me. “I hate you so much right now.”

“I know. Hate me all you want. I can take it.” I brush the mess of curls off her damp forehead while she crushes my other hand in a death grip, her nails cutting into my skin. “You’re so beautiful right now,” I whisper.

She drops her head on the pillow and whines, “Why did you do this to me? You’re such an asshole.”

The nurses assisting in the delivery room can’t contain their amusement, biting back laughter and ducking their heads to hide their smiles. Maisy has been entertaining them with her rapid mood changes for the past hour.

She woke me in the middle of the night, hitting me in the face with a pillow, and demanded I drive her to the hospital. By the time we arrived and got her checked in, she was about ready to deliver, and the medical staff sprang into action.

“Everything will work out. I promise,” I assure her, something I’ve been doing for the past few months.

After a slow start, her career got back on track, and she’s making a name for herself in editorial makeup. She travels to photo shoots all over the world, but she took a break at the end of her second trimester. With her job, she’s often in high-stress environments and spends long hours on her feet. She’s been worried about how an extended maternity leave might affect her career, but we agreed her and the baby’s health are more important than work.

A keening sound escapes her when she curls forward with a strong contraction. Once the pain subsides, she slumps back in defeat and cries, “I’m having a giant!”

Because she’s so petite, the obstetrician gave her the option of delivering by C-section. She chose a vaginal delivery, much to my dismay.

“I don’t like you hurting.” That was the wrong thing to say.

“Do you want to trade places?” she snaps.

Bringing our joined hands to my mouth, I change tact and try for encouragement instead. “You’re gonna be the best mom.” Apparently, this is also the wrong thing to say.

“Oh my god, I’m a single mom!” she wails. In less than a second, her facial expression morphs from one of absolute devastation to ruthless challenge, eyes narrowed to slits. “You better fucking marry me, Jensen Holloway. I’m not doing this alone. Propose right now, or we’re done.”

Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh, or she’ll kill you.

Actually, she proposed to me a year ago during a midnight game of paintball at Graham and Miguel’s house in Walford. I caught her alone in the dark, but she turned the tables, pinning me to the ground. She demanded I marry her and said she wanted to start a family. To say I was blindsided—and ecstatic—is an understatement.

We didn’t get married straight away and haven’t set a date, but that didn’t stop us from trying to get pregnant. We succeeded quicker than either of us expected, so here we are.

In answer to her latest marriage demand, I say, “I’ll propose if you want, beautiful. Any time and place. Let’s just meet our daughter first.”

When she whimpers, her pouty mouth turns down at the corners. “I love when you’re sweet.”

“I love you more than life,” I say, reminding her with a kiss to her forehead.

Suddenly, the doctor announces, “Alright, Maisy, it’s time to push.”

Baring her teeth like she has a score to settle with the universe, Maisy’s knuckles turn white against my crushed hand. Minutes later, our baby—who’s not a giant, weighing a mere six pounds—enters the world. She sobs when the nurse places our daughter in her arms, and she doesn’t let me hold her. But I’m okay with giving Maisy the time she needs to form a bond. To realize she’s been preparing for motherhood her whole life, caring for others with grace, patience, and quiet strength.

When we get a moment alone without nurses or other staff in the room, I ask, “Will you finally tell me what you’ve named our daughter?”

She adjusts the baby’s blanket and brushes a thumb across the tiniest cheek I’ve ever kissed. “Christine,” she says, tears welling in her eyes.

Shocked at hearing my mom’s name, I choke back a sob. “Really?”

“Really.” Neither of us can stop staring at our daughter, but I hear the smile in Maisy’s voice when she asks, “When did we become such crybabies?”

Chuckling, I swipe a hand down my wet face. “I don’t know, but as long as we’re always crying because we’re happy, I’m good with it.”

Eyes glistening with wonder and love, she whispers, “Look what we made, J.”

With my family tucked inside the safety of my embrace, I say, “She’s perfect. Just like her mother.”

Maisy rests her head on my shoulder, exhausted from being so amazing today. “I love you, Jensen. Thank you for putting up with me.”

I kiss her forehead. “I love you too, my beautiful birdie. Thank you for the gift of this little dove.”

MAISY

Christine, snug inside her car seat, sleeps peacefully in the back of our new SUV. At Jensen’s insistence, the vehicle has every safety feature a car can have. If he could line the interior with protective foam and bubble wrap, he would.

I’m in the back seat with our daughter, unable to take my eyes off her. A blink seems unbearable because I don’t want to miss out on a second of her life. She’s beautiful, with a head of thick, dark hair like Jensen’s and a slight wave hinting she may inherit my curls.

I kept her to myself at first, worried if I let her go, she might not love me. Or she’d think I don’t love her enough. Jensen assured me she’d need us both, and in the span of one day in the hospital, we became a team. I breastfed; he changed diapers. We took turns rocking her, holding her while we held each other with his big body wedged onto the small bed with me. We fell into instant love with her and deeper love with each other in those quiet first hours as a new family.

With Christine fast asleep, I peel my eyes away from her and look at Jensen. He adjusts the air vents, pointing them to his sweaty face, his features tightened with worry.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’ve never been so nervous about driving in my life. Are you sure we tethered the car seat? And her straps aren’t too loose?”

“You triple checked, and I checked again. She’s fine.”

He blows out a breath, white knuckling the steering wheel. Despite driving slower than the speed limit, he’s on edge. His head jerks in all directions, checking the side and rearview mirrors for threats to our safety.

I reach out and lightly scratch the back of his neck. “Breathe, J. You’re doing great.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about. These other drivers need to slow down,” he says, his volume rising as he glowers at a passing truck.

When we get home, we’ll get his therapist on the phone. Unfortunately, Dr. Sims retired her psychology practice a few months ago. Jensen struggled with the change at first, but he’s growing comfortable with the new doctor.

With as many challenges as he faces daily, he’s come a long way. Since working with a speech pathologist, finding the right medications, and employing all the coping methods Dr. Sims introduced in talk therapy, his good days outnumber the bad days by far.

I paint as often as I can, as more of a hobby than an outlet. After a year of group sessions with Irina, everyone in her studio knew all the details about my life, my past, and my relationship with my parents. Opening up doesn’t scare me anymore.

In fact, once I felt ready to meet with my parents and discuss my childhood, we had lunch together. The three of us talked for hours. They owned up to their mistakes, offered profuse apologies, and asked a thousand questions about me and my life after high school. They also told me how proud they are of the woman I’ve become despite not having their guidance and support in my formative years. I believe they regret their obliviousness to my wants and needs, and they continue trying to show me how much I mean to them. It feels nice to count them among my chosen family members again. Speaking of…

My hand rests on Jensen’s shoulder, grounding him, and I slide my gaze back to Christine. Out of nowhere, a flash of me boarding a plane and leaving her for a job at some faraway location hits me. My stomach swoops from the sudden fear of failing her because I won’t be with her every day. Then the image of Jensen caring for her, doting on her while I’m away tempers my worries. They’ll greet me at the airport upon my return. Their eyes will shine with pride because I’m a successful working mother who balances family and a career, the family part always the priority.

Our daughter will never believe she’s an unwanted burden or an inconvenience. Not a single hour will pass where she doesn’t see, hear, or feel how much she’s cherished and loved. Jensen and I will make sure of it.

I gaze out the window as we pass the Welcome to Walford sign and smile at the thought of being home soon, my little family in tow. They’re my greatest accomplishment, never to be outmatched, and the only thing worth fighting for, no matter what comes our way.

Pressing my nose to Christine’s soft hair, I breathe in the delicate scent of new life and whisper, “We promise to love you, little dove. Unconditionally.”

The End

WHAT’S NEXT

Why is Ainsley Monroe so mysterious? And who’s the real Brody Carpenter? This couple has secrets, and their friends are eager to uncover them. Aren’t you?

Coming in 2025!

#RunawayHeartsSeries

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

J.B. LaRee enjoys getting lost in dramatic love stories, so she decided to bring the gripping, romantic tales in her head to life. Strong coffee and a playlist of epic love songs fuel her writing sessions. When she’s not putting her characters (and readers) through the emotional wringer, she binges on books, TV shows, and jigsaw puzzles while planning her next adventure. Texas-born and raised, she currently resides in Michigan’s upper peninsula with her husband and dogs.

Visit my website: https://www.jblaree.com

Join my Facebook group: J.B. LaRee’s Reader Notes

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing Run To Me was quite the emotional journey, and I wouldn’t have made it to the end without the help and encouragement of people who believed in Maisy and Jensen’s story. Thank you to:

Melissa McGovern, Developmental Editor and so much more: For pushing me—and sometimes dragging me—through the draft. Without the late-night brainstorming sessions and endless voice memos, Run To Me would not exist.

Cassie Rottink, Personal Assistant/Content Creator: For all the work you do in the background to keep me in line. What would I do without you?

Alpha readers, Mattie and Brianna: For being patient with me and not complaining when I replaced chapters mid-read.

Beautiful beta readers, Dena, Joy, Elise, Emily, Jessica, and Missie: For coming back for more. I’m so blessed to have found readers who enjoy my writing style and are excited about my stories. You motivate me to keep writing.

My fellow author, Layna James: For helping me work out certain aspects of the story. You get me.

The Havoc Archives, Sensitivity Reader: For easing my worries and giving me the confidence I needed to move forward.

Nicole Neuman, Sensitivity Reader: For your thorough explanations regarding Jensen’s mental health decline. Your feedback was crucial to making his story authentic.

Angela Garcia, Line/Copy Editor: For, once again, supporting my voice as an author.

The Street Team and readers who spread the word about my books: Your support means everything.

Finally, I have to give a special shout out to my husband. Thank you for making dinner.

CONTENT WARNING

Be advised, the following list contains major spoilers. The sensitive subject matter experienced or referenced by characters in this book includes, but is not limited to:

Accidental death of a child/sibling (referenced)

Depression

Difficult parent/child relationship

Explicit sexual content

Foul language

Impulsive/compulsive behaviors

Mental health crisis

Physical assault/mugging (off page)

Sexual harassment in the workplace (off page)

Stalking

While this is a love story with a happy ending, your mental health is important. The author strongly advises you to proceed with caution, or avoid reading this book altogether, if the above themes or topics are triggering for you.