Emerson Rose - Kings Baby - A Bad Boy Romance -

KING’S BABY EMERSON ROSE

COPYRIGHT 2016 PRISM HEART PRESS ALL RIGHTS RESERVED All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher or author. If you are reading this book and you have not purchased it or received an advanced copy directly from the author, this book has been pirated. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not

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have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. EDITING: Valorie Clifton COVER DESIGN: LJ Anderson, Mayhem Cover Creations

DEDICATION I want to thank my children for putting up with the take out pizza and five minute meals you had to eat while I was writing this book. Shush. Don’t tell that I always give you take out pizza and quickie dinners - it sounded good for the acknowledgments! But seriously I know you get tired of seeing the back of my head from my office door, please remember, I do it all for you. I love every single one of you so much. I also want to thank my publisher at Prism Heart Press who saw me struggling with kids a full time job and trying to write. She picked me up, brushed me off, pointed me in the right direction and said; “Go this way.” Thank you for believing in me and helping me believe in myself. - Emerson AKA “Mama”

Prologue HOLLAND I miss my baby girl. God, she’s not even a baby anymore. She’s three years old today. I fidget impatiently as the musicians around me shuffle their sheet music while preparing for tonight’s performance. Today is supposed to be a joyful day of celebration with Barbie dolls and pink balloons, but instead, the tuning of

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my colleagues’ instruments has me well on my way to a migraine. The pre-show butterflies I feel in my tummy every year on this particular day have turned to cement. Focus, I tell myself. These people are looking to you for direction and leadership. You can’t be distracted, not even today. The buzzing crowd is the winner of my attention tonight. Hands down, concertmaster or not, my mind isn’t on the orchestra tonight. It’s on my daughter. Scanning the audience like I do every year on this date, I pray I’ll see him sitting out there in the dimly lit auditorium, with my daughter swinging her little feet back and forth in the seat next to him. It’s a dream I’ve been having every night for three years. I’m sitting on stage in the Lincoln Center, consumed by the music and focused on leading my string section, when out of the corner of my eye, I see King sitting in the third row with our beautiful

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raven-haired daughter, Juliette, next to him. The room blurs, and my violin slides from my hands, clattering onto the floor in slow motion as I stand. The members of the orchestra stop playing in waves, beginning with the musicians closest to me, until only the percussion people are left clanking and rattling. A hush falls over the room when I call out her name. I bolt backstage, but when I arrive at their row, the seats have been abandoned. I turn to look up the aisle. No one is there, but there are hundreds of glaring eyes fixated on me. I glance back at the vacant seats in disbelief and see something glimmering where Juliette sat. If the lights hadn’t been turned up in the house because of my unheard of behavior, I would never have seen it. I push past patrons decked out in sequins, fur stoles and tuxedos and lurch for the eye-catching sparkle. It’s a charm bracelet with a tiny diamond violin, a music note, and three circular

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charms with the letters H, K and J stamped on them. My charm bracelet. King gave it to me in the hospital after I had our baby three years ago, before he took her and disappeared.

Chapter One Four Years Earlier HOLLAND “Don’t you dare say no, Holland. You don’t have much time left.” Savannah barges into my bedroom, throwing a huge duffle bag onto my bed. We’d just hung up. I thought she was at home, not in my driveway. “I’m going to Juilliard, Savannah. I’m not dying.” I shake my head. I can’t believe she’s making me do this. She shoots me a death glare that would probably hurt my feelings if it were genuine, but there’s a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

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“Come on, be young have some fun.” “I do have fun.” I fling myself onto my back next to the duffle. “Um, no. No, you don’t. Sitting in this bedroom day after day, doing homework, and playing the violin until your fingers literally bleed is not fun.” “Maybe not for you, but it is for me.” “You’re having real fun this summer if it kills me.” Savannah digs through her duffle bag, tossing bottles of this and cans of that on the bed. “What are you doing?” “You know what we’re doing. We’re going out. Put on something sexy.” “I’ve got a ton of homework. We have finals next week. You know, graduation and all that.” My voice drips with sarcasm. I roll onto my belly and bury my face into the comforter. Savannah slaps my ass and struts

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across my tidy bedroom to the closet. “Hey, that hurt.” I rub my butt and get up to follow her. “Don’t mess up my closet. Everything in there is just where I want it, and it’s color coded.” She turns to me with her hands on her hips and a smirk on her lips. “Separating black and white isn’t considered color coding. You have to have color for that.” “Black appropriate.”

and

white

are

always

“Well, we’re going for the opposite of appropriate tonight, honey. It’s time to start breaking in these fake IDs, my friend. I paid a fortune for them, so come on! Get dressed.” She fans the IDs in my face, lifting her eyebrows. “I don’t know, Savannah. I mean, I know everybody does it, but we’re only nineteen. We don’t look old enough to be in a bar.” Savannah takes me by my shoulders

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and turns me toward my full-length mirror on the back of my closet door. “You have on yoga pants and a sweatshirt, your hair is in a sloppy knot on top of your head, and you’re not wearing makeup. When I’m done with you, you’re gonna be smoking hot.” I sigh and glance at my homework on my desk, and then at my violin in its case on the floor, before meeting her eyes in the mirror. “Trust me,” she says in her thickest southern drawl, squeezing my shoulders and giving them a quick jerk before turning back to rummage through my closet. “I’m supposed to practice. Mama will be listening.” “I don’t understand why you have to practice when you’re world class. You’ve been considered a . . . what do they call it again?” “A child prodigy.”

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“Yeah, that . . . since you were eight, for shit’s sake.” Savannah slaps the plastic hangers against each other like she’s disgusted, and she probably is. After a few minutes of critiquing everything I own, she sighs. “There is actually not one single sexy piece of clothing in this closet.” Her arms fly up and she drops them against her sides with a slap. “Just go start practicing. I’ll get ready first. It’ll give me some time to think about what I’m going to do with you. I’ll have to work around the violin when it’s your turn.” She spins on her heel and heads into my ensuite bathroom with a frustrated sigh. “I’m good because I practice, by the way,” I call after her. I’m doomed. Savannah’s relentless. I may as well just give in and go along with her insane plan. “You’re good because you were born with a violin in your hands,” she yells.

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I hear her spreading cosmetics and hair styling paraphernalia all over the counter. I pick up my violin and rest it on my shoulder. All of my tension melts and flows from my fingertips into my music. A calm washes over me, and every muscle in my body relaxes. For me, playing the violin is comfortable and exhilarating at the same time, like snuggling in my bed and riding on a rollercoaster. I raise my bow and close my eyes. I don’t need the sheet music to play my favorite piece of music, Bach’s Chaconne from Partita in D minor. At three years old, I opened my mama’s violin case and tucked her instrument under my chin the way I had seen her do a million times. It took her two seconds to know I was gifted. Mama always says, “The biggest sin is to ignore the special gifts God gives you.” She’s a God-fearing woman, and she wasn’t about to let me ignore my gift.

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Both of my parents spent every second of their lives fostering my talent after that. They took out second mortgages on our house, worked hours and hours of overtime to pay for lessons, practice rooms and trips out of town to listen to famous orchestras perform, all so that I could go to Juilliard and someday realize my dream of playing in the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. Savannah is my best friend, and lately, her number one goal in life is to expose me to all of the things I’ll be missing at a normal college next year. She assumes Juilliard isn’t going to be normal—and it’s probably not, I guess—but I don’t care. I’ve never been normal either. Savannah pads across my bedroom until she stops directly in front of me. Excitement radiates from her body when I open my eyes and gasp, lowering my bow until it dangles limply in my hand.

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“Oh my God, Savannah, you look like . . . like you’re twenty-five or something.” I stare at my blonde bombshell of a best friend. She’s become a professional makeup artist in her spare time, and quite possibly a hair stylist too. Savannah isn’t Savanna anymore. She’s transformed her cute, freshfaced, nineteen-year-old self into one of those America’s Next Top Model girls with smoky eyes, sexy, wavy hair down to her ass, skintight jeans, heels—no, make that stilts—and a tank top that is so skimpy I’m almost embarrassed to see her in it. “You’re going out like that?” She spins around and thrusts her hip out. “Yep, and so are you. Come on.” She crooks her finger toward herself. Her eyes are full of mischief as she tries to tempt me into joining her. “I thought you said I could play while you worked on me.” I really don’t want to get

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made up like a doll. “Mama isn’t going to be satisfied with that little bit of practice, ya know.” “Little bit? You’ve been playing for like forty-five minutes. You don’t even realize that, do you?” “Uh no, not really. I get lost in the music sometimes. But forty-five minutes isn’t nearly enough. I usually practice at least two hours every night.” “Do you record yourself when you’re playing?” “Yeah, of course.” Oh crap . . . “No way, Savannah. If she comes up here and finds out that I’ve snuck out the window and left my tracks playing on my computer, she will kill me.” Savannah pulls me by the arm and plops me onto a barstool in front of the mirror in my bathroom while she grabs a brush.

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“Your mama isn’t going to kill you. For one thing, she isn’t going to find out, and for another, even if she does, you’re going away in a couple of months to college. She’ll understand that you had to sow your wild oats before you left.” “Wild oats?” “Yes. Oats. Now play while I straighten your hair, woman.” She flicks her finger at the violin in my hands, dismissing the subject. I pull in a deep breath, fill my cheeks, and blow it out. She’s going to get me into trouble. I know it, but I don’t have a choice. I feel so guilty for leaving her. Savannah isn’t going to college. Her daddy left them two years ago, and her mama has to work three jobs just to make ends meet. After they pay the bills, there’s nothing left for higher education. I play while she works miracles straightening my thick, black hair.

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Eventually, she forces me to put down my violin and turn on my practice recording so she can do my makeup. “I’m going to look like a whore.” My eyes are closed as she brushes what feels like a lot of eyeshadow on my lids. She’s so close to my face that I feel her breath disappear in a gasp right before she play-slaps my cheek. “Now why would you say something like that? Do I look like a whore?” “Well . . .” I giggle and open my eyes to a very insulted Savannah, who is just inches from my face and biting an eyeliner pencil horizontally between her teeth. “Hey.” “I’m kidding. You just look so much older.” “That’s the idea, dummy. Now be still. I’m almost done.” Thank God. I never wear makeup, and my hair is naturally wavy, so I usually just put it in a ponytail when it’s wet.

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Hair and makeup just take away time that I could be practicing or studying. Savannah says I’m obsessed with the violin and my plans for the future. It probably seems that way to her—to everyone, actually, except Mama. I was born to play. It’s in my bones. It isn’t a hobby or a pastime. It’s who I am. “Ta da. You can look now.” She steps away from the vanity so I can see in the mirror. “Wow.” “Yeah . . . wow.” She crosses her arms across her chest and nods her head up and down, clearly satisfied with her work. “You’re fucking hot, Holland.” “Watch your mouth. Cursing makes you ugly.” “I can’t help it. I did a fucking awesome job.”

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I stare at the stranger in the mirror over my bathroom vanity. “You should do a little of this every day. I mean, not all of it, of course—this is an evening look—but you could be model-gorgeous with a little effort.” The compliment hangs in the air between us. I don’t consider myself beautiful—average, maybe—but tonight? Yeah, this is definitely different. “Okay, hop up and go get dressed. I put your clothes on your bed.” “I thought you were looking in my closet for something.” She gives me the famous Savannah eye roll. “I was being nice. I knew there wasn’t anything sexy in there.” I narrow my eyes and lift one corner of my professionally glossed lips with skepticism.

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“It’s not that bad. Man, getting you to loosen up is going to be harder than I thought.” In my bedroom, I find a pair of jeans lying on my bed. I hold them out in front of me and look up at her. “What are these, size negative zero? Did you get them in the little girls’ department?” “Hush.” I tug, wiggle and hop until they’re over my hips. When I’m stuffed into the teeny tiny jeans, she hands me an even tinier flimsy white tank top with lace around the bottom hem. I sigh and hold the top against me and decide it’s a good thing we’ve been working on our tans already this spring, because this shirt is going to show a lot of skin. “Just put it on. You’re gonna look awesome.” She flips her hair over her shoulder while she packs away her makeup

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and hair tools in the duffle bag. I make quick work of stripping off my comfy sweatshirt and tossing it aside, replacing it with the scrap of material Savannah calls a top. Tilting my head, I look in the mirror again, smooth my hands over my bare belly, and try tugging the shirt down a little. It’s useless. The lacy hem brushes just above my navel, and that’s where it’s staying. “Aren’t you glad you got your belly pierced now? It looks so pretty with that shirt,” she says, standing behind me and looking into the mirror. Another thing on her itinerary . . . pierce something other than your ears. Since I was completely opposed to having any private part of my body pierced, my belly button was the only thing left. It hurt like hell, but I did it for her. That was the first time we put our IDs to use, although I don’t think the guys at the tattoo/piercing shop really cared about our age. They were more interested in pulling our shirts up and touching our tummies than anything.

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Savannah could have gotten hers for free if she had asked. The poor guy was practically drooling. “All right, I think we’re going to have to carry our shoes until we get off the roof.” She holds up two pairs of ridiculously highheeled shoes. My stomach drops when she mentions the roof. Sneaking out is such a bad idea. I just know my mama is going to find out, and she is going to be livid. “Can’t I just wear my cowboy boots?” I hold my hands together, praying she will let me. “No, this is a fancy dance club. You need heels.” I heave another deep sigh and agree with her insane plan to climb out of my second story window, onto the overhang of the front porch, and down the trellis. Maybe one of us will fall and we can stay home. I can only hope.

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“Yeah, I guess so. Let me check to be sure I have enough time left on my practice recording.” “And don’t forget to plug in your laptop. You don’t want it dying before you’re supposed to be done.” “Yeah, right, okay.” I bend down to plug the cord in under my desk. When I stand up and turn around, I see Savannah disappear out my window. I grab the stilettos from the bed and follow her out. On the roof, I carefully turn and slide my window shut. I hate heights. It’s just one more bad idea in what is fast becoming a night full of bad ideas. I inch toward Savannah and hold onto the back of her jeans. “I feel like we’re in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, sneaking out with my music playing.” I hand her my shoes and watch as she tosses both pairs over the edge and into the grass below. “Ferris what?”

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“The movie; you haven’t seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off?” How can my best friend not have seen one of my favorite movies? “Nope, I’ve never seen it.” “Well, if my mother ever lets me see you again after this, we’re watching it together.” “Deal. Be careful—it’s a little wobbly,” she whispers up to me as she reaches the ground and drops herself easily onto the grass. “Coast is clear. Your mama has the curtains closed. Hurry up.” She waves her hand in a circle toward her body, motioning for me to follow, and I gracefully lower myself to the ground. “You’re pretty good at that.” “Thanks. It must have been the gymnastics in third grade.” She chuckles as we gather up our shoes and hurry through the perfectly manicured bushes into the

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neighbor’s yard and down the street where our friend, Mika, is parked and waiting for us. Mika is twenty-two. She lives in our neighborhood, and we’ve all grown up together, so she’s cool with hanging around with us even though we’re younger. I open the door and jump in the back, and Savannah slides into the passenger seat. The second our butts hit the seats, Mika turns the ignition and pulls into the street without looking at us. “Took you long enough, ladies.” “Had to look the part,” Savannah says, turning to wink at me in the back seat and flipping her blonde waves over her shoulder. Mika glances at Savannah and then in the rearview mirror at me. “Well, you did a fine job. Man, Savannah, you should go to school to do that shit. You two look like those Victoria’s Secret models.”

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“Well I don’t know about that, but I don’t think we’re going to have trouble getting into the club now,” I say. I slip on the ultra-uncomfortable shoes and wince. “Where did you get shoes like this anyway, Savannah?” “My mama.” “Your mama? No way.” “Yep, she used to be a party girl before my daddy ditched us, I guess.” Wow. I can’t imagine her mama wearing these shoes . . . ever. She’s practically lived in a uniform sixteen hours a day for two years. Savannah is flippant about her daddy, but I know mentioning him hurts. She’s good at concealing her emotions with distraction, and she proves it when she rolls down the window to holler at the world.

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“It’s Friday night, and we’re gonna party!” “Friday night at Ecstasy. Oh yeah . . . fun,” I mutter under my breath and turn to look out the window. I gather my hair behind my neck to protect all the hard work Savannah put into straightening it and watch the cars pass by. I wish I were back in my boring bedroom with my violin and my dull homework. Twenty minutes and ten base-pounding club hits later, Mika pulls her candy apple red VW Bug into a spot that is at least a half mile away from the front door. Savannah and I exchange concerned looks. “Mika, can’t we look for a place closer? I don’t think I can walk that far in these stilts.” I hoist my foot up between the seats so she can see my ridiculous shoe situation.

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“We’re lucky to have a spot in the parking lot at all. It’s usually overflowing by now.” Well, I guess she would know; she comes here every weekend. Savannah pulls me from the back seat and helps me get my balance when I’m out. “It’s good practice. Work those hips.” Mika laughs as I take my first couple of steps. I’ve worn heels before, but not like these. “I think I’ll stick to a simple walk. If I shake anything, I’ll be on the ground.” Savannah links her arm through mine and we follow Mika through the parking lot to the brightly lit entrance of the hottest new dance club in the city, Ecstasy. Halfway through the parking lot, I start to feel the beat of the music vibrating the ground under my feet. Savannah and I pause and look at each other with wide eyes. For the first time all night, I’m excited.

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“Oh my God, I didn’t know it would be so . . .” “So loud?” Mika asks with a grin. “Yeah, and busy,” I say, looking at the people lined up all the way down the sidewalk and around the side of the building. Outdoor speakers blast an electronic version of Beyoncé’s 7/11, and several of the people waiting in line are getting a head start on their ass shaking. “The line moves pretty fast, and the people are interesting. Don’t worry, your little feet will get some relief soon.” Mika winks and bumps her hip against mine, throwing me slightly off balance. Mika is gay, and she’s never made it a secret that she likes me, but she also knows I’m not into girls—or boys, for that matter. I have no social life to speak of, and I don’t have time for a boyfriend. Mama would kill me if I did. Daddy travels a lot for work, but Mama’s always there keeping a sharp eye out

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for me—except for tonight, I hope. Savannah and Mika affectionately call me a goody two shoes, but they just don’t understand. I’m different. I don’t care about popularity or boys or stylish clothes. I’m quiet. I read, study and practice. That’s my life and I like it that way. Mika was right. The line moves fast, and within twenty minutes—five of which are spent having heart palpitations while the bouncer looks at our IDs—we are inside. They’re good IDs, the best money can buy, according to Savannah, and she wasn’t lying. He doesn’t question it at all. He just hands it back to me and gestures toward the second set of doors leading into the club. Mika goes ahead, and when she opens the door, I swear my hair blasts back over my shoulders from the pulsing beat of the music. I wince and resist the urge to cover my ears. A wicked grin spreads across Mika’s face as she motions for us to follow her into the deafening, dark, packed club.

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“Welcome to Ecstasy, ladies.” My ears are buzzing as we squeeze through the throngs of people toward the main bar, which is, of course, as far from the front door as possible. My feet are already killing me. It’s a three-level club, and we’ve just entered on the second floor, where the lighting is a glowing electric blue with the exception of the dizzying strobes reflecting off of mirrored pillars and walls. Mika leads our little caravan past an atrium, where you can look over the rail and see through the entire club. When we stop, I lean forward to check it out. One floor down is a glowing pink pit of beautiful, sweating bodies moving fluidly with the music like one big, pulsing entity. Savannah smiles wide, pointing up. I look and see that the third floor is darker than the others and glowing red. It’s creepy and it reminds me of a vampire movie I once saw on Netflix. Mika grabs Savannah’s right hand and I take her left, forming a chain. We make our way to the bar without getting separated.

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“What do you want?” Mika yells over her shoulder, squeezing between two tall blonde women that could very well be twins. Her smile has ‘threesome’ written all over it. “I don’t know. I don’t drink,” I yell. “Two raspberry Kamikazes,” Savannah answers for me. God, that sounds menacing. “A drink named after suicide attacks by military aviators?” I yell at Savannah, and Mika turns around again, looking at me like I’ve suddenly grown a second head. “What?” I shrug my shoulders. “You’re too smart. Relax and have fun.” She’s directly in front of me, but she still has to yell to be heard; this place is too loud. I’m definitely leaving with some degree of hearing loss tonight. People press in from every side, and I feel a hand slide between my legs from behind, squeeze my thigh, and

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disappear so quickly I’m not sure it really happened. “What’s wrong? I thought your eyes were going to bug out of your head,” Mika says. I’m surprised she saw me at all. She’s had her eyes on the Doublemint twins’ asses since she placed our drink order. I’m glad she did, though, because I may have thought I’d imagined that. Yeah, okay, no. I didn’t imagine that. “Someone just grabbed my . . . well, my ass, sort of.” I turn, bumping shoulders and hips with strangers to see if I can find the thigh violator, but it’s body against body in here. Any one of a dozen people could have done it. “You have a fine ‘sort of’ ass, Holland. Get used to it.” I frown at Mika and she hands me my drink. Fine ‘sort of’ ass or not, it’s mine, and I don’t want strangers touching it.

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Our drinks are a bright red raspberry color, with a stick across the rim of each glass speared with raspberries. “Drink it fast and let’s go dance,” Savannah says in my ear, and I nod. I’m not sure I want to be walking around this place with people putting their hands in places they don’t belong—which is anywhere on my body—but I’m here, and I know every party has its pooper, but I don’t want to be ours, so I toss back the drink and slide the berries off the stick and into my mouth with fanfare. “Woohoo! Look at our little virgin drinker go,” Mika yells. I blink several times and feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes while the alcohol burns its way down my throat. “You like it?” Savannah asks. “Uh, yeah, sure . . . if you like turpentine and berries.” I open my eyes wide one more time and clear my throat. Mika hands

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us both another glass of the red paint thinner while Savannah throws back her first. We exchange a look that says this night is going to be utterly chaotic, and she turns me around to press her body against mine, moving me forward through the crowd. “The stairs are over there. I’ll protect your ass.” She’s laughing, but I’m glad to have her do it. I grasp the bannister tightly all the way down the wide spiral staircase. My head is already swimming from one drink, and I’m teetering on heels that are beginning to kill my feet. About three steps from the bottom, I realize that we aren’t taking our drinks out on the dance floor. I’m not sure you can even consider what they are doing as dancing. It’s more like a unified wave of movement, two hundred strong. I look over my shoulder and see both of the girls finishing their second drink and handing the glasses to a waitress through the spindles of stairs. Here goes nothing. I choke down my second alcoholic

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beverage ever. I literally choke and sputter as I drink it all, just in time to be pushed onto the dance floor and swallowed up by the crowd. It’s really hot down here, and my head is fuzzy when the music and the people suck me in and take me with them, making me part of their single unit. It only takes a minute before I lose my hold of Savannah’s hand, but the crazy thing is . . . I don’t even care. This is fun. No wonder she put it on the itinerary. I don’t even have to try to dance. Bodies press in from all sides, moving me around. Occasionally, hands circle my waist and someone grinds against me from behind, but as soon as I try to turn and see their face, the hands are gone. You would think that with all these sweaty bodies it would smell bad, but it doesn’t. It smells like heat and musk infused with sweet vanilla. Long wisps of my hair stick to my face and neck. My tank top is damp and plastered to my skin, and I smile to myself and giggle

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when I start to see two of every face around me. I drop my head back and look through the atrium at the blue and red levels above, and I notice that the ceiling is painted like the Sistine Chapel, with cherubs and angels making the red lighting even more eerie. The alcohol flows through my veins full force now as I raise my arms over my head and let my body flow like liquid through the crowd. There is a thin, constantly changing and mesmerizing screen surrounding the dance floor. I watch, hypnotized, as the images switch from a flow of smoke to dripping honey, each visual effect cooler than the last, until one particular optical illusion of tiny pulsing squares nearly causes me to fall. A pair of hands circles my hips, rescuing me from a certain death by trampling. With what little bit of southern hospitality I have left, I try to turn and thank whoever is now plastered against my backside, but he’s not having it. Instead, I watch one sexy,

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strong hand slide over my bare belly as another one glides down my thigh. Lean muscle holds me in place while our bodies roll together in time with the beat. He follows my lead as the music drops the base, blending a fast electronic club song with a slow, syrupy grind. This should cause some serious alarm bells to go off, but the alcohol has stolen every ounce of inhibition from me, and I welcome the guidance of his hands. I give up the idea of turning around and relax my head back against his chest. I may be intoxicated, but I still know my anatomy. This man is at least six feet to my five three. He’s solid and strong and has an amazing sense of rhythm. My hands wander along his thighs as we flow together, and he finally turns me around to face him. My poor heart was already pounding wildly in my chest from the exertion of dancing and the alcohol diluting my blood, but the second my eyes meet his, it stops altogether for a beat—maybe two. Time stands still during

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that paused beat, and something tells me my life is about to change forever. He leans in close to my face, and instead of moving away, I gravitate toward him. His mouth brushes my cheek on its way to my ear, where he speaks one word without yelling. “King.” I don’t understand what ‘King’ is supposed to mean, so I just nod and watch as he cradles my face, moving my soaking wet hair with his thumb so he can see me better. When he smiles down at me, I fear I might faint—not from the heat in the club, but from the heat of passion in his dark eyes. As inexperienced as I am, which is pathetically inexperienced, I know without a doubt that this gorgeous, dangerous looking man wants more than just a dance. “What’s your name?” He mouths. “Holland.” He can’t hear me, and my name isn’t your average run of the mill name, so he draws my mouth to the side of

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his head for me to repeat myself directly into his ear. Oh my God, this guy’s picture should be next to the word delicious in the dictionary. He smells so good. “Holland.” I swear that he moans when I say it. The beat gradually becomes faster, and the mystery man takes my hand, leading me to the edge of the dance floor. His forearm is tan, and he has the thick, ropey veins of an athlete. I follow his arm to his broad shoulders and admire the way his thick, dark hair curls up at the nape of his neck. Just as we emerge from the crowd of dancing people, I tear my gaze from mystery man’s very, very fine backside and look out over the dance floor for Savannah and Mika. It’s impossible to recognize anyone in this massive cluster of bodies, and the magnetic pull of this man mixed with alcohol has given me a ‘go with the flow’ sort of attitude, so I

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do . . . go with the flow, that is. Except in this case, the flow is my fine mystery man. Unlike when Savannah, Mika and I walked through the bar clutching each other’s hands to stay together, people seem to part like the red sea in front of mystery man until we reach the closest bar, where three men and two women also step aside, giving him a wide berth. He squeezes my hand tightly, as if he’s worried he might lose me, while the patrons around us stare. Some of them, mostly women, are staring at our joined hands with their mouths hanging open, and several are shooting daggers at me with their eyes. This all makes me very uncomfortable. I shift my weight and lean toward mystery man and turn my head in his direction. My hair drapes across the exposed side of my face, shielding me from their sharp glares. The only time I enjoy being the center of attention is when I’m on stage with my violin in my hands, and even then, I close my eyes and the audience disappears.

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The bartender leans across the bar to take his order and immediately snaps into action, retrieving two glasses and a bottle of champagne. The bartender offers to open it for him, but he shakes his head back and forth and gathers both glasses and the bottle with his free hand without losing hold of mine with his other. The thought of any woman voluntarily letting go of this man’s hand is ludicrous, and I’m guessing from the shocked looks we’re getting from the women around us, mystery man doesn’t hold hands with many of them. He turns away from the bar to check on me when he feels me move closer, and our eyes lock. In the middle of all of this chaos, something is happening. I can’t put my finger on it, because I’ve never felt it before, but it’s intense and powerful, and I’m pretty sure it’s mutual. I’m close enough to him that even in the dim light of the club I can see that he has the deepest chocolate brown eyes, with tiny flecks of amber around

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his pupils. When he blinks, his long black lashes sweep up and down like a Vegas showgirl’s feathery headdress, and I’m entranced. He shakes his head as if to clear a thought and juts his chin upward. He wants to go upstairs. Oh God. Should I let him take me so far away from the girls? Just as that thought flickers through my mind, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I hold one finger up to him, asking him to wait while I tug it out of the back pocket of my tight jeans. It’s a text from Savannah. Where are you? I quickly type back, Went to get another drink. It’s sort of true. I just happened to leave out the fact that I’m with an extremely hot, much older, dangerous looking man, who is taking me upstairs to the vampire red floor with an entire bottle of champagne. She texts back Okay, going to the bathroom. Meet you on the dance floor in fifteen. I send a thumbs up icon and notice that mystery man is reading over my shoulder. When I catch him, a faint smile flickers across his

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face and he playfully looks away, knowing full well he’s been caught eavesdropping on my message. I laugh, and he cocks his head in a ‘follow me’ gesture. Just as before, people move aside and allow us to pass easily. It takes mystery man two minutes to cover the distance it would have taken the girls and me twenty minutes to fight our way through earlier. When we arrive at an elevator just around the corner from the main entrance, I have another moment of panic when I watch him press the up button. This is such a bad idea. He has no idea how young I am. I have no idea who he is. He could be a murderer or some crazy freak who is taking me upstairs to rape and murder me like those dumb girls I always see on Criminal Minds. I should be saying, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ I should be finding my friends. I should be at home studying for finals and playing the violin. But no . . . a liquor gremlin in my brain has taken my common sense hostage and he’s yelling,

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“Have some fun! He’s hot, go for it.” Meanwhile, my poor, sweet common sense tries to warn me through a gag in her mouth. ‘Don’t be stupid, he could be dangerous.’ But when the doors slide open, my feet have a mind of their own. The gremlin wins, and I follow mystery man into the elevator. There’s something about him that calms me, and for some crazy reason I naively trust him. The small elevator must be soundproof. It’s so quiet that I can hear myself breathing. “You have a beautiful name,” he says. A shiver races up my spine when I hear his ‘inside voice’ for the first time. It’s gravelly and deep and . . . sexy. “Thank you. I didn’t catch yours.” “I told you on the dance floor.” “You did?” I search through my foggy brain, and after a few seconds of sorting, I remember him saying ‘King’.

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“King? That’s your name?” I bite my lip and do my best not to giggle. If that isn’t ostentatious, I don’t know what is. “Yes it is.” He knows I’m trying not to laugh. “It’s all right. You can laugh. I know there aren’t many people with a name like that.” “Is it short for Kingsford or something?” I can’t believe I’m being so brazen, teasing a man I don’t even know, but I’m tipsy. People blame a lot of things on alcohol. Now I know why. “No, just King. My father thought the name would be commanding and bring me success.” “And did it?” I ask, narrowing my eyes, as if success were something I could see on his face.

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He raises his brows and the elevator doors open. He leads me out without answering. If his expensive clothes and the obvious reverence of the people in this club mean anything, I think he’s done just fine with the name of King. I look around the lounge and half expect the people to have glowing red eyes like the vampires in the Twilight movies. You could definitely film a vampire movie here. It’s so creepy. It’s also much quieter up here, though not as quiet as the elevator. I can still hear the music from below—it’s just no longer deafening. We’re able to actually talk to each other. “It was too loud to ask downstairs, but I would like to buy you a drink.” He holds up the bottle and glasses.

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“You didn’t pay for that, so it’s not technically buying me a drink.” “I don’t have to pay for something that’s mine. I own this club.” He winks and leads me around the edge of the room. The owner. I feel sort of stupid for worrying about him being a murderer for a second, but hey—a lot of murders are very successful people, right? Why is the owner of the most popular nightclub in Texas asking me to drink champagne with him in the VIP area of his club? Now all the veneration and dirty looks make sense. He’s a celebrity here. Walking in these shoes is becoming more and more challenging. They’re killing my feet. I teeter and grip King’s hand a little tighter for balance. God, don’t fall down, Holland. Not right now. “Are you alright?” He’s been one step in front of me, but he slows his pace to pull me in closer to his side.

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“Uh huh. These shoes . . .” I roll my eyes and kick out my foot to show him what I mean. He frowns. “Women put themselves through so much unnecessary torture to please men. Don’t get me wrong. Heels are sexy as hell, but if I were a woman, I’d say screw it. I’m wearing my boots.” “Boots. Yeah, my cowboy boots are sounding pretty good about right now.” “Hold on.” He stops right in the middle of the aisle, kneels down, and carefully sets the champagne bottle and glasses on the floor next to him. I hold his shoulder and watch him remove my shoes, in the bar that he owns, on his knees. Holy shit. Now everyone is staring and shooting daggers. He stands up, hands me my shoes, and gathers up the bottle and glasses again. Now that I’m my normal height, he is noticeably taller, and for a second, there are two of him, but they quickly blur back into one. Two wouldn’t be

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a bad thing. I could share a King copy with Savannah. I giggle to myself, and King tilts his head to the side and smirks. Oh Lord, I’m such a goner. “I like your name.” I think I slurred that a little. Shit, I’m drunk. “Thank you. I’m glad. I like yours too.” “Your daddy’s smart.” “Yes, he was smart. He’s been gone for two years now, but he taught me a lot.” “I’m sorry.” We’re still standing where he removed my shoes when he makes me feel like a little kid by pressing a kiss on my forehead. It’s ironic, because he would probably consider me a kid if he knew how old I really am. I moan in relief when I take a step without my shoes, and King glances at me sideways. His dark eyes are full of desire, or at least I think it’s desire. I’ve never really

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seen desire, but if I had to guess . . . yeah, that’s desire. I’ve never had someone react to my voice like that. It’s empowering and a little bit exciting and, God, I think I suddenly have a fever. Halfway around the circumference of the club, he releases my hand and motions for me to sit in a plush, crescent-shaped booth. We sit, and I lay my phone on the cushion and toss my shoes on the floor. “Where did you come from?” he asks, glancing at me quickly out of the corner of his eye while he opens the bottle of champagne. “I was born in here in Austin.” I wait quietly, watching as he expertly pops the cork and pours it into the glasses on the low cocktail table in front of us. “I wasn’t actually asking geographically. It was more of a where have you been all my life sort of question. I didn’t want it to sound cheesy, but I think that backfired.”

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The corners of his lips lift slightly as he hands me a glass and taps it against mine. “To interesting names,” he says. I’ve seen people do this in movies, so I repeat what he’s said. “To interesting names.” I raise the glass to my mouth, but I stop when he doesn’t do the same. He’s looking at me, but it feels more like he’s looking into me. “What?” “Your eyes . . . they’re haunting.” Haunting? I’ve been told my eyes were a lot of things, but never haunting. They’re an interesting shade of grey, which is odd for someone with a black daddy and a white mama, who both have brown eyes. I’ve always thought they were a little big for my face, but haunting? That’s new. “Um, okay. Is that a compliment?”

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I watch the lump in his throat waver when he swallows the entire glass of champagne in one drink. When it’s gone, he nods. “Yes, most assuredly a compliment, Holland. What do you do?” What do I do? What do I do . . . shit, he means for a job or a career. I’m only nineteen. I don’t have a career yet; I haven’t even been to college, but I sure as hell can’t tell him that. “I’m a musician. I play the violin.” Not a lie at all. He never asked what I do to earn money, and I do play on a professional level. I’m surprised when his face lights up. “Impressive. What symphony are you with?” He would ask that. I just successfully dodged his first question without lying, but now I don’t have a choice. I have to . . . sort of. “I’m hoping to be with the New York Philharmonic soon. I’m moving to New York

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in the fall.” Half-truth, half little white lie; works for me. “You have to play for me sometime.” He means another time, as in he wants to see me again. My tummy flops and I down my champagne. “Sure.” I rub the palm of my free hand on my thigh. He’s watching me again—I feel it, but I can’t look directly at him. I just lied to him—a stranger, essentially, but I lied just the same, and that’s not like me. “I’d like to do something, Holland. I need to go out for a smoke, but I’m going to kiss you first.” I give my eyes to him now. He wants to kiss me. He wants to kiss me! He wants to put his mouth on mine. I nod my head up and down because I can’t speak. I would very much like for this beautiful man to give me my first kiss I can’t believe this is happening.

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He scoots toward me until there is no one else—nothing else, just King and me—in this moment right now. I watch him remove the glass from my hand and set it on the table next to his. He cups my face and watches his thumb brush against my lips. When he meets my ‘haunting’ eyes, a shockwave like I’ve never experienced races through my body. I blame alcohol for the overwhelming urge to climb into his lap and straddle his hips. I want his hands all over my skin. I want . . . his lips meet mine, and his hand slides behind my neck into my damp hair, pulling me closer—but not close enough. I don’t think there is a close enough. He leads and I follow. I more than willingly allow him to guide me wherever he wants to go. Kissing, kissing and more gentle kissing. My pulse begins to whoosh in my ears with every beat of my heart as I push my fingers through the soft curls at the nape of his neck. His tongue slowly slides past my lips. Oh, God. This feels so good, so very good. How

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do people ever stop doing this? How have I never started doing this? His hand slides down my neck to the bare skin at the small of my back, and his fingers easily dip below the low waistline of my jeans. I pull away for a breath, but a moan escapes instead. Did I really just moan? The kiss deepens, and I have no control over what happens next—it just happens. King pulls me into the straddling position I was dying to be in just seconds ago and slides his hands under my ass. He pulls me flush against his chest and effortlessly stands to carry me across the bar, tangled with and clinging to his body without breaking the kiss. My eyes are closed while he carries me through a crowd of strangers, and for the fourth or fifth time tonight—hell, in my lifetime—I don’t care what’s happening. I don’t care what other people are thinking or what they’re saying. I’m only interested in pleasing one person other than myself, and his hands are plastered on my ass. I want this,

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whatever this is. I’ve been saving my body for a magical moment, a moment I always thought would be after college when I’m married and successful, but nope, that’s not happening. This is happening. King moves fluidly around the tables and chairs, avoiding people—or perhaps they are avoiding us. I don’t know, because my eyes are closed and his mouth is consuming mine in a Gone with the Wind-worthy kiss. When he stops, a loud buzzing sound startles me and I tighten my legs around his waist and fist his hair with both hands, but he doesn’t let go. My lips have found a home they never want to leave. Click. Two steps through a door, and he has my back pressed against a wall. He takes advantage of having his hands free and pushes his fingers through my hair. This kiss is quickly approaching a nine on the Richter scale for the most earth-shattering kiss in history.

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It’s quiet here—wherever here is—so quiet I can only hear our jagged breathing and the sound of our tongues exploring each other’s mouth. My heart is pounding against my chest so hard that I’m sure King can feel it. I think that’s my heart, anyway—maybe it’s his—it’s hard to tell where I end and he begins. I can feel King’s hard length growing between my legs, causing a mixture of panic and need to materialize from nowhere. I’ve never been intimate with a man. These feelings are so foreign that I’m not sure what to do with them. Now that we’re alone, it all feels too real. Part of me wants him to just take our clothes off, and the other part would be happy staying just like this, kissing and touching and moaning. Oh, never mind. I need his skin on mine. Who am I kidding? I open my eyes, intending to communicate this latest decision to King, but instead I blink and then blink again, opening them wide trying to see. Everything's so

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blurry. It’s no use. I’m buzzed, or maybe a little more than buzzed. I think I may be fullon drunk. We’re alone, totally isolated from everyone in the club. King opens his eyes and stops kissing me. His lips hover over mine, just barely touching, breathing in my tiny, panting breaths that aren’t oxygenating my brain nearly enough. He narrows his eyes and presses one last, gentle kiss on my swollen lips before pulling away. “Are you okay? Is this okay?” His hands relax in my hair and his thumbs caress my temples. “Where are we?” I whisper. I squint my eyes, trying to look around the dimly lit living room that is annoyingly tilting ever so slightly to the left. “My apartment. I live here right now.”

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“In a bar?” I tuck my chin against my chest and look at him through lazy lids and thick lashes. “Yes.” He chuckles and touches the tip of his nose to mine. He lives above a bar. What kind of person lives above a club? I straighten my legs and slide down the wall. King moves closer, supporting me until my bare feet touch the floor. With no heels on, I’m now face to face with a lovely sternum and pecs wrapped in a fitted sapphire blue shirt. I try to take a step away from him to explore this apartment over a club, and I stumble. His arms steady me for the second time tonight. “You’re not used to drinking, are you?” “Um, no. Actually, I never drink.” I shake my head back and forth like a bobble head doll—or maybe more like a person with Parkinson’s disease—and it makes me dizzy.

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“I think you should sit down.” He frowns and takes my elbow to lead me to a large couch. “That’s a king-sized couch ya got there.” I giggle at my little joke, and we don’t sit so much as collapse onto the couch, facing each other on our sides. My giggles keep coming, and after a while, I can’t decide if they’re a result of my drunkenness or anticipation of what’s coming next . . . probably both. He props himself up on his elbow and lifts his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head. Then he smiles down at me, and I reach out to stroke the scruff on his angular jaw. I examine it closely, smoothing it out and then ruffling it up, and I realize he’s searching for my eyes again. He’s the only thing that’s in focus. Everything else in the room is hazy and unclear. I know I’m drunk and all, but I am positive there is a higher level of connection

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going on between us than normal. I’ve never been this close to a man other than my father, so I have nothing to compare this moment to, but something tells me it’s important, unique. I continue to stroke his face, bringing my other hand up to explore as well. His hand covers one of mine. Bringing it to his mouth, he kisses my sensitive palm, flooding me with more new feelings and emotions. His warm, sultry eyes are trying to read my mind, but he’s frustrated. Does he know? How could he know? Does he feel my innocence . . . my inexperience? “When I saw you on the dance floor tonight, I was taken with the way you seemed to feel the music.” He kisses the tip of each of my fingers one by one between his words, causing tiny electric jolts to shoot up my arm to my chest. “I never leave Ecstasy’s VIP floor, but something about you called to me. I had to

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see if you were real,” he says, following his hand with his eyes as it drifts to my hip and then down my thigh, until he hooks it behind my knee and pulls my leg over his. We’re so close, I’m having trouble focusing with all the heat swirling between us. I flop onto my back and pull my leg off of his. “I’m real, all right . . . real drunk.” I flop my arm over my eyes and the giggles return. “Holland, before we go any further, I want to make sure you’re protected. I just flew in this afternoon, and I don’t have anything on me.” I don’t know what he’s talking about for a second. Protected from what? He doesn’t have what . . . oh, birth control . . . he means birth control. I’ve had endometriosis since I started my periods when I was thirteen. That counts, right? I hope so, because I’m not stopping this now.

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I peek out from under my elbow and melt into the cushions of King’s king-sized couch when I see him smiling at me. It’s a beautiful smile, full of perfect, white teeth and full, soft lips. I think I may love this man’s smile. I nod to answer his question. “You’re sweet.” He blinks slowly, and those amazingly long lashes seem to brush against his cheeks. “You said that before.” “Yes. Yes, I did, and I was right. You’re very sweet.” He leans over me until his lips softly brush against mine. An unfamiliar heat smolders just below the surface, waiting for a fire to catch. Our kisses bloom into so much more than mere kisses, and he celebrates every curve and dip of my body as our heartbeats synchronize. My head spins as he kisses a trail down the side of my neck. He nudges the strap of my tank top with his lips until it slides off of my shoulder, causing gooseflesh to spread across my skin. His

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warm, roaming mouth commands control of me. I can’t even breathe. A whimper slips from my lips, and I can’t organize two thoughts in a row to even know what this feels like. Something intense and exhilarating deep inside has been awakened, and I can’t stop it—I can’t even slow it down. I need him closer to me. I need his skin against mine. His shirt is unbuttoned—I think I did that. When I push it off of his shoulders, he moans. He slides his hand across my bare midriff under the hem of my tank top, working the damp material upward. Our mouths part just long enough for him to pass it over my head and toss it somewhere behind me. A powerful aura flows from every pore of his body into mine when our skin connects. We gasp for breath, panting into each other’s open mouth, and we pause for several pounding heartbeats before King slows our pace. His fingers trail over the curve of my

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hip until he skims my breast, testing my boundaries. I’ve never done this before. Do I really want to now? I’m filled with alcohol, and I can’t think straight with King’s energy surrounding me. My body has no doubt as to what should happen next, and honestly, my head isn’t far behind, but there is still part of me—the sensible part that is being crowded into the corner of my mind—that is saying this is too much, too fast. “Holland.” He moans my name between kisses, cutting my last thread of restraint. The niggling thought in the back of my mind evaporates—poof! Gone. My trembling fingers work to unbutton his jeans, and King moves to straddle me. His eyes are much darker now; all of the warm chocolate brown from earlier is gone, replaced by black desire and heat. He straightens up and laces his fingers with mine, spreading my arms out to my sides and baring my half-naked body.

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As his eyes wander over my skin, I can feel him memorizing me, burning every tiny birthmark and scar into his brain. His hungry gaze travels from my eyes to my mouth, where he lingers longest, and then to my breasts. I squirm under his stare right before his eyes settle on my tummy, where a diamond sparkles just above my navel. When our eyes connect again, I sense a moment of hesitance mixed with his passion, and I want to tell him not to stop. “King,” I whisper, and he gently places one finger on my lips to quiet me. His powerful, chiseled body hovers over my soft curves, kissing and tasting, taking his time until he lands on a spot behind my ear that makes me quiver. “Spot number one,” he murmurs in my ear and moves to press a long, lingering kiss with his velvety lips in the hollow of my throat. I moan and pull my legs around his hips, pressing my heels into the small of his back.

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“Spot number two.” He pulls away and looks at me with satisfaction. “That’s going to be a good one.” He smiles and stares at me for what feels like forever, and I think, my God, I need so much more, and he’s never going to move. But he does. He drags his tongue over the arc of my collarbone to my shoulder, where he stops to softly nip my skin between his teeth. When I gasp and tighten my grip on his hips with my legs, he informs me that this is indeed “Spot number three.” I’m dying to find out how many spots he’s going to assign numbers to. He’s adoring me . . . cherishing every inch of me, and I just want him to rip my clothes off and take my virginity. God, just take it please. I groan and arch my back. Lifting my hips, I beg him without words to move faster, but he doesn’t. Instead, he positions himself so that we are nose to nose. His eyes are closed, and I can feel his warm breath on my lips. He

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inhales a deep breath and slowly exhales, as if he’s trying to stay in control. When he opens his eyes, he reaches up to brush a stray piece of hair off of my forehead. I’m seeing three of him now, and I can’t decide if this is a bad thing or a good thing. Supporting the weight of his body with his elbows on either side of my head, he slowly shakes his head back and forth, blurring my three Kings together into a blob until he stops and they all blend back into one. “You’re so beautiful. There’s something different about you.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes to look deeper into mine. “It’s something special—an innocence, a freshness I’m not used to feeling with women.” I worry my lip and wait for him to realize that I’m younger than I’ve advertised myself to be, but if he’s on to me, he doesn’t say anything. He leans back with his ass propped on his heels, and I fidget under his powerful gaze. He places his hand, palm

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down, between my breasts and drags it lazily over my hypersensitive skin to the jeweled button of my painted-on jeans. “Spot number four?” he asks, feathering his fingers along the top of my jeans. “Yes,” I whisper so quietly that I’m not sure he heard me until he bends to kiss spot number four. “This is okay?” he asks, rising up off of me after shocking my entire system with a simple touch of his lips. “Yes, please, King.” My words are his undoing. Something clicks, and slow adoration finally turns into a frenzy. He can’t peel my jeans off of me fast enough. He has to tug to get them past my ankles. Stupid tight jeans. When I’m completely bare, he stands at the edge of the couch, holding my eyes while he lowers his zipper. Now I’m nervous. This is real. He is real. It’s going to be real. He lowers his jeans and boxers, and I peek at

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his naked body but quickly close my eyes before I can completely process the vision. I end up feeling him more than seeing him at first. The quick look I did get of his lean, athletic body sends lightning bolts to my core and butterflies to my belly. King moves over my quivering body, and I feel his knee gently nudge my legs apart at the same time his lips kiss spot number four again. I gasp as he forges one last trail of kisses along the inside of my thigh. I don’t know what to do with my hands or my feet or anything until his tongue touches me there. Holy shit! That is, without a doubt, spot number five. I grab his hair in my hands, arch my hips toward his mouth, and scrunch my toes so hard they hurt. “I was right. You really are sweet.” He growls before abandoning my center to gently nip at the inside of my thigh, and I wonder how this could possibly get any better.

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I’m sure I’m about to find out the answer to that question when King returns his mouth to mine and slides inside of me. Every muscle in my body tenses. I inhale sharply and squeeze my eyes shut. He stops. This stops. Everything stops, and I’m glad, because that wasn’t at all what I expected. I don’t know what I expected, really, but it wasn’t sharp, searing pain—that’s for sure. Everything else felt so amazing, but this . . . this takes my breath away. “Holland?” His voice is full of question and concern, and I know it’s time to think fast. Thankfully, that moment of shock has sobered me up a little. I open my eyes and do everything in my power to relax and let him in. I have to convince him this isn’t my first time, so I slide one hand behind his neck and the other around his waist and pull him closer. He enters me completely—slowly, painfully . . . at first. He stops again when he has

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penetrated me fully. His neck is strained and his eyes are wide. “I can’t move for a second, Holland. You’re so tight that this won’t last long if I do.” He pants with restraint. I’m not sure what he means. It’s my first time, but I could use some time to accommodate his size, so I stay stone still and wait for him to do . . . whatever it is he’s trying to do or not do. Mechanically, I know what’s next. As inexperienced as I am, I’ve always gotten As in science. I know how things work. What I was never schooled on is the pain. I’m struggling to relax, and King senses it. His lips are on mine again, and he kisses me senseless for a long time, alternating between my mouth and my neck, behind my ear—spot number one—and occasionally a few between my breasts. He does all of this without moving inside of me, but I feel him twitch and swell when our kisses intensify. Finally, when I’ve relaxed enough, I press my heels against the small of his back, urging him to

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move, asking for more. King doesn’t disappoint. He slowly drags his hips back, sliding out. I feel the release of pressure combined with the desire for its return. King closes his eyes. His head falls back, and the muscles of his jaw twitch with restraint. When he enters me again, I gasp and dig my nails into his biceps. His eyes open, his lips part, and the way he looks at me with a mixture of concern and confusion reminds me that this wouldn’t even be happening if he knew I was only nineteen. I scramble to think of something that would make him believe I’m more experienced, but I’ve got nothing but my instincts to work with. “What are you thinking?” He pushes deeper into me, and I clench my teeth when he holds the position, waiting for me to answer. I smile and slide my hands up his biceps to his shoulders, and then I place them on either side of his face.

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“I’m thinking that I want you to kiss me.” With every intent of distracting him, I guide his mouth to mine. It works. With his mouth busy, he glides in and out, and I start to feel less of the pain and more of the incredible pleasure of the rhythm. I wonder if I weren’t drunk, would I be embarrassed or inhibited? I mean, I’m naked on a stranger’s couch, allowing him to take something from me that I’ve been taught to cherish and only give to a person I love. I’m not embarrassed, though, or inhibited. Not at all. I want this as much as he does. Maybe I’ll change my mind when I’m sober, but it’s too late to turn back now. My mental pondering is thrown out the window when he rises up onto his knees to bury himself even deeper inside of me. He slides one of my legs onto his shoulder, and without losing eye contact the entire time, he drags his face along my calf,

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kissing it until he reaches my foot, where he presses one last kiss in the center of the bottom of my foot, sending shockwaves rippling up my leg. He repeats the delicious torture on my other leg until I’m reduced to a puddle of desire. I whimper in this new position when he buries himself again, and when he senses that I’ve had all I can take, he picks up the pace so we can lose control together. What I learn next is that the pleasure of having an orgasm with this majestic man is a far cry from doing it on my own. One last groan from King and one unexpected mewl from myself later, we’re riding out the powerful wave together. His swollen length pulses inside of me while my core does the same around him. Panting and gasping for air and clutching me, he smiles an extremely satisfied smile as he slides my legs off of his shoulders and rests part of his massive weight on me. “Are you all right?” he asks.

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“You keep asking me that.” “That’s because I feel like you aren’t telling me something. This was incredible. Holland, you’re amazing, but . . . I don’t know. From the moment I touched you on the dance floor, I’ve felt that you’re somehow different.” Come on, Holland, you need to figure out something to say without telling him you were a nineteen-year-old virgin thirty minutes ago. “I’m fine, really. I just don’t usually do things like this.” Again with the half-truths. I’m inwardly freaking out for more than one reason, and I am definitely not fine. I was telling the truth when I said I don’t usually do things like this, because I don’t, haven’t, won’t ever again, probably. I’m going to New York in a few months, and that will be the end of my short-lived wild social life. I’m sure Savannah doesn’t have ‘find someone to deflower Holland’ on her itinerary, but if she

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wants to add it, I can cross it off for her now. Savannah. Shit. How long have I been gone? I need to text her and tell them I’m okay. Shit, where is my phone? “See? Like right now, something’s wrong, isn’t it?” he asks. “Yes, actually. Now there is something wrong. My friends don’t know where I am, and they’re going to freak out soon, if they aren’t already. I lost my phone, and I need to call them.” Panic starts to set in, and I push against his chest. King places one hand on either side of my face and strokes my cheeks with his thumbs while he tries to calm me down. “You’re fine. Everything's going to be fine. We can get dressed, and I’ll help you find them. And I’ll bet you left your phone in the booth. I can check for you, okay?” I listen to his soothing words and nod, trying to contain my hysteria as I begin to sober up. King presses another soft kiss on my lips and fixes

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me with a look of bewilderment before he slides out of me. His eyebrows are drawn together for a brief moment before he pulls me upright onto wobbly feet. “The bathroom is right through there if you need it.” His words are dismissive, but his actions speak louder as he gathers me into his arms to kiss my forehead again before holding me out at arm's length. “I’m finding it hard to leave you.” Our eyes follow his hand feathering down my arm until he slides his palm against mine. Our hands float up until our fingers lace together. “I feel like we’ve known each other much longer than just an hour.” “Me too,” I agree almost inaudibly, and there is nothing about that answer that is a lie. Finding King has been like finding a part of myself I didn’t know was lost.

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“I’m going to call the bartender about your friends and your phone.” His eyes search mine one last time for the thing he can’t quite put his finger on, and I wish more than anything that I weren’t nineteen right now. “Okay.” My voice cracks and I clear my throat. “I’ll just . . .”—I release his hand and grab my clothes from the couch and the floor—“I’ll be right back.” With my head clearing fast, I dash down the hall toward the bathroom. I open the door and feel around in the dark for the light switch and flick it on. Light floods the room, and I stare at the gaudy decorating job. It’s ridiculous. Four glossy black lacquer steps with a sweeping gold railing lead up to an island in the center of the room that holds a huge gold soaker bathtub. The toilet and vanity are black lacquer too, and they’re equally as garish as the tub. Statues of angels and candelabras are situated around the room and on the vanity. There’s even an

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angel on the back of the toilet, for God’s sake. Who would purposely decorate a room this way? I wander around to the other side of the tub and gaze into a large, round mirror over the sink. It reminds me of the mirror from Snow White. I suddenly have the urge to say, ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who’s the fairest of them all?’ Until I catch my reflection, that is. I look terrible. Naked and clutching my clothes, with my hair sticking every which way and mascara smudged under my eyes. I hardly recognize myself. I trudge back to the door, tugging on my shirt as I go. When I reach the intricately carved, gold painted, atrocious piece of wood separating the hall from the bathroom, I lock it and realize my panties aren’t with my clothes. Shit. I’ve never gone commando, but hey, this is a big night of firsts, so what the hell. I have to pee first, but I’m a little intimidated to sit on King’s golden throne. It’s so . . . fancy. Wrinkling my nose in distaste, I

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chalk the experience up as another crazy first. Peeing in a gold toilet—one more thing Savannah doesn’t have on the summer itinerary. She is never going to believe this. If I had my phone, I’d take a picture and send it to her. Standing in front of Snow White’s mirror, I dab and wipe at my face, trying to restore my previous twenty-one-year-old look, but I’m just making it worse, so I quit and focus on my hair. Luckily, when I peek inside one of the drawers in the vanity, I find a hairbrush. I manage to smooth out the bird’s nest in my hair so I’m presentable. A knock on the door startles me, and I hear King’s voice asking if I’m all right; he does that a lot. “Yeah, just a sec, I’m coming.” I say, crossing the cold marble floor in my bare feet to unlock the door. When I swing it open with too much force, it yanks me back a step. Damn thing looks like solid wood, but it must be hollow.

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King stands in front of me wearing charcoal grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a brooding expression on his face. His bare, chiseled chest and abs are inches from my face, and one of his arms is casually stretched over his head, holding onto the frame of the door above us. He’s literally breathtaking . . . as in I can’t breathe when I unintentionally give him a once-over. “I wanted to talk to you for a minute.” He sounds so serious. No way did he figure out my age in the last ten minutes, did he? My rising pulse whooshes in my ears, and a thin film of perspiration breaks out all over my body. “The color just drained out of your face.” He reaches out to cup my cheek in his hand, and I lean into it without thinking. “I know I keep asking, but are you okay?” “Yeah. Sorry, I just got a little lightheaded there for a second.” Half-lie.

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“Well, I’m not letting you put these suicide shoes back on then. How the hell do you walk in these things?” he asks, lifting my stilettos that are dangling from two of his fingers. “I’m fine. I can walk,” I say, taking the shoes and slipping them on. The balls of my feet scream as I grow taller, but nowhere near tall enough to look King directly in the eyes—and that’s good, because I’m still scared of what he wants to talk to me about. He sighs when he catches me wincing. “They look painful. Come on, let’s talk. It’s nothing bad, I promise,” he says, taking my hand to lead me back to the living room, where we sit on the corner of the couch facing each other. I tuck my leg under me as we sit, holding hands. I wish I could pull my clammy hand out of his, but I don’t want to give him the wrong impression, and if he’s holding it, I can’t fiddle with the hem of my shirt like I am with my free hand.

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“I wanted you to know that I don’t make a habit of trolling the dance floor and luring women into my home. In fact, you’re the only woman who has ever been in here.” “Oh . . . okay.” I’m not sure I believe that. Why would he have a bachelor pad like this on top of his nightclub and not use it to do bachelor-ish things? “I truly am sorry. I acted like a caveman, dragging you back here when I should have been treating you like a lady.” The heat of a deep blush creeps up my neck. I’m sure King feels it on my cheeks, but I don’t say anything because I don’t know how I feel about his apology. No girl wants to hear the man who took her virginity apologize for doing it. But King doesn’t think I’m a girl. He thinks I’m a woman, a twenty-one-year-old woman out dancing with her adult friends and having drinks. His phone begins to chime, drawing our attention to a table in the kitchen where

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it lies. The ring tone is a piece of music that I recognize instantly, Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5. I find it strange that a hot club owner has a classical ringtone. King pulls me up and walks directly behind me, with his hands on my hips, to the kitchen. “I love classical music. I’m really looking forward to hearing you play,” he says, propping his chin on my shoulder and reaching past my hip to grab his phone off the counter. He begins to absently draw little circles on my bare belly while he listens to the person on the other end. “They have your phone,” he says, moving his mouth away from the phone. “And your friends are outside the apartment, waiting for you.” He thanks the caller, disconnects the call and slips the phone into his back pocket.

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“I have to give you back. I wanted to keep you a while longer and prove to you that I’m not an animal.” “I’m sorry. My friends are probably frantic. I should go.” I lean my head against his for a moment before he turns me in his arms. His eyes search mine again for that little thing he just can’t seem to find. He inhales a breath and holds it for a second before blowing it out. His breath is warm and smells like toothpaste, which reminds me that he was going to have a cigarette earlier. He must have a toothbrush stashed in his apartment, somewhere other than the bathroom. It strikes me as sweet that he would brush right after smoking. My Aunt Corinne and a few of my parents’ friends smoke, but the smell is very obvious and it clings to their clothes and hair like Pigpen’s dirty cloud. Not King, though. In fact, I can’t smell it on him at all. I would have never known he was a smoker if he hadn’t told me.

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“Okay, gorgeous, I’ve interrupted your night long enough. When can I see you again?” He squeezes me tight and chastely kisses the tip of my nose while I scramble for an answer. I can’t possibly see him again . . . can I? “I’ll give you my number.” Two little frown lines form between his brows. “You’re not giving me a fake number. I hope I didn’t scare you off tonight. I really want to see you again. I was serious about hearing you play.” His eyes follow his finger as he traces the edge of my jaw, sending a shiver up my spine. “I won’t give you a fake number. I promise. You can call me before I leave.” I smile, and he presses one last lingering kiss on my lips before leading me to the door. I have to ask about that bathroom before I go. It’s too outlandish not to mention it. “Hey, what’s with the golden bathroom?” I ask and he chuckles.

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“I had a decorator that thought my name was funny. I let her take a few too many liberties and ended up with a bathroom fit for a King.” I roll my eyes and mouth ‘wow’ to myself when he turns his back. I get the idea that he may actually like his royal potty. When the door to the club opens, the music seems much louder. In fact, the whole red floor looks a little different. Could I have been that drunk? “Holland!” Savannah yells across the bar before nearly trampling a couple in her effort to get to me. The couple barely escapes, and the woman says something that I can’t hear, but I’m sure from the look on her face that it’s not nice. Mika is right on her heels, apologizing to them for Savannah. “Where the hell have you been? We’ve been looking all over for you. Shit, I thought you’d been kidnapped, or roofied, or kidnapped and roofied.” She grabs me into a

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suffocating bear hug, inadvertently yanking my hand out of King’s. “I’m sorry, we were dancing, and it was so loud that King brought me up here to talk,” I explain while she holds me at arm's length, checking me over from head to toe like she’s my mama. “Savannah, this is King,” I say, twisting out of her arms to avoid the pat down she’s giving me. “He’s the owner of this club. And King, these are my friends, Savannah and Mika.” King extends his hand to both of my friends, who are standing frozen with their mouths hanging open. “Oh . . .” Is all Savannah can manage, but Mika has her wits about her, and as usual with strangers, she strikes up a conversation, easing the awkward moment. “The owner, huh? Wow . . . impressive.” Her gaze passes back and forth, from his to mine. “I love your club. I’m here every

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weekend.” King flashes her his perfect Superman smile. “I appreciate your business, but more than that, I appreciate you bringing your friends—this one in particular,” King says, nodding in my direction. We all stare as he bows and lifts my hand to press his lips against my knuckles in a soft kiss. I think we all jump simultaneously when he breaks the spell with his next comment. “I also want to apologize for stealing Holland away. Please accept an open tab for the rest of the evening and a free membership to the VIP club for future visits. It’s the least I can do. Savannah shakes her head when she’s returned from Shockville and announces that an open tab isn’t necessary, because apparently, we are leaving. But before she can refuse the memberships, Mika steps forward, accepting his offer enthusiastically. “Thank you, Mr. Romero. We would love that.”

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“Very good then. I’ll have someone put your names on the list.” He turns his attention back to me, and a tingly sensation flutters in my chest. “Your number, Holland?” King says. My phone. Where is my phone? I glance at Savannah’s hands and then Mika’s. No phone. “Yes, but I don’t have my phone,” I say. He looks at Savannah, and she jumps when she realizes he’s waiting for her to give me the phone. “Oh, sorry. The bartender found it in a booth. Here.” She slips my phone out of her pocket and hands it to me. I pull up my phone number and turn the screen to King, proving it’s my real number. He smirks and leans forward to see the number. “Consider it memorized. I’ll call you soon,” he says, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek.

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“You’re amazing, Holland, and so very sweet,” he whispers in my ear. He takes several steps backward before he turns to walk away, leaving the girls staring at me in disbelief. Savannah regains her composure first—with her hands on her hips, the way she does when she’s being motherly. “We are going home right now, Holland Blue Bennett, and you are telling me everything that happened with that man tonight . . . everything.” “Me too,” Mika says enthusiastically. “Okay, okay. Let’s go then. My feet are killing me in these stupid shoes.”

Chapter Two King “Monty, buzz me in, will you?” I need to be alone. What have I done? That woman completely bewitched me. I lost control tonight, and I don’t lose control. Holland is irresistible. That long, silky black hair and those clear, grey, haunting eyes did something to me—something I can’t explain. The way she melded with the music and the crowd on the dance floor made my head swim. Before I knew it, I was in the elevator and going down to get her. I can’t believe I broke rule number one—don’t bring strange women into the VIP club, let alone my apartment. Smashed that rule. Rule number two—don’t give the guests something to gossip about. Rule obliterated. I’m sure the whole club is buzzing about the woman King hauled off to his apartment. Fuck. I can’t believe I wasn’t more discreet. I should have never brought her here. Rule number three is

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just plain common sense—never, ever have unprotected sex. I crushed that one too. At least she’s on birth control, or so she says. I don’t see her lying, though. She seemed honest. I went after her. She wasn’t some slut looking to score the big dog. I wanted her. Fuck, King, you sound pathetically pussy whipped right now, and you don’t even know this woman. Why would you think she doesn’t sleep around when she let you do her after thirty minutes of dancing and light flirting? My bartender, Monty, buzzes me into my apartment, where I flop down on the couch. I can still smell her on the cushions. I roll over face-down to inhale her intoxicating scent. What the fuck is going on? It’s not like I can’t get a piece of ass whenever I want. I own the hottest fucking club in the U.S. Something’s been different over the past couple of years, though. I haven’t been craving my normal meaningless one-night stands. They’ve become boring. Lately, I’ve been

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yearning for something more, something normal. I’ve found myself searching for a person I can trust, someone I can spend some time with, someone with common interests. I don’t do long-term relationships. The longest I have ever been able to stand the same woman is a weekend, maybe two weeks—that’s it. But Holland . . . something in her soul called to mine. The second I laid eyes on her, I knew she was special. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but something clicked when I saw Holland. The atmosphere changed and the earth shifted under my feet. I’m sleeping on the couch tonight. I never sleep on the couch, but she’s everywhere out here and nowhere in there—and I want her everywhere. I’m starting to regret letting her go. Actually, that’s not true. I regretted letting her go the second she started panicking about her phone and her friends. I’m calling her in the morning. Shit, I might not even wait that long. This must be

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how a drug addict feels after getting high for the first time: the temptation, the rush, and then, as soon as it’s over, the craving for more. I’ve never been addicted to drugs, but if Holland Bennett were a drug, I’d be addicted to her. I’ve been staying in the club apartment and overseeing operations since we opened two months ago. I spend every evening in the club until it closes to make sure things go smoothly. I’m love stoned tonight, however, and I have no desire to be around clingy women and drunken people. I’m staying in. Down the hall in my bedroom, I strip down to my boxers and grab my comforter and a pillow. In the living room, I make a bed on top of Holland’s sweet scent. Everything about that woman is sweet—her smile, her scent, her personality—but my favorite sweet thing is the way she tastes on my tongue.

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It’s too soon to call her. She’s probably just getting to her car. I should have offered to drive her home. I could have at least called a car to pick her up at the door. Those shoes of hers were killing her feet, and rightly so. I’m sure she’s fine. She’s with her friends. I ruined their night by stealing her away. Well, I’m pretty sure I didn’t ruin Holland’s night. I can’t fucking believe I’m doing this when I grab my phone and text her to make sure she’s safe. I’ve known this woman for all of an hour, and I’ve been separated from her for fifteen minutes, but I’m worrying about her safety. Something is very fucking wrong with this scenario. Just wanted to be sure you made it to your car safely. The parking lot can be a dangerous place for incredibly beautiful women like you. I hope whoever is driving is sober. I feel terrible for not making sure of that before you left. I could have called for a car to take you all home, but I was distracted thinking of our time together. Please let

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me know when you’re home safe and sound-King. My text is saccharine and romantic, like a boyfriend worrying about his girlfriend, ugh. My thumb hovers over the send button while I contemplate the possible ramifications of sending this text, but I tap the button anyway. I have to. I reach over the back of the couch to the console table and grab the remote and my smokes. I switch the television on to ESPN and toss the remote on the cushion next to me. I flip open my Zippo, hold the flame to the end of my cigarette, and take a long drag. I hate smoking. It’s a nasty habit, but it comes with my lifestyle. My phone chirps; it’s a text from Holland. Thank you for being concerned. Mika is driving and she is sober. We’re safe

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and sound. Thank you for the compliment. I had a nice time tonight too.–H She has no idea the kind of man she’s dealing with, and I don’t ever want her to. I steer clear of relationships, another rule I made for myself when I was younger. They’re messy and time consuming, and they require honesty and dedication. My father’s line of work never allowed for any of those things, especially honesty. I knew how my family made money, and so did everyone else, but it was a taboo subject that no one ever mentioned. Note to self: scratch that rule from the rulebook . . . permanently. I’m pretty sure Holland is the thing I’ve been searching for to help me escape my crazy lifestyle. In the short amount of time we spent together, she has already made me want to be someone different. She’s not the type of woman who associates with dark people from the world’s underbelly like me. She is delicate and fine-

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spun, graceful and angelic, so contrary to myself. I didn’t know exactly what I was searching for until I saw Holland on the dance floor tonight. It was the first time since I was a child that I didn’t feel unclean or polluted. Right now, I want to text her back, but more than that, I want to hear her voice. I want to tuck her under my arm and kiss the top of her head and snuggle with her until morning—and that’s a little unnerving. I don’t do this. I don’t form bonds or connect with women. I show them a good time, get what I want, and dismiss them. That’s what a drug lord’s son does. I prop my feet up while John Anderson talks about the day’s sports scores and highlights on Sports Center. I lean my head back against the couch and pull the last of the carcinogens from my cigarette deep into my lungs. I blow the smoke straight up and watch it swirl and roll up to the ceiling until I smell the scent of the filter burning. I toss

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my duvet onto the floor and stomp into the kitchen, where I drop what’s left of the smoldering filter into the sink. I open the fridge and grab a Corona, twist off the top and head into the den where I can check my security cameras and see what’s happening in the club. The cameras cover the main entrance, the elevators, all of the exits, and every bar, as well as the dance floor. Everyone is having a good time. Everything’s in order, and even though I know she has gone home, I find myself searching the crowd for Holland’s sultry figure. Every woman with raven hair causes me to look twice, searching for her haunting eyes, those curves, and that sweet mouth. Fuck, King. Go to bed. I punch the button, shutting off the monitors, and return to the couch, where her scent is already fading. I need to change that soon.

Chapter Three Holland Not two minutes after we’ve piled into the car, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. It’s him. He’s asking if I’m okay. Crap, what should I say? What should I do? My common sense takes a temporary leave of absence, and before I know it, I’m typing a response. What did I do? What did I do? What did I do? My heart leaps in my chest and I begin to silently panic. I was supposed to leave the club and never look back. I was supposed to forget my first night of drinking and everything that happened with King. Oh hell. Who am I kidding? King is impossible to forget, and that is why I couldn’t ignore his text.

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“So Holland? Holland? Holland!” Savannah yells at me, turning around in her seat and snapping me back to reality. When I look up with hot tears brimming in my eyes, her eyes widen. “Oh my gosh, what’s wrong? Did that bastard hurt you?” She reaches out to take my hand and squeezes it tight. “No, no. He didn’t hurt me.” I shake my head vigorously. “I’ve just never . . . I don’t know.” “Never what, Holland?” she says sharply, squeezing my hand so hard that the ring I always wear pinches my skin. I’m not sure how to answer her. Should I lie and say we just messed around? I’ve never done anything with a guy, so her question could be honestly answered many ways. Or should I just tell her everything and get it off my chest? Mika pulls over to the side of the road and turns in her seat, locking her suspicious eyes on me. Mika is more experienced. She

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knows immediately—I don’t have to say a word. “Oh my God, you had sex with him, Holland. How the hell did that happen? Holy shit! I’m gay, but I’d do that man. He’s fucking impressive.” Nausea hits me hard. My head is pounding, my pulse is racing, and I feel faint. If I had to guess what an anxiety attack feels like, it would be exactly like this. “Mika, shut up. She didn’t have sex with him,” Savannah snaps. When I don’t answer, she looks at me again. “Did you, Holland?” I fumble with the door handle and open the car door just in time to puke all over the curb. Relief washes over me for a few seconds. It feels good to purge my body of the alcohol that’s been sloshing around in my belly for three hours. But the feeling is short lived when I retch two more times. Savannah is out of the car in a flash, holding my hand, and Mika has abandoned the

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driver’s seat to slide into the back seat behind me. “Shit, I’m sorry. I don’t know to be subtle, Holland. It’s a curse.” I’m panting and gasping for breath as Mika holds my hair away from my face and Savannah speaks soothing words into my ear. “Shush, Holland, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.” When I catch my breath, I pull my legs back into the car and flop my head against the back seat and close my eyes. I take a few cleansing breaths and lift my heavy lids to find that both girls are staring at me, full of anticipation. Savannah’s hand is splayed over her heart, and Mika is nervously running her finger along the inside of her necklace. “I . . . I’ve never . . .” “Did he force himself on you?” Savannah’s voice rises with every word. I shake my head back and forth.

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“I’m fine. It’s just my stomach. I drank too much.” “Alcohol? I think this is more than alcohol messing with your nerves,” Mika says. “We made out, but I wanted to as much as he did.” “He’s so old,” Savannah whispers. “Well, you made me look like I’m twenty-five, Savannah. What do you expect? And he wants to see me again. He wants to hear me play.” I push my way out of the car and teeter when the sidewalk tilts in front of me. I reach out and grip the door until I have my balance, and I start to pace, opening and closing my hands and shaking them out at my sides. “What are you gonna do?” Mika asks. She leans against the back of the car and crosses her arms over her chest, propping her foot on the bumper. I stop and stare at her shoes—wedges. She’s so smart. Note to

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self: never allow Savannah to choose my shoes again. I turn and take a few steps down the sidewalk away from them. “I don’t know,” I tell them I don’t know, but I do. I’m going to see him again. There’s no way I can’t. “Do you like him?” Mika asks. Savannah answers for her. “Who cares if she likes him or not? She’s nineteen, and he is so not. She can’t see him again . . . ever. If he finds out we were in there with fake IDs, we could get in a lot of trouble. He’s old enough to be your daddy, Holland.” I spin around. Savannah’s standing with her hands on her hips, and it irks me. She’s the reason I’m in this mess, and now she’s going to scold me for it? “No, he is not. I mean, I don’t know how old he is, but . . . you don’t really think

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he’s that old, do you?” Both girls look at me like I’ve grown a second head. “What?” I shrug my shoulders. “You’re actually thinking about seeing him again, aren’t you? You like him,” Savannah says. “Just how much making out did you guys do, Holland?” Mika asks, holding up her fingers to put quotes around the words ‘making out’. It’s now or never. I have to make a decision . . . tell them or make something up. “We just kissed—that’s all,” I blurt out. Mika blows out a breath of relief and Savannah’s shoulders relax. “Well thank God for that. Let’s get home and forget this night ever happened. We can scratch IDs and clubs off the

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itinerary. I’ve had enough of all that until I’m actually twenty-one,” Savannah says. That damn itinerary. “Well, not me. You know where to find me every Friday night, ladies. I’ll keep an eye on him for you, Holland.” Mika winks and slugs my arm lightly. “You feel good enough to go home now?” “Yeah, we’d better sneak in before my mama figures out we’re gone. So far this night hasn’t at all gone as planned. It would be just my luck to get caught and punished for such an epic failed attempt at being a rebel.” Savannah reaches for my hand and leads me to the front passenger door. “Sit on my lap. It’s only a couple blocks.” She climbs in and pats her lap. “My breath smells like puke.”

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“It’s okay. This is sort of my fault. I feel bad.” She pulls me down onto her lap, and I shut the door and lean my head against the frame of the open window. Mika enters the driver’s side. Her seatbelt clicks, and in seconds, we’re pulling away from the curb and toward my house. Thank God we are able to safely climb the shaky trellis to my bedroom without breaking our necks. We strip out of our sweaty club clothes and stuff them in her duffle bag. Savannah zips it up and sprays perfume all over the outside, hopefully covering the smell of alcohol, puke and cigarette smoke. I pull a brush through my hair, brush my teeth and wash all traces of makeup from my face while Savannah does the same. When I look like myself again, we crawl into my comfy bed and face each other on our sides. Savannah begins quizzing me. I knew it was just a matter of time, but I was hoping she’d let me sleep a while before starting in.

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“What was it like?” She presses her palms together and slides them under her pillow. “Making out?” “Not just making out—making out with an older man who looks like he belongs on the cover of GQ.” I’m so glad the room is dark when I feel the heat of a hot blush creep up my neck. “It was nice.” “Nice? That’s it? Just nice?” What am I supposed to say to her? That he’s a chiseled god who stole my virginity and my heart in less than an hour? That I can still feel his hands all over my bare skin and his lips on my . . . Oh God, no way. “He was sweet and polite, and he’s a good kisser, although I don’t have anything to compare it to. What else is there to say?”

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She sighs and kicks me in the shin—not hard, but enough to let me know that she’s not believing my abbreviated version of the story. “Why are you holding back?” Because I’m embarrassed that I had sex with the first man to ever show me any attention, and because I was reckless and careless and juvenile. “There isn’t anything else to tell. We went upstairs and had champagne, he kissed me, and we went inside his apartment to talk, and he kissed me again. End of story.” It’s hard to see in the dark, but I know she rolls her eyes before she fires another question. “What’s his apartment like?” “It’s big and clean, and it has a ridiculous bathroom that looks like it belongs in the Taj Mahal.”

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“What? bathroom?”

Why

were

you

in

his

“Uh, I had to pee.” Sarcasm isn’t really my forte but I think that question warrants a little. “The Taj Mahal?” “Everything was black lacquer and gold, with candelabras and angel statues all over the place. Super weird.” “Really? Yeah, that is weird.” She’s quiet, and I imagine she is trying to visualize King’s crazy bathroom, but after a few minutes, I’m starting to think she’s fallen asleep when she speaks again. “Do you really like him?” “Yes.” “Are you going to . . .?” “I don’t know,” I whisper.

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Tired and warm, we both snuggle deeper under the blanket at the same time, signaling the end of our conversation. “Night.” “Goodnight, Savannah.” I wait until she’s softly snoring to turn over and stare out the window at the fingernail moon while I think. I am going to see him again. If he calls, I’m answering. We may be light years apart in age, but he doesn’t have to know that. It’s stupid and risky, but I need to see him. I can’t lose my virginity to a man and never see his face again, especially his beautiful face. I have all summer to be reckless before going to Juilliard, and I want to spend it being reckless with King. The only thing I regret about tonight is the unprotected sex. I’m kind of freaked out about that. What are the chances of getting pregnant the first time? I mean, I know it happens. I just really hope it hasn’t happened to me. I’ve been a

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good kid all my life—nearly perfect, actually. I can’t believe the first mistake I end up making is such a whopper. It’s two in the morning, and I still haven’t slept. My head is pounding, and my tongue feels like it’s covered with sand. I slide out of bed, careful not to wake Savannah. I wait until the door is closed to turn the light on in the bathroom. Under the harsh light, I catch my reflection in the mirror when I reach for the bottle of Ibuprofen. King will never believe I’m his age without the dim lights, the makeup and the stiletto heels. After popping the three pills into my mouth, I down a full glass of water. I place my hands on the edge of the counter and lean toward the mirror to look closer at myself. “What are you doing, Holland?” I whisper to my reflection. I drop my chin to my chest and sigh. I feel sloshy and bloated, but more than anything, I’m tired. I push off the counter and switch off the light, pad

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across the room and crawl back into bed. I’ll figure it all out tomorrow. Right now, I just need to sleep.

***

“Up and at ‘em, girls.” My mama bursts through the bedroom door, clapping her hands at the ungodly hour of . . . ten a.m. I grab my head and cover my ears. “Dear God, why does she have to do that?” Savannah moans next to me and rolls over. “You girls must have been up late last night. What were you doing up here, anyway?” she says as she crosses the room to my window.

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“Um, just watching movies and messing around.” I lie to my mother for the first time in my life. She pushes my curtains open wide and pats me on the behind as she breezes by, leaving the smell of bacon and honey wafting behind her. “Get up. Breakfast is ready, and you have a room reserved to practice in today, so we need to get going.” Shit, I almost forgot. “You said we were going swimming today,” Savannah whines from under the covers. “I forgot, sorry. Maybe when I’m done?” I squint out of one eye at my mama to see if she approves. She stops in the doorway with her hand on the knob. “Yes, that’s fine as long as it’s after you practice.” I nudge Savannah with my elbow under the covers. “Give me a ride?” I ask.

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“I will take you, Holland,” Mama says. Now her hands are on her hips. She’s irritated that I’ve asked Savannah, but I need some freedom today, and I’ll never get it being shuttled around by my mama. “Mama, Savannah can take me. It’s okay.” We both look out from under the covers with pleading eyes. “Oh, alright. I guess I need to get used to you doing things for yourself soon anyway.” She focuses her attention on poor Savannah. My mother is seriously overprotective. I can’t believe she’s letting me go away to school in New York. She plans my days from sunup to sunset, organizing all of my practices and concerts, study times, and the few social events I’m allowed to attend. I never minded that before, but today her rigid schedule feels suffocating. I need to be able to see King. “Okay then. Get dressed and come downstairs, chop chop.” She spins around to

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leave, and I watch her sleek, black ponytail slip through the crack of the door. We simultaneously pull the comforter over our heads to block out the painful sun. “God, your mama is cheery in the morning. I thought she was on to us for a second, but I’m pretty sure we’ve got this.” “Yeah she’s a morning person. I feel sorta guilty. I’ve never lied to her before.” “Never? Like, not even a little white lie or anything?” “Nope. I’ve never had reason to, I guess. I’m a homebody, I get good grades, I play the violin, and I don’t have a boyfriend, so what’s to lie about?” “Yeah, true. Boring bitch.” There’s a pause before she pounces on me and starts to tickle me mercilessly. “Ugh. Stop. Stop. I can’t help it that I’m a good girl.” She shoves me aside when she’s finished torturing me, and I curl up

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into the fetal position to guard my belly and moan. “I’m gonna barf. I’m never drinking again. This isn’t worth it.” “Oh yeah, but meeting Mr. Male Model Club Owner was worth it, wasn’t it? I still can’t believe you messed around with that guy—or any guy, for that matter.” “Me neither.” If she only knew just how much messing around we actually did. “I want to invite him to the rehearsal studio today. That’s why I wanted you to drive me.” Savannah sits up in bed and turns her whole body to face me. “Have you lost your mind? I know you two had fun last night, but that was like an adventure. This is real life, and he’s old.” I look up at her out of the corner of my eye and see her throw her hands up in the air and drop them at her sides. “He’s not that old.”

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“Let’s look him up. I’m sure there’s something on the Internet about the new club. There has to be something about him too.” Shit, I didn’t think of that. Do I really want to know how old he is? It doesn’t matter, though. Savannah is already digging her iPad out of her bag and tapping in Ecstasy before I can stop her. “Okay, here it is. Ecstasy, the newest dance club on the nightlife scene, boasts three levels of entertainment, including the Psychedelic Circle dance floor and a private membership-only club. World-renowned guest D.J.s every weekend. You never know who you might meet at Ecstasy. Only open Friday and Saturday, from six till last call. Reserve a table for the most comfortable evening possible. Table service available on every floor, and seven bars for easy access to drinks. Be where the IT people are. Be at

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Ecstasy. Owned and operated by Mr. King Romero.” “Well shit. That doesn’t tell us much we didn’t already know, except his last name. I’m Googling King Romero.” I’m actually relieved that she hasn’t found anything on him, but now she’s digging deeper. “Okay, here he is. Damn, that man looks fine in a suit.” She straightens her back and holds up the iPad while I peer over her shoulder at the photograph of King with a blonde woman on his arm, attending some kind of red carpet affair. She’s right. He’s striking in his black pinstripe suit, and the woman is gorgeous in a floor-length red gown with a slit up the front that probably shows all of her girly parts if she isn’t careful. “Says here he’s twenty-five, born and raised in Puerto Rico. His parents are Arturo and Isabella Romero. He owns a bunch of other clubs around the world, and he just

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happens to be one of the United States’ most eligible bachelors, if you’re looking for the dangerous bad boy type.” “What? It doesn’t say that.” “It does too, look here.” She points at the article. “You made out with the most eligible bachelor in the United States. Holy shit, Holland. How does it feel?” I can’t get past dangerous bad boy. What does that mean? What does that say about what happened between us last night? He’s not just a player; he’s the ultimate player. How could I be so stupid? Shit, I think I’m gonna puke again. I slap my hand over my mouth and fly into the bathroom, making it just in time to dry heave bitter stomach acid into the toilet. “Holland. God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Shit, you have a sensitive stomach.” I grip the edge of the toilet and

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manage to tell her it’s okay, but this is so far from okay. “You want me to tell your mama you’re sick?” She gathers my hair at the base of my neck and rubs my back. “No, it’s just a hangover. I’m okay. I’ll take a shower and be down in a minute. You go eat.” “I don’t know about eating, but I’ll go down and keep your mama company. Don’t take forever, though. She drives me nuts, and I need to shower too. Holland?” I sit back and rest my bottom on my heels and rub my hands on my thighs. “Yeah?” “Are you really gonna meet with him?” Five minutes ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated in answering yes, but now that I know that I’ve given my virginity to the biggest player in the country, I’ve changed my mind.

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It was all a game to him. I was just a conquest, a notch on his bedpost. I wonder how he would feel to know that notch was nineteen years old? “No, what’s the point? I’m sure I’ll never even cross his mind again.” “Oh, now stop. That’s not true. Nobody can forget you.” She drops my hair and pulls me into a side hug. My mouth starts to water, and another round of nausea rolls through my stomach. “Thanks, Savannah, but you’d better let go. I still don’t feel so good.” She quickly releases my shoulder, stands up, and backs out of the bathroom. “Okay, um, I can’t watch you do that again. I might throw up myself. Meet ya downstairs.” I wave her away, and she closes the door, leaving me to agonize alone. I can’t believe I was so stupid and gullible. What on earth made me think a gorgeous, worldly man like King would be interested in me? He

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did text me right away, though, right? Yeah, right. He just wanted to make sure he wasn’t responsible for a drunk girl getting into an accident that he was just seen making out with in his club. When I’m positive I’m not going to throw up again, I drag myself off the floor, flush the toilet, strip down, and turn on the water. I rest my forehead on the glass shower door and wait for the water to warm up before stepping in. It feels so good that I moan and drop my head back to let the water run through my hair. Maybe Savannah and I should skip practice and just swim all day. I need to work on forgetting about last night. I really need to focus on having good, clean, King-free fun for the rest of the summer. And practicing my ass off—always practicing my ass off.

Chapter Four King I stretch my arms above my head and instantly feel a kink in my back. That’s what I get for passing out on the couch, though. Wait. I don’t think that’s how I ended up here. My pillow is under my head and my legs are tangled up in my comforter. I would never drag all that out here if I were drunk. I open my eyes and it all comes rushing back. Transparent grey eyes, brown skin as soft as silk, long, black hair tangled in my fingers, and the scent of an angel, or how I imagine an angel would smell. Holland. Sweet, sweet Holland. That woman has somehow ingrained herself into my soul. What I feel for her isn’t the typical physical lust I usually have for a woman. Holland seems to have woven herself into a place in

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my heart that I didn’t know existed. She just opened the door, lit up the dark, forgotten area, and made herself comfortable. How the hell does that happen in an hour? I mean, literally an hour with her, and I can think of nothing else. I feel around for my phone to check my texts. When the screen glows bright, I see there are eight new messages, and none of them are from her. I don’t know why I expected to hear from her already. Get a grip, King. The first message is from my floor manager last night, checking in with me before closing. Another is from Crystal. Shit . . . Crystal. That’s a mistake I wish I’d never made, a one-night stand that has been holding on for over a year now, waiting for something more. I haven’t helped the situation much by taking her to formal events and having casual sex with her. She’s great eye candy, but there is no chemistry there—not for me, anyway. Crystal has made it ‘crystal clear’ that she would love nothing

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better than to marry me, settle down in the suburbs, and have a slew of babies. She knows what I do and what I am, and for some insane reason, she still believes I could give her that life. Delusional. She’s totally delusional. I’ve told her that we are going nowhere, but she refuses to believe it, and until now, I haven’t had a reason to quit leading her on. The moment I pressed up against Holland on that dance floor was the moment any desire for any other women ceased. I can’t even entertain the thought of anyone else. I need to see her again . . . soon. This is ridiculous. I’m acting like a teenager after his first date. Just call her, you fool. It’s ten o’clock. Would she be up by now? I don’t know the first thing about her, let alone her sleeping habits. This is so stupid. Just call her, King. Quit acting like an idiot. Sitting in the middle of my couch with my legs drawn up and my elbows resting on

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my knees, I run my fingers through my hair and listen to the phone ring—once, twice, three times—until I’m forced to either hang up or leave a message. “Hi, you’ve reached Holland Bennett. Please leave a message after the tone.” Beep. I’m usually a very smooth operator, never at a loss for words, a natural sweet talker. But Holland renders me speechless with her musical voice, asking me to do the simplest thing . . . leave a message. After a few seconds, I finally get a grip and ask her to call me soon. Is she still sleeping? Is she ignoring my call, screening it? Insecurity. Wow, this is new, and it fucking sucks. I’ve never worried about contacting a woman. In fact, I’ve never called someone the next day—or ever again, for that matter. Usually, I run into my conquests in the club or at a party, but I don’t consider Holland a conquest. She’s more of a blessing or a gift. I launch myself off the couch, thinking about my meeting this morning. I’m going to

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be late if I don’t get my ass in gear. Something pink on the floor next to the couch catches my eye. No way, she didn’t. When I reach down to pick up Holland’s pink lace panties, my heart pounds in my chest like a prepubescent boy seeing a nudie calendar for the first time. My fucking morning wood is bordering on pain, and I need to relieve myself, but I choose torture instead, burying my nose in the pink scrap of material that is rich with her scent. I need to see her again, to feel the heat of her skin near mine, nip her plump, soft lips, trace the curve of her neck with my finger and down between her . . . oh, enough. What the fuck is she doing scrambling my brain like this? I am a strong willed, stubborn, asinine, pig-headed fucking dick, and I’m standing in my living room losing my shit at the mere thought of a woman I’ve met once. One fucking time, damn it. I stomp to the bathroom for a cold shower. For a fraction of a second, I consider

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tossing the delicate, torturous reminder of my new obsession back onto the floor, but I can’t do it. When I’m in the bathroom, I lay the bunched-up piece of lace on the counter and turn on the shower. “You’re whipped,” I tell the guy looking back at me in the mirror. He looks like me, but he can’t possibly be me, because not only do I feel different, but I look different. Narrowing my eyes, I lean in close to the mirror, looking hard at myself and trying to see exactly what it is that’s different. Wow, King Tomas Romero has finally met his match, and for some reason the thought is slightly irritating. I was looking for this, even craving it. But I am completely inexperienced with these kinds of unbridled, no-holds-barred feelings. I am the leader, not the follower, but Holland has claimed an all-encompassing power over my senses. Every one of them pulses with desire for her. After a difficult time emptying my bladder, I step into the shower and brace

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myself against the wall as the icy water sluices down my body like a million tiny knives slicing my skin, effectively dowsing my arousal. Any other time, I would have taken care of myself under a hot spray of water, but after being inside of Holland, nothing else can compare. I dress in a pair of dark jeans and a bright orange fitted t-shirt and make my way through the quiet, empty club to the underground parking garage. Inside the Range Rover, I adjust the seat to accommodate my long legs. My head of security, Sebastián, drove it last, and he’s a good five inches shorter than I am. I start the engine and sit in the dark cab for a few minutes, checking my schedule on my phone and a couple of stock trading apps. When I’m done, I lay the phone in the center console and stare at it. I’m not a very patient man, and she hasn’t returned my call. I want to talk to her, but I don’t want to be a stalker, for shit’s sake. Fuck it. I want her. I’m calling. I snatch up

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the phone and bring up the recent call list, press her name, and wait for her to answer. “Hello?” She answers on the second ring. One word is all it takes, and I’m a bundle of emotions, ranging from an aching desire in my bones to an unfamiliar sense of calm. “Good morning, beautiful,” I growl, wishing I could crawl through the phone and kiss her when she giggles softly. “Good morning yourself, King.” I can hear the smile in her voice, and I want to ask her to repeat my name but I resist. “How did you sleep?” “Um . . . it took a while to get to sleep.” Good, maybe she was thinking of me as much as I was thinking of her.

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“Same here. I kept thinking about this woman I met recently. She had the most interesting grey eyes, almost transparent, with tiny flecks of violet around her irises.” “Sounds sort of . . . haunting,” she says, throwing my description of her eyes last night back at me. “You’re very observant, Mr. Romero.” “Only something.”

when

I’m

interested

in

“Yeah?” “Yeah. I was hoping that woman—you know, the one with the haunting eyes? Well, I was hoping she would see me today. For lunch, maybe?” She pauses long enough that I start to think we’ve been cut off, but right before I ask if she’s still there, she replies. “I’d like that very much. I have to practice today, though, until four. I have a rehearsal room reserved . . .” She pauses, and

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I imagine her biting her lip as she constructs her invitation. “Do you want to come and listen, and then we could go for dinner?” “Dinner it is. I’m dying to hear to you play, Holland. Text me the address of the rehearsal hall and what room you’ll be in. I have a meeting I have to go to right now that won’t take long, but I’ll see you soon, okay?” “Okay . . . and, King?” she says, sensing I’m about to hang up, which I was, because I didn’t want to give her time to change her mind. “Yeah, sweetheart?” “I had a really nice time last night.” Now I imagine her looking down at her feet, smiling shyly with a red blush blooming over her cheeks, and that vision makes me twitch. It takes all my willpower not to moan.

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“I did too, Holland.” More than she knows. “Text me that address, and I’ll see you in a few.” I can feel her smile through the phone. “Oh, okay. Bye.” I disconnect the call and toss my phone into the seat next to me, grinning like a fool. After a deep, cleansing breath, I stretch my arm across the passenger seat and carefully back out of my parking spot. When I exit the garage, I fumble for my sunglasses in the blinding Texas sun. I swing left toward the home of Mexican drug lord, Hector Morales. Shipments are due to arrive soon, and my inside contact with the U.S. government is in town. Generally, these meetings are long. Sometimes days are spent making arrangements, planning, and drinking, but not today. I’m cutting out after I make an appearance. Sebastián can handle the details of the shipment while I handle the much more

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interesting, delicious details of a Ms. Holland Bennett.

Chapter Five Holland “Are you out of your mind?” Savannah is staring at me when I hang up the phone. “Just keep your eyes on the road. I’d like to live so I can practice this afternoon.” Savannah’s not the best driver, especially when she’s distracted. “Wait. I thought you changed your mind. I thought you didn’t want to mess with the most eligible player in the U.S. And now you’re planning on sneaking off to have dinner with him? How do you plan on getting away with that, anyway? Your mama is picking you up after practice. I offered, but she said no.” She’s been whipping her head back and forth between the road and my face while she speaks. Her blonde hair is flying around in the breeze

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from her open window. Her hands speak with her words, gesturing here and there while she keeps tucking her wild hair behind her ears. She’s adorable and annoying. “I’ll figure it out.” “You’ll figure it out. Holland, you’re starting to worry me. Who are you, anyway, and what have you done with the real Holland? You have one make out session with a hot guy, and suddenly you’re scheming and sneaking around and making dinner plans. You were going to forget him; too old, remember?” “I didn’t think he’d call me after you read that stuff on the Internet.” I throw up my hands and let them slap against my bare thighs. Shit. I wish I had worn something more sophisticated than a t-shirt, jean shorts and my sparkly Chucks. He’s taking me out to dinner, and he thinks I’m at least twentyone.

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“Yeah, well he’s still that guy. Just because he called you doesn’t make him any less of a player.” “Shut up, Savannah. If it weren’t for your summer itinerary, I wouldn’t be in this mess.” The second the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. She was only trying to make me happy, and it’s not her fault this thing with King and me happened. “I’m sorry, Savannah. I didn’t mean that, really.” “I know,” she says, reaching out to hold my hand. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt, and he seems like the kinda guy that could do some really serious damage, ya know?” “Yeah . . . I do.” I really, really do. I’ve never had feelings like this before. I can’t tell if they are normal, first time liking a guy kind of feelings, or really serious adult feelings. I do know one thing, though. He called. He wants to see me, and I’m not missing out

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on the opportunity to see him again with clear, sober eyes. It will also be sort of interesting having the home field advantage this time. “You have to do me a huge favor, Savannah. Seriously huge.” I need something else to wear. I can’t let him see me looking like . . . like a teenager. She glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “Shit . . . I’m afraid to ask. What kind of favor?” “I need something to wear. He’s going to a meeting, and then he’s coming to listen to me practice. I look like a teenager.” I gesture at my outfit. “You are a teenager. Holland, are you sure about this? Sooner or later, he’s gonna know you’re only nineteen. What then?” “I’m going to New York this fall. I’ll never see him again after that. I just wanna have some fun. Please?” I beg with my hands

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pressed together in front of me. She looks at me quickly. I hold up my hands in their prayer position and beg again in a tiny voice, fluttering my eyelashes. “Please.” “Oh, God. Okay, who can say no to that face? What do you want me to bring you?” she says with a deep sigh. “Thank you.” I squeal and side hug her awkwardly from the passenger seat. “How about a dressy romper and some heels—not stilettos. My feet are still sore, but something casual.” “Okay. Yeah, I have something like that. I’ll bring it over. What about your hair?” “Crap, I didn’t think about that. I’ll just take out the ponytail and wear it down.” “You’re gonna have a rubber band ring. I’ll fix it for you.”

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“I knew I could count on you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” “I have a feeling I’m gonna regret it someday when you’re bawling on my shoulder about this guy breaking your heart, but if you’re dead set on playing this out, I can’t let you do it alone.” I love her. Savannah drops me at the curb in front of STRINGS, the music studio I’ve been practicing at since I was ten. “You promise you’re gonna help me?” I say, turning back to look through the open door of her parents’ Durango before I close it. “Duh, of course, dummy. I told you I would. Hurry up and get in there so I can run home and get you an outfit that will make you look old,” she says, swishing her hand at me to close the door. I take my violin from the seat and push the door shut with my hip.

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She doesn’t even wave goodbye. She’s on a mission to help me in her true best friend fashion. There’s no stopping her now. Inside STRINGS, the cool air rushes over my sweaty skin. Texas in the summer is no joke. It’s hot out there, and I’m glad I’m in here. I bypass the counter where most people check in. Shanna, the woman who makes the appointments, nods at me when I walk by. I’m here twice a week to practice and record my music. She knows me on sight. Halfway down the long hall, I remember that I should probably warn Shanna that I’m expecting visitors today. I hadn’t even thought about her. What if she accidentally says something to my mama the next time she calls for a time slot? I guess I’ll have to cross my fingers and say a little prayer that she doesn’t, because it’s too late now. He’s coming, and I’m not stopping him. I step around the corner and wait for Shanna to finish checking someone else in.

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When she’s done, she turns her attention to me. “Hey, Shanna. I wanted to let you know my friend, Savannah, is going to be dropping by this afternoon for a few minutes.” Shanna knows Savannah, and she also knows I take my music very seriously, so she doesn’t balk about me having a guest, but I’m not sure what to tell her about King. “And uh . . . a man is coming to hear me play too. If you could let him come back, he’s an um . . . he’s an orchestra scout.” She raises her eyebrows. There’s no such thing as an orchestra scout and she knows it, but whatever. It’s an excuse to get him back there. I don’t want her thinking he’s my boyfriend. He’s not, I don’t think. I don’t know what to call a man—who is six years older than me—that I’m interested in and have already slept with on our first non-date. “Alright, Holland, I’ll send them back. No messing around, though. Your mama is

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paying for practice time, not social time.” Crap, there goes all hope that she won’t mention this to my mother. I’ll just tell her the same thing. I met him at orchestra practice. He was looking for talent, so he came to listen to me play. Wow, I can’t believe how the lies are piling up. I’m digging myself in deeper and deeper with everyone. I’ve gone from goodie two shoes to juvenile delinquent in twentyfour hours. “I know, Shanna. It’s all business, cross my heart,” I swear to her and make a quick X over my heart before darting back down the hall. In room three, I move the microphone away from my chair. I’m not recording today, so I set my music on the stand and take my violin from its case. I perch on the edge of the chair with my back straight and close my eyes. After a few cleansing breaths, I raise my bow and begin to play a partita of Bach’s.

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I don’t need the music. I know it by heart. It flows from me like water down a stream. My body sways with every note; emotions that only my instrument can conjure stir in my soul. I was born for this. I need it. To live without my music, I am simply not me.

Chapter Six King Walking down the narrow hallway to room three, I try to shake the irritation caused by the suspicious, overbearing woman at the counter in the lobby. I can’t remember ever being so thoroughly scrutinized by a woman. You would have thought she were Holland’s mother by the way she looked me up and down before allowing me back. As if she would be able to stop me. Nothing is going to keep me from my beauty today, and certainly not that opossum-looking old guard dog. The rooms are supposed to be soundproof, but I can faintly hear the music coming from room three—Holland’s room. With my hand on the doorknob, I look through the

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small window in the door and stop dead in my tracks. There, in the center of the room, sits the most angelic creature, playing the most remarkable music I’ve ever heard in my life. I frequent the symphony and listen to classical music often, but nothing I’ve ever heard compares to this. Nothing. I never imagined that watching Holland play the violin would be so fucking sexy. The passion rolling off of her body is awe-inspiring. Her eyes are closed, and it’s as if her body were composed of the music. Her every movement flows and jerks with the difficult piece. I lean my head against the door and enjoy the sight of a true professional musician melding with her art. She told me she played, but this—this is so much more than simply playing an instrument. Her music demands my attention, exactly the way her body did on the dance floor last night in the club. Holland doesn’t just play music; she is music.

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“Uh, Mr. Romero?” A voice behind me snaps me from my reverie, and I turn to see who would be so daft as to interrupt someone listening to an angel playing music straight from heaven. The best friend from last night at the club stands holding a bag and a piece of clothing on a hanger. “Hi, I’m Savannah, Holland’s friend.” “Of course. Yes, I remember. It’s nice to see you again.” I glance through the window again and back at Savannah. “Holland invited me to listen to her play. She’s amazing.” “Yeah, she’s special. Not another one in the world like her,” she says, rising onto her toes to look over my shoulder through the window. “She asked me to bring her something to change into after practice. She uh . . . didn’t plan on dinner and stuff tonight.”

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“Ahh, I see. Should we wait out here for her to finish this piece?” I ask. “Probably not. This is her favorite, and it goes on for like forever. I’ll let her know you’re here when I go in and give her this stuff.” “All right,” I say, stepping aside and opening the door for her so she can interrupt Holland. She’s in another world and doesn’t even notice that Savannah has entered the room. The music pours out into the hall for a moment, blessing my ears, until the door slowly closes, muffling the elegant notes. I look through the tiny window one last time and see Holland jump and drag her bow screeching across the strings when Savannah taps her on the shoulder.

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Chapter Seven Holland “Shit, Savannah.” I curse and jump when I screech my bow over the strings, ruining the piece of music I was so lost in. “Shut up and let me block his view of you,” she says. “Huh? What, he’s here?” “Yeah, he’s early and he’s waiting in the hall. He saw you,” she says, hitching her thumb toward the door. “Shit. Did he say anything? Do you think he noticed how young I am?” I ask. “No, actually he didn’t. He said you were amazing. I think he was probably so into your playing that he wasn’t really looking at your clothes and hair and all that crap.”

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Well thank God for that. I lean around Savannah to see if he’s still watching through the window in the door, and she quickly steps in front of me. “What are you doing, dummy? Don’t let him see you again. You need to change. Move over there in the corner close to the door so nobody can see, and I’ll try to do something with your eyes. Why is he here so early anyway? I don’t have time to do crap to your hair now,” she says, flicking a wild chunk of my hair over my shoulder. “How am I supposed to know? Come on, walk with me and make it look casual. Did he ask you about the clothes?” She walks backward toward the door, pulling me along and acting like a human shield. King didn’t see me when I peeked the first time, and she’s not about to let me risk it again. “That was really casual, Savannah.” I roll my eyes.

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“Shut up.” She yanks the rubber band out of my hair and begins fluffing and fussing with my waves. I didn’t do a thing with it today. She’s got her work cut out for her. When she’s done, she tilts her head to the side, checking her work. “Not bad. Okay, now hold still and let me fix your face.” “I’m not broken, just young. Be nice, Savannah,” I say, toeing off my shoes and unbuttoning my shorts. “I know, I know. I don’t work well under pressure, sorry. Here, put this on.” She thrusts a hanger into my chest. “Gosh, remind me how rough you are the next time I ask for a makeover.” I slip my t-shirt over my head, and she informs me that I need to go braless because the romper has a racer back. Great. I step into the gauzy shorts and pull the material up and over my shoulders while she digs in her

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purse for whatever it is she needs to ‘fix’ my face with. “Did you have to choose something I can’t wear a bra with?” “I was in a hurry. This is my mama’s. I didn’t have anything that looked right.” I’ve never seen her so frustrated. She whips out a tube of mascara and starts to come at me with the wand, and I cringe and realize that Savannah’s southern drawl is much more pronounced when she’s in a huff. “I didn’t bring heels. Nothing I had went with this thing, but my mama wears these gladiator sandals with it, so I grabbed them.” Actually, I’m pretty happy about that. The balls of my feet are so tender from last night that walking in heels sounds like a special kind of torture. Not five minutes later, I have been transformed from my everyday self into a modern, stylish, twenty-ish looking woman.

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“There. Damn, you look good. Oh my God . . .” “What? Please don’t tell me there’s something on this thing. I don’t have time to—” “No, there’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just . . . he has on a shirt that’s the exact same color. Like, I mean exactly the same shade of orange.” Oh brother, what are the chances of that happening? This isn’t exactly a common color. Must be fate. Yeah, right. “We’re gonna look like a couples dance team, but whatever, can’t do anything about it now. Thanks, you’d better go before Shanna comes back here to break up the party. I told her King was an orchestra talent scout.” I giggle and she rolls her eyes. “I’m not even gonna ask if there is such a thing. I’m going, but you call me if he

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tries any funny business. I have my mama’s truck, and I can come get you.” I give her a quick, short hug. “I will. Don’t worry, it’ll be okay.” She rolls her eyes again. “Your eyes are gonna slip back into your head and stick there if you don’t quit doing that.” “Yeah, whatever, Mama.” She turns to leave, but she quickly spins around and mouths ‘call me’ as she opens the door. Now it’s my turn to do the eye rolling. She says goodbye to King as I follow her out. “Sorry, I was dressed pretty casually to go out to dinner. I wanted to change into something a little nicer.” King stops mid-turn from saying goodbye to Savannah. He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stares at me. His gaze travels down the length of my body, starting with my eyes, working his way down

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to my feet and back, and settling on my mouth. I fiddle with the violin shaped silver ring that my daddy gave me last year for my birthday. I slide it around and around with my thumb until he notices how uncomfortable I am. “You look perfect.” His voice is low, and I’m suddenly feeling like I’m going to be his entrée at dinner tonight instead of his guest. “Thanks.” He closes the distance between us in two steps, placing his hands on either side of my face. I gasp and watch his eyes jump back and forth between mine as if he’s looking for something, searching for an answer to an unasked question. My heart hammers in my chest and my head feels fuzzy. Even sober, I feel drunk in his hands. He backs me gently through the open door behind me and into the rehearsal room, never losing eye contact.

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I want to say something but I can’t. This is amazingly close to the way I feel when I’m lost in my music. It’s like I’m on another wavelength, another level of consciousness, unaware of anything but the subject holding my attention. The door clicks behind him just as his mouth feathers over mine. I want to close my eyes and let him take me away the way I do with my music, but he is much too beautiful to shut out. His eyes are open too, and he begins a sensual pattern of tenderly kissing and exploring my mouth and pulling away until we’re nose to nose. When he gazes into my eyes, I see a question there. It’s the same question he asked me repeatedly last night. ‘Are you okay? Is this okay?’ I answer him by initiating the next kiss, and I close my eyes to fully experience King’s lips gliding over mine. I have no clue what I’m doing, but somehow instincts take control and I thread my fingers through the soft curls at the nape

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of his neck. King moans, drawing me closer, and I feel his thick arousal pressing into my belly. His hands drift from my cheeks down my arms and around my waist, where he finds the open back of my romper. “Oh God, Holland, this outfit is going to kill me tonight. I’m never going to be able to keep my hands off of you at dinner.” “We aren’t at dinner yet,” I whisper. His eyes darken until they’re almost black, and he looks at me so deeply that I swear he can see my soul. He urgently walks me to the wall behind the door, where his mouth covers mine passionately, his touch becomes more demanding, and his breath comes in short pants as he lifts me up, pressing me against the wall. I wrap my legs around his waist and feel his cock strain against my eager core. I push against him, using my body to ask for what I want, and what I want is more—more of him, more of everything.

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“I want you, Holland. Right here, right now.” His words are like currents in the ocean, pulling me out to sea. I’m helpless against their power. Like a defenseless victim, I’m being dragged under and tossed around in the sea. I can’t tell which way is up, where to go for more oxygen, or what to do to survive. My inexperienced hands fumble with his belt as he pushes my shorts and panties to the side to slide a long finger inside my wet folds. My head hits the wall with a soft thump, and when he finds what he wants, it spurs him into a mad frenzy. I don’t even know what happens after that—the sensations all meld together. His hands are everywhere at once while mine impatiently search the chiseled muscles of his back. I need more—more of him, more of this, until he mercilessly enters me with one long, hard thrust and we are no longer two, but one. I yelp, and his hand flies to cover my mouth. This isn’t like last night. This is

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feverish and desperate and better, so much better. He pulls his face away. Locking eyes with me for a beat, he lifts his eyebrows, and without a word, I receive his message loud and clear: shush, or we’ll get caught, and you don’t want this to stop, so don’t get us caught. He pulls me flush against his chest and slides his hands under my ass, burying his face in my hair. His mouth is pressed against my neck, and I feel his warm breath panting against my damp skin. I arch my back in an effort to give him more of me—all of me—and he greedily takes it all, pushing inside of me over and over until I’m crying out so loudly that no hand on my mouth can quiet me. King stops and loosens his hand from my mouth, and I whimper when we lose our rhythm. He presses his forehead to mine, and I watch a bead of sweat trickle over his temple and down the side of his face. A cello plays a sad piece of music in the next room. I

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can faintly hear the music seeping through the wall behind my head while I wait for King to look at me. When he catches his breath, he looks at me from under his thick black lashes. “You’re mine, Holland. Swear to me that you will never let another man put his hands on you. Right now, say it. Promise me,” he demands. This is not a request or even an option for me to say no. I don’t want to. I don’t ever want another man to touch me like this. I quickly nod once with wide eyes, and he presses his hand against my mouth again, anticipating my next reaction. “Come, Holland . . . right now. I want you to come for me.” I have no idea how, but my body follows his command, and I scream into his hand, biting down as he pounds into me, smashing my back against the wall. I come

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so hard that every cell of my body explodes in pure ecstasy. I lose myself around him as he thrusts twice more before he stops, and I can feel him pulsing inside of me, filling me with a part of him for the second time in twentyfour hours. His entire body is trembling, and he is holding me so tightly that I can’t breathe, but I don’t care. I feel his jaw clenching against mine, and for a second I worry he may break his teeth off trying to suppress a roar that would have been deafening if we hadn’t been in public. Clinging to each other, we gasp, and I feel his jaw slowly relax and turn into a smile against my neck. “What the hell was that?” he asks. “You . . .” he says, dropping his chin to his chest and shaking his head back and forth. “You make me do things . . . feel things . . . shit, Holland, you’re like a fucking love sorceress or something.”

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This man, who is far more experienced and skilled than I am, thinks that I’m casting spells on him. Me . . . nineteen-yearold Holland Blue Bennett, virgin about town up until a few short hours ago, who knows next to nothing about pleasing a man. I can’t even protest his ridiculous claim, though, because his hand is still covering my mouth. “Oh. God damn, you probably can’t breathe, can you?” He instantly removes his hand from my face and tucks a piece of my wild hair behind my ear. “I bit you. I’m sorry,” I say, eyeing his palm. He smiles, flashing every single one of his perfectly straight white teeth. “I loved it. Next time, we’ll be in my bed and you can scream as loud as you want to, unless you prefer biting me. That can easily be arranged too.”

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“The room is soundproof, you know.” He twitches inside of me, smiling and shaking his head back and forth in disbelief. “You’re a wildcat, Ms. Bennett,” he says with a smirk, pressing me against the wall one more time. He pulls away and looks down at my crumpled romper between our bodies, and I follow his gaze. “I messed you up, didn’t I?” he says, wrinkling his nose. “Um, yeah, you did. I still need to practice, and Shanna is going to be coming back here soon to check on me, so we need to fix this.” He steps away, slowly sliding out of me, holding my eyes, and lowering me to the ground. With my feet firmly on the floor and my legs Jell-O beneath me, he bends his knees to tenderly place a kiss on my belly. Then he begins to smooth out the front of my

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top while simultaneously copping a feel. I giggle, but he is quiet as he adjusts my shorts and panties back into place. My eyes follow his every movement until he turns me around, nudging me gently toward the wall. I press my cheek against the cool surface and wait while he gathers the loose material around my waist and ties a bow at the small of my back. His hands leave me, and I hear him zip and buckle his pants. I start to turn around, but he moves closer again and laces his fingers with mine, pressing me against the wall while he nuzzles my neck with his nose. “I’m sorry I interrupted your playing,” he whispers in my ear. “You’re so fucking amazing. Watching you play turned me on. I have a thing for classical music, and I have an even bigger thing for you, Holland. I meant what I said. Don’t ever let another man’s hands touch this body.” He presses me against the wall a little harder to make sure I get the message. “You’re mine. I want to get

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to know you—every single thing about you, inside and out. Not just your body, Holland. I want to know the mind of the woman I just witnessed becoming one with her music. I want to be a part of the soul that can feel so passionately about something that I love so much. I want you to feel that way about me. I want to be your music.” I am dumbfounded and absolutely ruined for any other man for as long as I live. I don’t know what to say. I feel like this has become incredibly serious incredibly fast, and I’m confused, but one thing I’m sure of is that what I’m feeling for him is just as strong as what he’s feeling for me, so I agree and promise to be only his. “I promise. I’m yours, King.” “Pinky swear?” he asks. “What?” “Pinky swear. You know.” He releases my hands and links his pinky fingers with

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both of mine and repeats himself. “Pinky swear.” I smile and tighten my fingers. King Romero wants me to pinky swear. “Yeah, okay. Pinky swear,” I answer, giggling. “Ahh, sweet Holland, you have just made me an extremely happy man.” His lips find my ear and he nibbles my lobe before trailing a quick path of kisses down my neck. He releases me and twirls me away with one hand like a ballroom dancer, and I squeal at his sudden shift from serious to playful. King hits me with a look of pure adoration, and if I didn’t know it before, I am sure of it now. I am absolutely in love with this man. “Now practice. Stop wasting precious time. Play for me.” He laughs, shoving me gently toward the chair where I abandoned my violin earlier.

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I do my best to organize these newfound emotions into some semblance of order as I sit on the edge of my chair and try to compose myself enough to focus on my music. It’s different now. This time I’m not just practicing in an empty room. I’m performing, and I’m doing it for the man who will forever be my King. I think King would stand in my rehearsal room forever, listening to me play without interrupting. I’m prone to losing track of time during practice. I can go on for hours without a break, thinking of nothing but the way the notes flow through my body. King stayed all afternoon. He never complained or cleared his throat suggesting that I wrap it up. He never changed his posture or shuffled his feet impatiently. King remained stone still, absorbing the music, until Shanna knocked on the door to inform us that my time was up, and the next person on the schedule was waiting in the lobby for the room.

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“Oh my gosh, Shanna, I’m sorry. I totally lost track of time,” I say as King stands purposely between us, blocking her view of me while he picks up my purse and my bag of clothes. He silently removes my violin from my hands while Shanna continues to complain. After several minutes of annoying complaining, she realizes that he is ignoring her and she crosses her arms over her chubby breasts with a ‘humph.’ He opens my violin case and gently places my instrument inside before reaching to take my bow to do the same with it. I roll my lips in and press them together to keep from smiling. When he’s finished slowly and meticulously readying me to leave, he takes my hand and leads me past Shanna and down the hall without so much as a word or a nod. “I’ll see you next week, Shanna. Sorry I went over my time,” I call over my shoulder, stumbling along as King pulls me through the door and into the extreme heat of the late afternoon.

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I squint and shield my eyes from the sun. “Where are we going?” I haven’t called my mother with an excuse to not pick me up, and I need an excuse fast. “Away from that annoying, infuriating individual.” I finally allow my suppressed smile to light up my face. She is annoying, but King’s response to her is hilarious. “She’s just doing her job, King. She’s not that bad,” I say. He stops suddenly, turning to face me on the busy sidewalk. Squinting when the sun blinds him, he automatically looks down at the ground while one of his hands still clutches mine and the other carries my violin. When he looks up, I’m surprised to see his face so serious. “She was rude and inconsiderate. You were only over your time by five minutes.

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She could have been more respectful by simply informing you of the mistake. She treated you like a child. I wasn’t going to stand there and allow that, but since you apparently use their space often, I held my tongue.” Part of me is elated that he’s so protective and feels the need to defend my honor, but on the other hand, I’m going to have to figure out a way to smooth over that incident before she tells my mama about the strange, rude man who was listening to me play all afternoon. STRINGS is the only place we can afford to regularly reserve a practice room, so I can’t have Shanna getting angry with me. “Okay, well, besides the obvious escape from Shanna, where are we going?” “To dinner,” he says, releasing my hand to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear.

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The hot Texas wind is at my back, whipping my hair around my face and making his attentiveness fruitless. I try to swipe it to the side myself so I can see him better, but he stops my hand. “Don’t. Just stand there for a minute. You have no idea how exquisite you are, do you? You just stand there innocently with your hair all wild and untamed, those transparent grey eyes, your flawless, smooth skin . . . you’re a vision of perfection.” He traces a streak of lightning along my jaw and neck, and down my arm to my hand, where he laces our fingers together again. I’m nearing heat stroke from the summer sun—or possibly it’s a reaction to King’s compliments. Either way, I need to get off of this sidewalk. “I make you uncomfortable with my compliments, don’t I? I don’t mean to, I promise. You just take my breath away like no one ever has, Holland.”

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“I’m just not used to . . .” I start to explain, but he steps forward to silence me with a kiss. “I had to taste you again. Every time you start talking, I have to urge to kiss these lips,” he says, sliding the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip. He has such a way with words and . . . compliments and kisses and . . . just everything. I wish I could express to him how he makes me melt like ice cream on a hot day in July. Do all men treat women this way when they’re interested? I have a feeling they don’t. King is special. He’s different and maybe a little bit blind. How can he not suspect our age difference? I think he feels that something is off—he’s said so himself. Maybe he just doesn’t care. Maybe he likes younger women. Maybe I’ve misrepresented myself. In my own defense, I’ve always been more mature than other girls my age. I study harder, I’m motivated, determined and

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dedicated to my music and my future, so technically, I’m probably closer to thirty than twenty. “You’re going to be used to compliments soon. I’ll make sure of it. Every time I lay eyes on you, I feel compelled to tell you how stunningly beautiful you are. I will remind you that you’re insanely unique, incredibly talented, and so fucking impossibly sexy.” I stare into the eyes of this amazing man who sees me in such a different light. My parents and teachers are always encouraging me to be better, work harder, and do more, but King thinks I’m perfect just the way I am, and it’s refreshing, like a weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. I look down at my feet when I feel tears prick the corners of my eyes and take a deep breath. I’m overwhelmed. King is so very overwhelming.

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“Let’s go. I’ve got a surprise for you. I’m parked up here.” He steps out of my bubble and points up a steep hill. I’m really glad Savannah didn’t bring me heels. Savannah. Shit, I need to call her. King looks me up and down and realizes that my legs are no match for his. He slides my purse off my shoulder and takes my bag of clothes. I watch with curiosity as he slings them over his shoulder and steps in front of me. “Hop on.” A piggy back ride? “What?” “Hop on, shorty. I don’t want to be late.” I smile and shrug before grabbing his shoulders and hoisting myself onto his broad back. I wrap my legs around his waist and laugh, reveling in being molded against his body again. Everything about him is addictive: his scent, the way his muscles flex

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between my legs, the fluidity of his movements, his low, masculine, commanding yet loving voice. I press my nose against his neck and tightly squeeze my legs around his waist. “No one has given me a piggyback ride since I was six,” I say, resting my chin on his shoulder. “Well, you’ve been neglected long enough, then, haven’t you?” He turns to steal a kiss and begins asking me questions while easily climbing the hill with me on his back. “What kind of food do you like?” “American,” I say, and he chuckles at my vagueness. “What specifically?”

kind

of

American

food,

“Burgers and fries. You know, the normal stuff.” “What’s your favorite color?”

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“Why?” I ask, wondering what that has to do with my favorite food. “I just want to know. I want to know everything about you.” “Oh. Um . . . I guess teal blue, then. What’s yours?” “Red,” he answers, stopping next to a cherry red range rover. “This is me.” “Red,” I repeat, nodding. The color that represents passion—very appropriate. I slide off of his back, lavishing in the feel of every chiseled muscle rubbing against the bare areas of my skin, until my toes touch the ground. I am barely chest high in these flat shoes when I look up into his dark eyes. “Told ya, red.” He winks and presses the lock button on his key fob. The beep of the range rover unlocking echoes off the buildings around us, and he opens the passenger door for me.

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“Wait just a second.” He holds up a finger and opens the back door as well. I wait obediently, with my arms hanging loosely in front of me, hands clasped together. When he has my violin and bags tucked away, he swiftly takes me around the waist and lifts me into my seat. “Whoa.” I laugh, caught by surprise. “It’s a big step,” he says, flashing me his superstar smile. “You just wanted to put your hands on me.” “Guilty as charged.” He slides his hand along the inside of my thigh, and the air is instantly charged with desire. “You’re irresistible. I told you.” He pulls his hand away right before he reaches the aching apex between my legs. “But I really hate to be late,” he says, biting his lip and smiling as he closes the door.

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I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and try to figure out how on earth I’m going to control my suddenly raging hormones. This is all so new and intense, like being thrown in the deep end of a swimming pool full of freezing cold water. No easing into the shallow end with a casual boyfriend or two before finding Mr. Right for me. No, I have to go and get sucked into a full-blown adult, passionate love affair on the first go around. Figures. I’ve always been an overachiever. Just as King slides into the driver’s seat, my phone alerts me that I have a text. He looks into the back seat and passes me my purse before starting the engine. I fumble around, digging through my purse while the air conditioning first blows hot, stuffy and then brisk, arctic air against my damp skin. When I finally locate my phone, I take it out and shiver, saying a little prayer that it’s Savannah and not my mother.

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“Seatbelt, Holland,” he says, looking over at me with the steering wheel turned and his blinker ticking, ready to pull out into traffic. I crank my neck to find the belt and pull it across my body, clicking it into place. The instant I’m secure, he works his way onto the busy street. I glance down at my phone and breathe a serious sigh of relief when I see Savannah’s name instead of my mama’s at the top of my message list. I told your mama I would pick you up from rehearsal. She thinks you’re swimming at my house and grilling out with us for dinner. You’re welcome. How’s it going? Thank God in heaven for best friends. She managed to free up my entire evening with a simple believable lie. It’s easy being bad when you’ve been nothing but good your entire life. No one suspects anything. A pang of guilt hits me when I think of the ideal relationship I have always had with my parents. Lying has never been my style, but being

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with King makes me want so many things that I have never imagined doing before. If telling a couple of lies is what it takes to see where this goes, I’m willing to do it. “Everything okay?” King asks, glancing at me briefly and back to the road. “Yeah, it’s just Savannah,” I say and text her a quick thank you with a relieved emoji and a thumbs up. “Nice girl. I like her overzealous protectiveness.” “Yeah, more like overprotective, but that’s all right. She loves me.” “It’s good to have someone like that watching out for you,” he says wistfully, making me wonder if anyone has ever watched out for him. He doesn’t seem like the type who needs looking out for. After a few minutes of driving in silence, King switches the music on, and my heart skips a beat when Antonio Vivaldi’s

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Concerto No. 4 fills the air around us. I love this piece of music. My heart races when I play it, and the fact that King just happens to have been listening to it is just another bit of proof that this thing between us can’t be wrong. Closing my eyes, I imagine my bow as an extension of my body, gliding across the strings. Music feels so good. It’s always been there for me, feeding my soul. Without it, I’d wither and die. King is quickly becoming very much like my music. He feels so good. He feeds my soul, and I’m starting to be afraid of what would happen if I were without him. “Remind me to play this when I make love to you again,” King says, yanking me out of my musically induced state of bliss. “What? Vivaldi?” “Yes. I want to hear you scream my name at the climax of this piece.” As if his words weren’t enough to force a bright red blush up my neck, his sensual, deep, gravelly

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tone is. Dear God, he does things to me, things that perplex and fascinate me, mystifying things my young mind can’t begin to untangle. “I love seeing you blush. I’ll try to behave, though.” His words are genuine, but his smile is full of mischief. He isn’t going to behave, and I love it. I squirm in my seat with a vision of King and me in his bed, sweaty and panting, with Antonio Vivaldi’s Concerto No. 4 climaxing loudly in the background. Between Savannah saving me with her text message and King causing electrical storms between my legs, I haven’t paid attention to where we’re going, so I’m surprised when we pull into an underground parking garage in the parking lot of Ecstasy. It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the lack of light in the garage, but when they do, I glance over at King.

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“I’m still going to feed you—don’t worry. Your surprise is inside, though, so we have to stop here, okay?” “Yeah, sure, of course,” I say, but I haven’t convinced myself that any of this is okay yet. What kind of surprise would be in the club anyway? His apartment . . . of course. How could I forget? Butterflies take flight in my tummy when I think of being alone in the room with King where I lost my virginity less than twenty-four hours ago. “You’re quiet. Is everything okay?” King asks, guiding the Range Rover into a parking space between two other very fancy cars. I don’t know if everything is okay. I don’t know how to identify the feelings I have when I’m with King. “You’re overwhelming. In a good way, though,” I say, rushing the ‘in a good way, though’ part when his face clouds over with

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concern. He cuts the engine and reaches over to gently take my hand in his. “In a good way? I don’t want to push you away, Holland. I . . . I just don’t know up from down right now.” He pauses and frowns as he lowers his eyes to our joined hands. I can see the wheels turning in his mind. When his eyes find mine again, he blinks lazily, his long, dark lashes brush against his cheeks, and he lifts one of my hands to his mouth, where his warm lips slowly press against my palm and then the pad of each of my fingertips, one by one, seductively, until I’m nearly convulsing from the shivers zinging up and down my spine. I’m lightheaded. It’s happening again. He’s overwhelming me. “Sorry.” He’s smirking. I don’t think he’s really sorry, and that’s okay. “I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman the rest of the night. Come on, I have to get out of this confined space so I can keep that

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promise.” He carefully places my hands back into my lap and I watch him exit the Rover and round the front to my side. When he helps me down I notice, to my utter disappointment, that his hands don’t linger on my hips this time. He leads me by the hand to an elevator that lifts us up two floors before it opens right into the front entrance of the club. It’s a totally different vibe without all of the people and thumping music. “Wait here. I’ll be right back,” he says as he pushes through the double doors that separate the entrance from the club. Standing alone where a bouncer checked my ID last night, I notice that the glowing pink lights from the first floor of Ecstasy are now teal blue, my favorite color. The quivering lights give off the peaceful, quiet feeling of being underwater. When King returns, he’s holding something behind his back. One corner of his mouth is turned up in a smile, and I can absolutely feel the excitement and positive

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energy flowing off of him—like a kid in a candy store, except I’m the candy. “This was all on short notice, but I wanted to spoil you a little.” “What’s behind your back?” I ask, trying to peek around him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he teases, and I try again, but he quickly dodges to the left, keeping his surprise behind his back. Maybe another tactic would work better. I’ll ask nicely. “Yes, I would. Please.” “Well . . . since you asked nicely, I guess I’ll show you.” I love surprises; it’s the kid in me I guess. He doesn’t disappoint. The surprise is the most gorgeous bouquet of teal blue and white orchids I’ve ever seen.

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I gasp and clasp my hands together in front of my chest. “They’re gorgeous, but how did you . . . what . . . wait, how did you do that? I just told you my favorite color a few minutes ago.” “I have connections,” he says, raising one of his eyebrows in a high arch. He hands me the flowers, and I hold them close and breathe in their light vanilla scent. “They’re beautiful, King. Thank you so much,” I say and step closer to stand on my tiptoes and kiss him. He doesn’t reach for me, but he also doesn’t pull away. I meant for it to be a quick thank you kiss, but sparks ignite the moment our lips connect, and I find myself pressed against his chest with my arms wrapped around his neck, flowers dangling haphazardly, panting within seconds. A moan vibrates through his chest, making me brave, and I slide my hand over his chest and down to the rock hard erection straining against his jeans.

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“You’re making it impossible to be a perfect gentleman, Holland,” he murmurs against my lips. “What if I don’t want a perfect gentleman?” I whisper. “If you don’t want a perfect gentleman, then I guess I’m free to do this.” I inhale sharply when he slides his hands around to cup my ass. He pulls me flush against him. “And this,” he says, grinding his hard length into my belly. He deepens the kiss with his perfect mouth, expertly searching every part of mine, tasting and nipping at my full bottom lip. One of his hands slides over my backside, learning every curve, while the other holds me securely in place at the nape of my neck, under my hair. “But a promise is a promise, and I always keep my promises, Ms. Bennett,” he says, stepping back and literally leaving me

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hanging. I stumble forward a step, but as always, he steadies me. King is a drug, and he’s made me high. “Come on, let’s go inside.” His warm fingers take my hand to lead me on wobbly legs into the club. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. I feel King’s eyes on me, watching, waiting for my reaction. All of my attention is focused on the transformation that has taken place on the pink level of Ecstasy. All around the circular room, the walls are bathed in teal blue instead of hot pink, just like the ones in the entrance. The glass blocks that make up the bases of each bar are illuminated with the same color blue, and the small cube tables scattered throughout the bar are also lit blue from within. The most breathtaking area is a table in the center of the dance floor though. Formally set for two, it’s a small, intimate

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table made grandiose by a stunning chandelier that seems to be suspended in midair above it. The screen that surrounds the dance floor twinkles with a million bright stars like a night sky, instead of the honey dripping images and optical illusions from last night. The floor is covered with orchid petals that exactly match the ones in my bouquet. I inhale the light floral scent penetrating the air before I cover my mouth with my hand. I’m trying to comprehend all of the attention to detail that has gone into making this magical night time fairytale come together so quickly, but I’m simply awestruck. “King . . . I can’t believe you did all of this.” “You like it then?” he asks, sounding a little unsure. How can he possibly be unsure? It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen, and by far the most elaborate thing anyone’s ever done for me. I doubt any man

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has ever swept a woman off of her feet more thoroughly. I turn to face him, and sure enough, insecurity is written all over his face until he sees the tears pooling in the corners of my eyes. Relief spreads across his ruggedly handsome face, and the corners of his mouth turn up in the smile I am quickly starting to love. “Like I said, it was short notice.” He shrugs now, as if he weren’t full of doubt just a second ago. “If this is short notice, I can’t imagine what a date with a few days of preparation would be like,” I say, scanning the room again. “Well, if all goes as planned tonight, maybe you will give me the opportunity to show you the full arsenal of my date planning capabilities.” He winks at me, and I experience swooning for the first time in my

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life. My body actually sways under the heavy weight of his adoration. “Whoa there . . .” He grabs my elbow to support me, causing a sudden pulse of energy to spread across my skin. “You okay?” “Yeah. Yeah, I’m all right.” But I’m not. “Maybe we should sit down,” he suggests, guiding me to the table with one hand on the small of my back and the other cradling my elbow. As we walk across the dance floor, the orchid petals tickle my feet through the open toes of my borrowed sandals. Savannah’s never going to believe this. Hell, I don’t believe this. Who does something so romantic for a person they just met the day before? This kind of date should be reserved for a man proposing to his girlfriend or celebrating an anniversary, not a first date after a reckless drunken encounter. He’s setting the bar pretty high with all of this.

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King pulls out a chair for me and guides me down onto the soft seat while handing me a glass of water. “Here, drink this. You’re probably dehydrated. You haven’t had anything to drink all afternoon.” I drink the entire glass in one long swallow, looking up at him over the rim of the glass. He’s probably right. I’m still hung over from my first drinking experience, and I’ve been playing my fingers to the bone for hours. Not to mention the energy expended during our tryst in the rehearsal room. Who am I? How can one man influence me so significantly? “Thanks,” I say and hand the glass back to him with a weak smile. “I think you’re right. I was thirsty.” He places the glass on the table behind him, never taking his eyes off of me, and he reaches out with one finger to feather a trail from my cheekbone to my chin until it

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rests on my lips. His gaze is thoughtful as he cradles my face in his hand. “You make things different,” he says, focusing on my mouth. I want to ask what he means by that, but if I do, he will most likely remove his hand from my face, and I don’t want that. I turn my cheek into his hand and close my eyes, breathing in the faint smell of cigar smoke and soap. His hand tenses around my jaw, tilting my lips to meet his in the most tender of kisses. King moans. Pulling away, he gives my jaw a quick, frustrated squeeze before he releases it. “I’m going to have to keep my distance if we’re ever going to eat.” I watch as he pulls his white upholstered chair around so he is situated at my side instead of across from me. “That’s not keeping your distance.” I don’t know why I said that. The closer he is to me, the more content I seem to be.

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“I’m still working on mastering the art of self-control, Holland. You’ll have to give me time.” He’s being playful, but I sense a bit of seriousness in his voice, and his eyes are full of desire. “Sir?” A voice comes from the edge of the dance floor. “Yes, Sebastián, now is fine.” King responds without looking in the direction of the disembodied voice. A waiter and a waitress dressed in black pants and stiff white shirts appear on either side of us, seemingly from out of nowhere. The waiter gracefully slides two plates onto the table in front of us while the waitress pops the cork from a bottle of champagne and pours it into tall flutes. Before I can say thank you, they vanish as suddenly as they arrived. I examine the food on my plate and lay my hand over my tummy when it growls impatiently. I don’t recognize some of the food, so I look to King, who is watching me.

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“Hungry?” “Very.” “Do you need me to tell you what we’re eating?” I shake my head yes, and he points at the main dish. “Jumbo deep sea scallops encrusted in pumpkin seed,” he says, checking my expression before he proceeds to the next item. “Chayote with calabacitas with chipotle peppercorn sauce. It’s not ‘American’ food. I’m sorry. I wanted to share some of my favorites. I assumed you would like Mexican food. I shouldn’t have, but I did.” I do love Mexican. I mean, growing up in Texas, it’s pretty much mandatory, but these aren’t your average Mexican tacos or burritos. “No, no, I love Mexican food. I just haven’t had these particular things before. It looks great, and honestly, I would eat just about anything right now.”

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Relief spreads across his face again, and I wonder why he’s trying so hard. Why does he care so much if the food is to my liking or if the mood is set perfectly? We hardly know each other. “You’re sure? I can have something else prepared in seconds if you’d like.” “No. Please, King, this is perfect, all of this,” I say, looking around the room and back to him. “The table, the room, the music, the food . . . but most of all, you, King,” I say, reaching out to cover his hand with mine on the armrest of his chair. The same jolt I felt earlier passes between us, flooding my body with that strange combination of electricity and contentment. I’m reminded of the comment he made earlier, and I decide to ask what he meant by it. “What did you mean when you said ‘You make things different’?” I ask and watch

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as he seems to search for the right words to explain. “I’m not exactly sure. You just make me feel . . . different somehow.” His eyes narrow and his brow furrows softly as he regards me carefully for a heartbeat. “Now eat before you pass out on the floor and suffocate in a sea of orchid petals,” he says, removing my hand from his and placing it over my fork. Something about that answer stirs suspicion as well as guilt. It’s as if he wanted to elaborate but he stopped himself; that’s the suspicion. The guilt I feel stems from the secret I’m keeping. I hadn’t considered telling him how old I was before, but the further the day goes on, the more important it seems. The food is out of this world delicious, but it’s spicy. I try to keep my cool for a few bites, but finally I surrender and down another glass of water. With one hand splayed on the table and teary eyes, I look at King over the rim of my glass and see him biting

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his lip and holding back a laugh. When I’ve drained the glass, I set it down hard and gasp. “You knew this was hot.” “Ah, yes. I guess I did,” he says sheepishly, gritting his teeth and bowing his head to look at me through his thick dark eyelashes. “I’m sorry. Really, I think they actually made it a little spicier than usual. Here, have some champagne. I’ll have Sebastián get you more water.” He lifts his hand, motioning to someone in the shadows around the dance floor. Right away, my glass is filled and a pitcher of water is placed on the table between us. I’ve already downed my champagne in a very un-ladylike manner when I start in on my second—or is it my third—glass of water. He isn’t holding back now. His chuckling has turned into a full-fledged laugh, and I start to giggle along with him. He’s taken

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an extra drink of water as well, so I know it’s not just me feeling the heat of the spicy food. “You okay?” he asks. “Yeah, I think I will be now,” I say, coughing while I watch him refill my champagne flute. “I promise something more traditional next time.” “Traditional? As in less Mexican or less hot?” I ask. “Less hot, never less Mexican.” He smiles, and I wonder if he was born in Mexico. “Are you from Mexico originally?” “No, Puerto Rico. My father moved us to Texas when I was fifteen,” he says, pushing his food around on his plate. “Really? I’ve never been to Puerto Rico, but my daddy took us to Mexico on vacation once.” I too push my food around on

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my plate, unsure if I want to risk another bite. I expect King to elaborate on growing up in Puerto Rico, but he’s grown unusually quiet and withdrawn. A strange unease hangs in the air between us, so I decide to veer the topic of discussion in a different direction. “What sparked your interest in classical music?” I ask, tentatively taking another bite of shrimp. His face brightens as his eyes find mine again. Smart move. He loves music, it seems—almost as much as I do. “I was five, and my mother bought a piano. No one knew how to play, but she encouraged me to learn. She always wanted me to do the things she wasn’t able to when she was a child. I started lessons and caught on immediately. My mother wanted me to try other instruments, but my father said I should focus on one thing and be great at it, so of course I did as he wished.

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I listened to classical music when the other kids in school were listening to Rap and Pop. My dad regretted encouraging me to play the piano when he decided I should be involved in team sports, but I didn’t enjoy being part of a group. I was more interested in running, swimming, playing the piano . . . things that I could do on my own. Anyway, to answer your question, my mother instigated my love of classical music.” “You don’t seem like the loner type to me, what with owning and running dance clubs for a living.” I can almost taste his disquiet. “I got over it. My father made sure of it.” His tone is bitter, and I’m picking up that their relationship was less than ideal. “I’d love to hear you play sometime.” “I think that can be arranged.” Someone is approaching from behind. I can hear the shuffle of flower petals as they

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near the table. King looks up, initially irritated, but quickly his expression changes to concern. Sebastián bends to quietly say something in King’s ear on the opposite side of me, so I can’t make out what he’s saying. “Fuck. Tell her I’m busy,” he snaps, but Sebastián raises his brows as if to say Yeah, right and turns to leave us alone again. “I’m sorry, Holland. I’ll be right back. I have to deal with some . . .” he begins to explain, but before he can get the words out, he’s cut off by the screech of a woman’s voice. “What the hell is all of this?” She shrieks, and I turn to see a familiar very tall, very angry woman standing ankle deep in orchid petals with her hands outstretched. It’s the woman from the pictures on the internet—the one in the red dress. “And who the fuck is this?” She screams in an even higher pitch.

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“Crystal, what the hell are you doing here?” King yells, and I jump an inch off of my seat. His eyes swing back to me when he realizes he’s startled me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, reaching out to touch my arm. “I’ll be right back.” He pushes out his chair and bends to kiss me softly on my mouth. I squirm when the angry woman gasps. “It’s okay. Just a misunderstanding, I promise,” he whispers, but not quietly enough. “A misunderstanding. So I’m just a misunderstanding? What the fuck, King?” she screams, and King closes the distance between them in three long strides. “Shut your fucking mouth, Crystal,” he hisses, taking her arm roughly and leading her toward the front entrance. She stumbles and complains all the way until they pass through the doors, leaving me alone and confused. Is this Crystal his

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girlfriend? Is he cheating on her with me? Am I the other woman? The questions begin to pile up, and I don’t understand how I could have gotten mixed up in such a mess. After a few minutes alone, my mind settles and I hear soft music wafting through the high-powered sound system. Chopin . . . now that is something I understand, unlike the hysteria of the surprised woman who was just dragged from the room. Chopin is soothing and relaxing. It makes sense. I close my eyes and lean my head back on the chair, trying to not figure out what just happened here. As always, I’m instantly transported far away from the insanity of being a nineteenyear-old girl sneaking away from home to have dinner with an unsuspecting older man, who is now in the lobby with his very pissed off girlfriend. I relax and loosen my grip on the arms of the chair while I loll my head to the adagio tempo. It’s beautiful here in the calm of my private musical world. I used to

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think there was no place I’d rather be, until I met King . . . Muffled angry voices pull me from my reverie, and I open my eyes to see King leaning on a column, with one hand in his pocket, staring at me as if I were the most fascinating thing in the world. “You’re so fucking amazing,” he says, pushing off the column to make his way to the table. “Who was that?” I say, nodding my head toward the doors where the angry woman is still vehemently arguing with someone. “A mistake,” he answers simply. “How so?” “Her name is Crystal. I met her a little over a year ago. She’s always interpreted our friendship differently than I do.”

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“As in she thinks you’re a couple and you don’t?” I ask. “Yes, essentially,” he says as he arrives at the table, reaching for my hand. “Dance with me?” I place my hand in his, and he gently pulls me to my feet. The little bit of alcohol in my body begins to circulate, and I remember my vow to never drink again. How on earth did I ever forget that? Being with King seems to vaporize all of my common sense. There is no wrong or right, just here and now—never no, always yes. King’s arms circle me. One hand rests just below the small of my back, the other behind my neck. He softly pulls me against his chest and nuzzles his nose into my hair, inhaling deeply. “You’re amazing.” “What do you mean?” I ask, not fishing for further compliments but genuinely curious as to why he thinks I’m amazing.

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He moves his face away from my hair and slides his hand from behind my neck, slowly along my shoulder, and down my arm until our palms are pressing together. “We are having a magical date. My ex walks in, screaming hysterically, and you close your eyes and lose yourself in Chopin. That’s amazing.” Our eyes are focused on our hands as he lifts them to lace his fingers with mine. “You chose Chopin . . . it’s irresistible,” I say, looking into his quizzical eyes. “I don’t know if I should be insulted by your lack of concern about my ex or in awe of your capability to compartmentalize.” I smile and lean into the warm heat of his body. “Be in awe, but tell me about Crystal.” “That’s very diplomatic of you, Ms. Bennett.”

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“Well, I don’t want you to think I’m not curious or worried, because I’d be lying if I said I weren’t, but I am good at keeping things separated. Music would consume me if I couldn’t. It would swallow me up, and I’d never experience anything else.” “There’s no need to be worried. You can rest assured of that. Like I said, she’s nothing to me.” For some reason, hearing him say that makes me sad. It’s obvious that King is something to her—how could he not be? I could easily be Crystal in a week or two. I’m not sure I would be handling the sight of him having a romantic dinner with another woman any better than she just did. “What’s the matter? You’re tense,” he says, rubbing his hand in small circles on my back. “How long did you say you two were together?”

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King sighs. “We were never really together. We slept together, and she went with me to formal functions, but it wasn’t an actual relationship—for me, anyway.” “It seems like it was for her. She’s pretty upset. And you didn’t really answer my question.” “Holland, I don’t want to waste time thinking about Crystal, but if it makes you feel better, I met her over a year ago at a club opening. We went to a few functions and had dinner once in a while. She always wanted more, but I didn’t feel the same way. Are we good now?” “Sure.” “Good,” he says, smiling mischievously, and he suddenly twirls me away from his body when the tempo of the music speeds up. I’ve never danced this way before, but King makes it effortless, moving me around the floor.

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Being with King is easy and natural. It’s amazing how well we relate to each other, considering we have a six-year age gap. I giggle as he over-exaggerates a couple of dance moves, acting silly. When the music fades, he leads me back to the table, where our dinner plates have been replaced by small saucers. He pulls out my chair while I sit and catch my breath. “What’s this?” I ask, looking at the round, white disk. I assume its dessert, because it’s being served after dinner, but I’ve never seen anything like it before. “It’s cracked meringue filled with a white mousse. I hope it goes over better than our entrée.” “It looks . . . interesting.” As long as it doesn’t set my mouth on fire, I’m good. “It’s very good. I promise there’s nothing hot in this one.”

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One bite and I’m hooked. This is the most delicious dessert I’ve ever tasted. It’s light and tangy, with just the perfect amount of sweet. I close my eyes and moan in appreciation. When I open them, King is watching me with his elbow resting on the arm of his chair as he strokes his five o’clock shadow. “How old are you?” he asks, and the hand holding my fork freezes halfway to my mouth. Shit. Is this just another getting to know you question, like asking about my favorite color, or does he suspect something? I don’t want to lie to him, but I certainly can’t tell him the truth, or he’d be hauling me home to my parents in a hot second, never to think of me again. “Why?” I say, bringing the fork full of meringue to my mouth, hoping to stall him for a minute. “I don’t know . . . you seem to have an old soul,” he answers thoughtfully.

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I chew much longer than is necessary, as the dessert requires no chewing at all, and finally decide to be vague. “So my soul looks old, huh?” “That’s not a bad thing, you know. Just an observation.” “Well, a lady doesn’t reveal her age on the first date,” I say, batting my eyelashes playfully. “Touché.” Hopefully, he’s going to leave the age thing alone. God, please let him leave the age thing alone. “Eat. You barely had dinner. At least fill up on dessert,” he says, jutting his chin toward my plate. “Deal,” I say and take another bite of the heavenly dessert while I relax. I can’t believe I averted the age issue . . . for now, anyway.

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The club is quiet. The music has stopped, and I miss it. “What happened to the music?” “Oh yes, I almost forgot,” he says, reaching behind the flower arrangement on the table for a large tablet. Where the heck did that thing come from? “I wanted to let you choose what we listen to next,” he says, handing me an enormous remote of sorts with a list of thousands of songs to choose from. They’re all broken into genres, but I immediately know what I want. I shovel a bite into my mouth and set my fork down before taking the remote and tapping the button labeled Easy Listening. I scroll through the artists until I find Sinatra’s Let’s Fall in Love. My finger hovers over the play tab. Should I suggest such a thing? Being in love isn’t anything I’ve experienced before, but if I had to guess, the feelings I have for King are close. What the hell—it’s only for the summer. I tap play and

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hand the remote back to King, who raises his brows when he hears the first few bars of the song.

Chapter Eight King I thought she would choose something classical. I never imagined her a Sinatra fan. With any other woman, this song choice would be a complete turn-off. Women who suggest foolish things like love and throw themselves at me come off as weak, but not Holland. Quite the opposite. In fact, using a song to suggest love is a strong, bold move—as well as unnecessary. I felt something strong for her the second I saw her dancing alone on this very dance floor. Romero men are known for falling in love at first sight. It used to sound ridiculous to me, but now? Maybe not. “See? Old soul,” I say, putting her at ease. I saw her hesitate before choosing this song, but she went for it, and I love that about her.

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“I guess so,” she says shyly, reaching for her champagne. “Sinatra fan?” I say, leaning forward to slide my hand under the table and over her thigh. Her smooth skin makes me so hard, it’s all I can do not to take her right here on the table, or bent over it, or up against the wall, in my lap . . . fuck, how did this happen? King Tomas Romero is pussy whipped. She doesn’t know it yet, but she could have anything in the world that she wants right now. Anything—it’s hers, no questions, no qualms—including my heart. Never in my life have I wanted to give a woman the world on a silver platter, but with Holland the urge is staggering. She places her fork on the edge of her plate and turns in her chair, making it easier for my hand to slip between her legs. The way she moves is so innocent. I know she didn’t do it on purpose, but it’s arousing all the same. Our eyes lock as Sinatra sings Now

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is the time for it, while we are young. Let’s fall in love. Her crystal clear grey eyes blink slowly as I move closer to cover her mouth with mine. A tiny moan vibrates in her throat when my tongue slides across her full bottom lip. I want so much to bite it, but I deny myself the satisfaction to spare her the mark it would leave. My fingers brush against her damp panties while my other hand gathers her hair, gently tugging it to expose her elegant neck. Kissing trails down her silky skin to her nape and back up, I nip at her earlobe. “Holland.” I whisper in her ear. “Mmm?” “I’m taking you upstairs,” I say, licking her ear with the tip of my tongue. She’s quiet while I surround her with temptation. She’s not agreeing with words, but her body is screaming yes. Her heart is pounding. She’s melting in my hands, but I feel the need for her to approve, so I stop my advances and wait.

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“King?” she whispers. She’s wondering why I’ve stopped. “Tell me what you want, Holland. I need to hear you ask for it.” She fidgets in her seat, and I slide a finger inside her panties to tempt her further. She’s soaked for me. Fuck, I need her. “I want you to take me upstairs.” She whimpers, and that’s all I need. I scoop her up and kiss her deeply as I stride toward the elevator. Just as I press the up button, her phone begins to ring in her purse on the table. Pulling away from the wet heat of her lips, I look toward the annoying interruption and back into Holland’s eyes. She’s struggling, and I can’t bear the thought of her refusing me. I walk back to the table in a few hard strides, snatch her purse, and make it back to the elevator just as the doors open. I punch the button to the VIP club and return to kissing the sugar-sweetened lips of this unexpected bright light in my life.

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“King.” She through our kisses.

breathes

my

name

“Mmmhmm?” I murmur, desperately trying to keep her focus on what’s about to happen between us and not the phone that continues to squawk in her purse. I have been thinking about Holland spread out naked in my bed all day, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a phone squash that fantasy. If I had my way, I’d drop the damn thing over the edge of the VIP club’s railing and onto the dance floor and let it explode into a million pieces. Holland’s hands that have been threaded in my hair move to my chest, where she gently pushes me away. Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I wait for her to pop the bubble of passion surrounding us. “King . . . open your eyes.” She pants as the elevator doors slide open. I oblige, but with only one eye. “Don’t say it.”

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“I’m sorry. I have to get that, or at least see who it is.” With a sigh, I carry her to the apartment door as she rummages around in her purse in search of that annoying phone. When we’re inside, I make my way directly to my bedroom. I’m determined to have her, and when I’m determined, I get what I want. I walk through the dark apartment, down the hall, and into my bedroom, not even turning on a light. Her damn phone is light enough. I want to look and see who’s fucking up my time with her, but I don’t. Instead, I lay her down as she says hello, and I ignore the fact that she’s talking to someone other than me. Her purse is dropped onto the floor next to us, and I work on the tiny buckles of her shoes. When her perfect feet are bare, I kiss the top of each one, causing her breath to hitch. From this end, it sounds like it’s her friend, Savannah. I’m going to have to set that woman straight. No calls when I have Holland. Never losing contact

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with her body, I reach out and turn on the dim light next to the bed. Her silhouette is equally as sexy as if every light in the room were on. I’m going to relentlessly kiss, lick and nip at every inch of her skin until she hangs up that fucking phone, and then I’m going to do it again.

Chapter Nine Holland “Um, yeah. I can’t talk right now.” Savannah has the absolute worst timing ever. As much as I despised doing it, I had to answer the call though. It could have been one of my parents, but it’s just Savannah, thank God. “Sorry, but we need to solid up a plan. My mama and her new man friend are going to the Jacksons’ for drinks, and when they do that, they don’t come home till like five in the morning.” “Okay, and what does that have to do with me?” I ask, watching King remove my shoes and kiss his way up my calf. Currently, he is spreading my legs apart for better access to the tender, sensitive area behind my

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knees. I can hardly speak to Savannah through the haze of sex surrounding us. “It means you can stay overnight with your new boyfriend if you want to. Just call your mama and tell her you’re worn out from swimming and you just want to stay with me tonight. I’ll make a lump in my bed. My mama will be too drunk to care what’s going on. She’ll never know you weren’t here.” “What about . . .” I’m trying to line this all up in my head so that it makes sense, but King is removing my clothes and kissing me in places I’ve never been kissed before. “What about what, Holland? What are you doing? Sounds like you just ran up a flight of stairs.” “Why are you doing this?” The question is meant for Savannah but could be for King just as well, and consequently, they both pause—her talking, him kissing. Why does she want me to spend the night with

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him, and why is he torturing me while I’m on the phone with her? I nod at King that the question wasn’t meant for him, and he returns to my leg while Savannah begins talking again. “What do ya mean? You want to stay with him, don’t you?” King has climbed onto the bed behind me, where I’m sitting on the edge. His lean, muscled legs slide around me from behind, and I feel his hard length pressing into my backside. “I just thought . . . I mean . . . I figured you wouldn’t want me to . . .” God, I can’t concentrate with his hands on my breasts and his warm breath in my hair. “Okay, yeah, sure. We can work out the details tomorrow.” The words rush out, and King has had enough of being ignored. I hear Savannah huff in frustration at my lack of clear communication before King takes

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the phone and presses end, tossing it into my purse on the floor. “Everything alright?” he asks, slowly sliding the material of my jumper off of my shoulders as he kisses every area that it had been covering. “Ah, yeah, fine. Just Savannah . . .” My words become more and more nonsensical as he begins to bite at the skin around my shoulders and the back of my neck. I whimper and feel the heat between my legs intensify a million fold. “Do I have all of your attention now, Holland?” “Yes.” “All of it? Are you sure?” he asks, pushing the gauzy tangerine material down to my waist and exposing my breasts. His hands explore my belly and my waist and finally glide over my taut nipples, occasionally pausing to roll one between his fingers and

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then the next. My nails dig into his thighs that are wrapped around my legs, and I drop my head back onto his shoulder. “Yes . . . all of it.” “Good, now lift up.” I arch my back and lift as his fingers work the rest of my clothes over my hips until they slide onto the floor at my feet. I am completely bare, and I’m glad we aren’t facing each other, because this time, without the alcohol coursing through my veins, I am nervous. I wasn’t myself last night, and this afternoon we were still dressed for the most part, but this is the first time I’ve been completely naked and sober with King. The light is so soft that only our shadows are visible, but that doesn’t do much for my nerves. King’s hands cover mine, loosening my clawing fingers. “Relax. You’re safe with me.” He breathes into my ear. Shivers run the length

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of my body, and I try like hell to do as he asks. His hands are still covering mine as he guides them away from his thighs and onto my own. Our hands glide together along the outside of my legs until we arrive at my knees, where we spread them open wide. King’s body molds with mine, transferring his intense energy to me with his touch, his kisses . . . his breath. He presses his soft facial scruff between my shoulder blades, and a moan vibrates from his chest, triggering something deep within me. My inhibitions about being exposed dissipate when I realize that he is in control, and I am indeed safe in his arms. “Touch yourself,” he murmurs, leaning our bodies back so I’m against his chest and his chin is on my shoulder. I hesitate, but he’s right there, moving my hands to my core, pressing his finger against mine so we’re circling my clit together.

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“You’re so responsive, Holland. Your body hears mine, as if it’s been waiting for me to bring you alive. Look at me,” he says softly, and I turn my face to his so he can take my breath away with a kiss that sends jolts of electricity to where our hands move in a figure eight along my clit and down to the entrance of my apex, where I’m pulsing on the edge of ecstasy. King senses that I’m teetering. “Uh uh . . . not yet,” he says, licking a toe-curling trail down my neck to my shoulder while moving our hands to smooth over my flat belly and along my waist until we are both cupping my sensitive breasts. “Do you trust me, Holland?” His voice is low and serious. I innately have no fear of this man. Somehow, I trust him unconditionally. “I do,” I answer with conviction. “Close your eyes,” he commands quietly.

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When my eyes are closed, he moves away from me and off of the bed. I instantly miss his heat when the cool air of the room swirls around me in his wake. I hear him padding around the room on the thick carpet and wonder what he’s up to, and I wish he would hurry up and come back to me. “Keep them closed,” he says, standing directly in front of me. I hear the zipper on his jeans lower and the ruffling of his shirt being pulled over his head. “You’re fucking beautiful, Holland. I wish I had a camera. I’d take a million photographs of you.” His comment makes me stiffen on the edge of the bed. I’m not sure how I feel about being photographed nude. “Don’t worry, I don’t have my camera tonight. But I’d like to another time if you’d let me.”

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Instantly I relax, and he moves between my legs, his thick cock brushing against me while he covers my eyes with what feels like a thin scarf. “Can you see?” he asks, and I open my eyes, only to see the black material covering my eyes. “No.” “You’re going to bite through your lip if you don’t relax, sweetheart,” he says, pulling my bottom lip from between my teeth. “Scoot back toward the head of the bed.” I move in that direction, and when I’ve got my back against the padded headboard, I feel the covers slide out from under me and land on the floor with a whoosh. I wait with my knees together, palms down on the mattress, panting with anticipation. “Turn over and lay down, baby,” he says, and I cock my head in question.

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“Believe me, you won’t regret it. Lay down,” he says, and I do as he asks. On my belly, I wait for further instruction, as that seems to be how this game is played. “Arms up,” he says, and I finally feel him crawling across the enormous bed toward me. I lift my arms up as he straddles me, and again I feel the weight of his thick cock against my ass. I close my eyes, even though I can’t see anyway, and take a deep breath and hold it. Another scarf circles my wrists, tying them together. “Keep them right there, do you understand?” His lips brush against my ear, and I nod while still holding my breath. I feel him reach to my right to retrieve something. Suddenly, sultry music fills the room and I recognize the silky smooth voice of The Weekend. Does he know I love his music, or is this just another thing we have in common? It’s

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not classical, but this music is the key to my relaxation. I release my breath and allow myself to melt into the mattress under the light pressure of King’s body. “Good girl. I thought that might help,” he says as he stretches again to my right. I hear him setting what I imagine is another sound system remote down on the table, but he also picks something up, and after a click, I can see a faint bit of light behind my mask. “I need to look at you. I’ve turned the lights up a little,” he informs me. His hands slide up my back. As his body hovers over mine, he gathers my hair together in a messy knot and wraps a rubber band around it, securing it on top of my head. “Are you comfortable? You’re not tied too tightly, are you?” I shake my head no, and again I feel him lean away from me.

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“Holland, you don’t have any food allergies, do you?” Food allergies? Why the hell is he asking me about food allergies when he’s got me naked and tied up in his bed? “Um . . . no. Why?” “Good.” Before I can wonder any more on the subject, I feel something hot drizzling across my back. Initially I tense, but as he continues to pour the thick liquid in patterns over my skin, I begin to enjoy the sensation. Rising over me, he continues lacing my skin with the mystery liquid until I recognize the scent. It brings visions of tea and toast to mind. It’s honey . . . he’s pouring hot honey in tiny ribbons all over my body, from my neck to the soles of my feet. “Honey?”

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“Mmm yes. I wish you could see yourself.” “Tell me.” He stops and sniffs an approval. “You’re going to be good at this, aren’t you?” I don’t know what he’s talking about, so I quietly wait for him to tell me what he sees. “Well . . . your bronze skin is flawless in the soft light. The curve of your back that blends into your perfect, round ass has a pool of sticky honey right in the center, between the most adorable dimples. A trail of redness appears under every thread of honey along your skin, but it disappears, leaving a glimmering stream of sweetness in its wake. His narrating halts as I feel him move to put the honey down. I have no idea what’s next. I lay still and wait until something else

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begins to dribble onto my oversensitive skin. This time it’s cold, and I suck in a breath and tense as it tickles its way across my backside. I don’t recognize this scent. It doesn’t smell like much of anything, so I ask. “It’s cold,” I say, feeling goosebumps forming on my skin. “Cream.” “You’re making me into a cup of tea?” I say, and he chuckles. “I hadn’t thought of that, but your skin is the color of tea, and with honey and cream, you’re my perfect cup of tea,” he says, lowering himself down to straddle me again. He swirls the mixture with the tips of his fingers, down to the pool in the small of my back between my dimples. He scoots back just enough so that he can reach the area that he has just erotically described. His tongue lavishes my burning flesh, exploring, searching, seeking to find every secret my body holds. He forges along the crack of my

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ass, nipping and licking until my heart threatens to beat right out of my chest. I can’t even hear the music anymore. The whoosh of my pulse fills my ears, and the sensation of King’s mouth traveling over forbidden areas of my body consumes me. I whimper and moan as his lips travel up my spine and to the back of my neck. “So sweet,” he murmurs, and I smile. His chest is stuck to my back, and I feel the pull of the honey trying to keep us together when he rises to massage my shoulders. We have to be a sight, and for a second I almost wish he had taken some pictures. King trails his finger through the honey again and slides his hand around my neck and against my face, spreading the sticky liquid along my bottom lip with his thumb before slipping it between my lips. I suck gently and swirl my tongue over the tip of his thumb, tasting the delicious combination of milk, honey and King.

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I’m flipped onto my back within seconds, with my tied hands pushed over my head. I gasp as his sweet mouth covers mine, and I open my legs to thrust my hips against him, begging him to enter. With my hands bound, I use my legs and feet to urge him closer. Locking my ankles, I make it clear that I will not wait anymore. He only has to adjust his position a fraction, and he is filling me with a forceful thrust. “Oh, God,” I cry out, and he is immediately stone still. The pain is sharp, but the relief is overwhelming. I’m not sure what I’m experiencing more. “Holland? Are you okay?” he asks, his voice heavy with concern. “Yes! God, yes, don’t stop.” I pant, and immediately he’s moving urgently, regaining the passion of the interrupted moment.

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I meet him thrust for thrust, using the headboard behind my bound hands as leverage while he drives into my body with the power of a man possessed. “Hey . . .” He slows his pace and gently kisses my forehead. “I’m sorry.” “What the hell for?” I ask, completely dumbfounded. “Caveman . . .” he says sheepishly, and I raise my bound hands over his head and around his neck to pull him into a deep kiss. I feel him swell inside of me, and he breaks away. “I can’t control myself with you. I want to seduce you all fucking night, but . . .” I sense him searching for the right words. “I need to see you, King, please.” The blindfold has been intensely erotic, but this is a moment teeming with emotion and I want to read what’s in his eyes. The blindfold

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is pushed up. I squint from the light and see King devouring me with his hungry eyes, fighting for control. His tenderness gradually falls away, the primal need to conquer builds, and I can’t hold on. My lack of experience is blatantly obvious when I give no warning. Arching my back in a fit of emotion and physical pleasure, I explode around King. Every thrust of his cock brings on another electric spasm, and the fleeting thought that I might die of euphoria steamrolls through my brain when another wave hits me and I cry out King’s name. My eyes roll back into their sockets as King claims my second orgasm. His roar bounces around the room, his cock is pulsing inside of me, my walls clench around him, and my life as I know it changes forever. This isn’t average or normal. Nothing about what has been happening between us for the past thirty-six hours is ordinary or everyday. This is big, off the charts powerful, a full speed ahead, epic forever kind of thing.

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Even at the tender age of nineteen, I realize it. I just hope King does too. He rolls us over, forgetting that my hands are bound as he closes his eyes and flops back, tossing his arms out to the side. I lay my head on his heaving chest, and with my arms above my head, I play with his silky hair. “Let me get that for you,” he says, reaching up to release my wrists and massaging the circulation back into my arms. “Better?” “Yes, much.” King wraps his arms around me, squeezing so tightly I can hardly breathe. When he loosens his hold, his chest rises and falls with a deep sigh. Reversing roles for the first time, I ask him if he’s okay.

Chapter Ten King Am I okay? Fucking no, I’m not okay. This creature, who is plastered to my skin with honey, has me tied up in knots and feeling things I’ve never felt before. It’s intense and frustrating, I’m a player, a self-proclaimed asshole. I don’t do love, but it sure as hell seems to be doing a number on me. I’ve slept with hundreds of women—classy, trashy, addicts, mothers, daughters—and not one of them has felt so familiar in my hands. Holland is like a long lost ship returning to port after a dark, catastrophic storm. My life has been one long string of tragic, shitty circumstances. Sure, I’ve been given every material thing anyone could ever desire, but the need to be loved runs bone deep. Holland just smashed

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through a lifetime of pain and neglect, and she’s about to be flooded with more adoration than she’s ever known. Lifting my head off the pillow, I nuzzle her nose with mine and gently kiss her full, swollen lips. “I’m fine, baby, better than fine. I’m fucking fantabulous,” I say with a wink. The shit I’m feeling for her is insane—intense, fervent even—but I don’t want to scare her. She’s such an odd combination of delicate and strong that I’m not sure how much of me she can handle. She strutted right into my existence and made herself at home, capturing my heart and practically turning me into her slave. I’ll never admit it, though. Ever. Holland could very well be my future, but I’m not sure she’s safe in my world. I need to make some very serious life changes if I pursue this woman. Some of the people I deal with use love as leverage. I love someone, and they automatically become a

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target—a weakness, a vulnerability that I can’t afford. “Ready for a bath?” I ask and watch the honey ooze between our bodies when she rises to straddle me. “Um, yeah. I don’t think I’ve ever been this . . .” “Sticky, happy, satisfied?” I ask. She giggles, and another link of the chain holding me securely to my anchor is loosened. I am such a fucking goner. “All of the above,” she says, shaking her wrists fruitlessly. Nothing short of a good scrubbing will get the sticky goo off of her skin. I sit up and grab her ass to pull her closer while I work us toward the end of the bed. Standing, still connected, I’m already getting hard inside of her while I walk us across the hall for a bath. She clings to me and crosses her ankles tightly, digging her heels into my ass. I could press her up

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against any wall nearby and fuck her again right now. If she were any other woman I would, but Holland isn’t a cheap hot dog at a ball game that you wolf down without tasting just to curb your appetite. She’s a delicacy to be savored, nourishing a man for a lifetime. “Hold on a second.” Regretfully, I peel her from my chest and slide out to help her stand beside the tub as I grab my robe from a hook on the wall. “Put this on, and I’ll turn up the heat and run some water.” She has her arms wrapped around her waist, so I help her on with the robe. Her skin is sticky so it’s difficult, but when it’s wrapped tight around her, I start the water and cross the large, royal bathroom to turn up the thermostat. I always shower immediately after a workout, and I keep it chilly in here to help my body cool off quickly. It also keeps me alert—something that’s been deeply ingrained in my mind since birth. “Be aware of your surroundings, son.” “Always look over

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your shoulder, King.” “Never let your guard down.” My father’s words are always on repeat, but I’m weary of being alert. I want to fucking relax and enjoy someone’s company. I want to have a normal life where I can wake up in the morning, roll over, and see my beautiful wife. I want to listen to my kids messing around in the kitchen, trying to fix breakfast, while the dog barks at the fucking mailman. My life is so dark that it’s almost impossible to consider settling down, but with Holland, anything seems possible. She is exactly the thing I’ve been searching for to lead me into the light.

Chapter Eleven Holland King just waltzes around his ridiculously royal bathroom—naked, with a huge hard on—like he’s at the grocery store shopping for milk. I wonder if all men are so comfortable in their own skin? No way, most men don’t hold a candle to King’s physique. I watch as he leans across the black stone island to turn on the water in his gold bathtub. The tile under my feet begins to warm me, and the heat from the steamy water rises from the tub. I can’t wait to get in and wash all of the tacky stickiness off of my skin. After a few minutes of fussing with bath salts, lighting candles, and piling huge towels on one corner of the tub, he saunters up behind me to help me peel off his robe. “Sorry, it’s kind of a mess now.”

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“It’s fine. I don’t use it much anyway. I’m hot blooded.” “I’ve noticed.” “Come on, I’ll help you.” King takes my hand tightly and leads me to the tub. The swooping gold railings go unused as he has a death grip on one of my hands, and his other hand is firmly on my waist while he guides me up the steps. “You’re squeezing my hand,” I gently complain, and he loosens his grip . . . but not much. “I don’t want you to fall. It’s slippery up here.” And he’s right. It is very slippery, but I’m safe in his hands. “I trust you,” I say. King steps down into the water, never releasing my hand, and turns to help me in. He stares, drinking me in until a shiver runs through my body,

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snapping him from his trance, and he helps me into the hot water. “You’re cold. Let me warm you up,” he says as we sink down until only our heads are above the surface. His hands slide up and down my arms, working the honey and cream from my skin. King’s tub is more the size of a hotel hot tub than a private bath. It’s deep enough that we can kneel facing each other and be completely under the water. “What are you thinking?” “I was thinking about how this is so . . .” “Overwhelming.” He ends my thought, and I watch as his face clouds with concern. His arms circle my waist, and he turns me away so my back is to his front. “That’s the second time you’ve said that I overwhelm you, Holland. I don’t want to. I don’t mean to, but like I’ve told you repeatedly, you’re irresistible. I find myself

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doing things I’d never do, things I’ve never done . . . things I’ll never do with anyone else. Let me tell you a little secret, and I apologize ahead of time for being overwhelming.” He presses his lips to my ear, and I shiver when I feel his warm breath on my damp skin. “I don’t care about people in general. I told you, I’m a loner.” He pauses to nip at my ear. “But I care about you. A lot.” He kisses the area he previously identified as spot number one just behind my ear, making every hair on my body stand on end. “I can see myself with you.” He stills, waiting for my reaction. A soft gasp escapes from my lips, and it’s just enough to allow him to relax around me. “You, Holland, are a very special woman. You’re ethereal, unique, beautiful, and

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your talent—Lord help the world, your talent is prodigious. I’ve never been so moved listening to a musician play. Today you blew me away, and that’s not an easy thing to do.” He has a unique way of making me feel like so much more than I believe I am. Playing the violin is just a part of me, like my toes or my hair. I’ve never done anything to deserve my talent. It’s just always been there. If anyone deserves credit for where I am today, it’s my parents for pushing me to be the best musician I could be. My parents . . . shit. I was supposed to let my mama know I was spending the night at Savannah’s. I’ve been so distracted, I forgot to call or text her. She’ll be going across the street to look for me at Savannah’s house herself if I don’t do something fast. “What’s wrong, Holland?” King turns me in his arms so I’m facing him again. I naturally slide my legs around his waist and feel his thickness against my core.

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The lines between right and wrong are so blurry that I can’t figure out what to do in the simplest, most obvious situations anymore. Get out of the tub and call your mama—easy, right? Not when King is involved. He’s every temptation I’ve never had to resist balled up into one seriously complex experience. “Every muscle in your body just locked up,” he says, holding my face in his hands. Staring into my eyes, he searches for the cause of my sudden stress. I stammer and scramble for a good excuse to get out of this tub and make a phone call, but I’ve got nothing. “Um, I just remembered I was supposed to do something . . . important.” His brows lift, and his eyes dart back and forth between mine with concern. “Well what is it?”

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Two deep frown lines form between his eyes. What am I supposed to say? What on earth could be important enough to distract me from a moment like this? With no better ideas, I go with the truth . . . well, sort of the truth. “I need my phone. I was supposed to make a phone call . . .” Lame, lame, lame. We’re sitting in a luxurious, sensual bath on a Saturday night at ten o’clock. Who the hell would I be calling? His face is a mixture of concern and suspicion, but I’m surprised when the little frown between his eyes relaxes. He moves to position me on the seat behind him, and without a word, he effortlessly lifts himself out of the water on the opposite end, away from the stairs. I watch the water sluice down his chiseled, muscular backside, leaving a trail behind him as he confidently strolls out of the bathroom—without a towel—to find my phone.

Chapter Twelve King I can’t imagine what the fuck could possibly be so important that it interrupts a moment like the one we were just having. I’m about to find out, though. I’ll bring her the phone, but I’m not leaving when she makes the call. Women don’t think of phone calls when they’re naked in my arms—at least, I never thought they did until now. Certainly no one has ever admitted to it, anyway. It’s kind of an ego crusher that I didn’t have Holland’s complete attention. “Sir?” Sebastián’s voice comes from the door of my bedroom, where I’m just about to rummage through Holland’s purse for her phone. “Sebastián, what the fuck are you doing here?” I turn, and he averts his eyes when he answers me.

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“You couldn’t be reached by phone, and there is a serious situation going on in Miami,” he says, staring at the floor. I don’t know why he feels the need to look away. This is hardly the most compromising position he’s found me in. Sebastián has been with me for . . . well, for as long as I can remember. He knows more about me than anyone on earth. “Sebastián, do I look like I give a fuck about what’s happening in Miami? Handle it already,” I bark, but he holds his ground, looking me directly in the eyes. “I can’t handle this one. Multiple deaths require the club owner's presence. The police want to speak directly to you.” Fuck. That’s all I need, cops running around my club, investigating multiple murders. “What the hell happened, and how many people are dead?” I ask, dropping

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Holland’s purse onto the bed and heading to my closet to dry off and get dressed. “Six. Two women and four men, all gunned down in the VIP club.” Now that information stops me in my tracks. VIPs killed in my Miami club . . . that is extremely bad for business in so many ways. I can’t even fathom the repercussions. I grab the closest thing within my reach, which happens to be one of two stupid crystal letter K bookends that Crystal gave to me for my birthday. I hurl it across the room. Sebastián ducks when it shatters into a million pieces against the wall next to him. He knows it’s not personal. He’s dealt with my temper for years. “I’ll have the jet ready for you in fifteen minutes,” he says calmly, as if I hadn’t just lost my shit. I grunt something inaudible and enter my closet to dress. The fucking universe is screwing with me tonight. I just wanted to spend an evening with Holland,

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and instead, I’ve had interruption after fucking interruption. I drag my fingers through my wet hair and make my way back to the bathroom when I’m dressed to tell Holland I have to abandon her. Fucking gang bangers probably shot up my club, and now I have to fly to Florida to deal with cops. This is absolutely the last thing I want to be doing right now. I open the door see my beauty patiently waiting exactly where I left her just a few minutes ago. My cock twitches and my chest aches when her innocent, gentle eyes connect with mine. Just one step inside the bathroom, and I have to grip the doorknob, drop my chin to my chest, and take a deep breath. “King?” she says, her voice laced with concern. Great. She must have heard the glass breaking. “I’m really sorry, Holland, but there’s an emergency at my club in Miami. It’s very

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serious, and I have to handle it personally. I’d like you to stay until I get back, though, if you will.” She fidgets on the seat of the tub before nodding in agreement. I expected some sort of negative reaction—a few sarcastic words, or at least a question or two—but she says nothing. Crystal would have given me the third degree, demanding to know what exactly happened and where I was going to stay in Miami. Not Holland, though. She doesn’t show any signs of annoyance. In fact, I could swear she looks a little relieved, and that makes me uncomfortable. “So you’ll stay?” I want her to stay, but something tells me she’s not going to be here when I get back. “How long will you be gone?” she asks. “No more than twenty-four hours,” I say. She shifts her eyes to the left a fraction and back. I knew it . . . she’s leaving. If it

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were anything other than a murderer, I’d pack her up and take her with me, but this could be dangerous. No matter what she says to me now, I know she won’t be here when I come home. “I have practice tomorrow, but we could get together later when you get home,” she says, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. I round the tub and reach over the edge to rub her shoulders and softly bite her earlobe. “I’ll be counting the minutes, sweet Holland.” I breathe into her ear and feel her smile against my lips. That’s better. “I can have Sebastián give you a ride home tonight if you want, but I like the idea of you sleeping in my bed.” “I’ll stay tonight then.” “Mmm, good. I’ll text you. Keep your phone close and let me know if you change your mind.” She nods and I slide my hand

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across her delicate neck to her chin and guide her mouth to mine. Sliding my tongue between her lips, I kiss her, no holds barred. I want her to think of me and nothing else while I’m gone. I already know that’s unlikely, but I do my best to make it as memorable as possible anyway. A knock at the door quickly switches my boiling blood from desire to anger. Fucking Sebastián is trying to rush me, dammit, and just when Holland has relaxed. The arms that were protectively clutching her knees are now roaming around my neck, her fingers threading through my hair, and when I open my eyes, the sight of her perfect breasts bobbing just above the water has me thinking homicidal thoughts regarding Sebastián. “You should go,” she says, breathless and flushed. “I don’t fucking want to.” I growl and slide my hands down her chest and over her slick breasts, and I cover her mouth with

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mine again. My God, she has jurisdiction over me. My business is my life, and a terrible tragedy is going down in one of my establishments, and all I can think about is peeling off my clothes and climbing back into the water with Holland to worship her. The knock comes again, firmer and more insistent this time, and I seriously consider opening the door and slamming Sebastián’s head in it to make him stop. “Maybe you should answer that,” she says with her lips brushing against mine, eyes closed, still gripping my hair. “Yeah, I have to go,” I say, sighing deeply, and I untangle her fingers from my hair. Like pulling off a bandage, I step away quickly and start for the door. I’ll never get out of here if I don’t just get on with it. “I’ll see you when I get home tomorrow,” I say without turning around. I pull open the door roughly, just enough to slip out. I know Sebastián wouldn’t be trying to

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sneak a peek at Holland, but I’m not risking an accidental sighting. I shoot my short, fifty-year-old, muscular head of security a death glare, but he doesn’t look away. Sebastián is more than a little aware that he is the levelheaded one in this situation, and with that knowledge, he stands his ground. “I’m fucking coming, Sebastián,” I hiss. “Yes, sir. I see that,” he snaps back. The only man on earth who will stand up to me quickly turns on his heel, heading down the hall, carrying my overnight bag like we’ve just had a casual, friendly exchange. After a few frustrating, pissed off seconds of standing alone in the hall, I roll my eyes and follow him down to the parking garage.

Chapter Thirteen Holland Holy shit. I thought he knew, like I really, really thought he had figured out my age. When he came through the bathroom door without my phone, looking so upset, my heart nearly stopped. I still have no idea what has him so worked up, but thank God it has nothing to do with me. I’ve got to get to my phone right now. I’m going to Savannah’s for a good helping of normal after this long day of being saturated by all things King. It was beautiful, hot and sweet, but for a girl who usually spends her afternoons cooped up in a tiny, stuffy room alone, playing a violin, and her evenings with school books spread all over the bed studying, King’s attention was a complete emotional pleasure overload.

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Making good use of the shampoo King left on the edge of the tub, I scrub the honey from my hair and skin before sliding up onto the very slippery edge to sit and dry off. I need to hurry, but I’m scared of losing my footing on the steps. With the towel tucked around my body, I scoot to the top step and grab the rail before descending. As soon as I hit the marble floor, I take baby steps to the door and fly down the hall to King’s bedroom. My purse . . . it’s not on the floor where I left it earlier. It’s on the bed, but I breathe a sigh of relief when it doesn’t look like he had time to search for my phone. With my hair dripping on the face of the phone, I find Savannah on my contact list and press call. When I straighten to wait for her to pick up, I catch my reflection in the mirror across the room. I don’t even recognize myself at first. The person I’m used to seeing staring back at me is sweet faced and innocent; this person is disheveled and

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flushed with the air of satisfaction. She’s sexy and happy, with eyes full of maturity—nothing close to the chaste girl I was just a day ago. My God, how did this happen? Savannah answers the phone in a panic. “Holland. What the fuck, why haven’t you called your mother? She’s called me like four hundred times. I can’t hold her off any more. You’d better do something—” “Savannah, stop. Shit, you’re freaking me out. Can you come get me? Please tell me your mama left the car,” I shout, cutting her off. Savannah freezes on the other end of the line for a moment. I never ever raise my voice. “Oh my God, he hurt you. If he touched a hair on your head without your permission, I’m bringing the shotgun my daddy left me and I’m blowing his slick talking, rich ass head clean off his shoulders. Damn it, I knew I shouldn’t cover for you. This was such a stupid idea . . .” I let her rant

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and ramble while I gather my clothes from the floor. When she’s worn herself out, I hear the engine of her mama’s Suburban come to life in the background. “Savannah . . . be careful. Do you have your seatbelt on? I don’t want you driving like a maniac.” “You’re worried about me? Holland, that bastard is over there . . . doing . . . I don’t even know what, and you wanna know if I have a seatbelt on? Are you still at this place?” “I’m fine! If you would calm down for two seconds, I’d explain. He hasn’t hurt me. I’m perfectly fine, but he had to go out of town unexpectedly, and I forgot to call home, so I need you to hurry up and come get me so I don’t get caught.” “Oh. Oh, good. Shit, I’m glad I don’t have to shoot him. He’s so pretty.”

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I throw my head back and laugh into the dark. She’s the only person I know who would worry about messing up a pretty face by shooting it off. I hear the radio in the Durango, and the engine accelerates in the background. She’s already on the road. I need to hurry; she’ll be here soon. I grab my wadded up romper off the floor and toss it in my bag, and I dress in the clothes I started my day in. “I’m going down to the main entrance of the club. I’ll wait for you outside,” I say, scanning the room to be sure I have everything I came with. “No. It’s Saturday night, and that place is probably nuts outside. Stay inside. I’ll call you when I’m there, and you can come down then.” “Okay, but hurry. My mama’s going to be knocking on your door any minute now.”

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We end the call, and I toss my phone into my purse and run my fingers through my tangled hair. Crap, she’s gonna know something’s up if I show up out there with wet hair and no makeup. I need a hair dryer, but that means I’ll have to go snooping around. Do guys even own hair dryers? When I grab my purse, I realize his bed is still a big sticky, wet mess of honey and whipping cream. I feel bad just leaving it for him to come home to tomorrow, so I carefully peel off the sheets and gather them into a ball, taking note of the thin plastic sheet underneath, protecting his mattress. I wonder if that’s new or if it’s necessary because he plays this way with other women. He said he never let another woman into his apartment. I wonder if that’s true? It’s hard to believe such a player would sleep alone every night in this big, beautiful bed. I turn and take a few steps toward the door before I unconsciously decide to go back and strip the plastic off the bed too. I

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have no idea if I’m the jealous type, but something inside of me can’t bear the thought of him messing up this bed with anyone else, so I take it into the kitchen and stuff it into a stainless steel trash can next to the pantry. Laundry room . . . where would the laundry room be? I jump out of my skin when a man steps into the kitchen out of the shadows of the adjoining living room. “Shit!” I scream when I see him, and he calmly raises his hands, palms out in front of his body. “I’m not coming any closer.” “Who are you?” I holler, but I’ve already put it together in my head before he speaks. It’s King’s security guy, Sebastián. “I’m sorry, Ms. Bennett. I didn’t mean to startle you.” “Oh no, I’m sorry, Sebastián. I just wasn’t expecting . . . I mean, I didn’t know

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you were here,” I say, clutching my chest with one hand and the wet sheets with the other. “Mr. Romero’s sheets?” he asks nonchalantly, and I look down at the damp ball of material smashed up against my body. “Ah . . . yes, um, I was looking for a washing machine to toss them into.” I don’t know why I’m so uncomfortable. Sebastián knows I was here last night, and he was helping King tonight with his magical fairyland dinner party. He knows what we’ve been doing. “This way,” he says, motioning for me to follow him. On the other side of the kitchen wall is the fanciest laundry room I’ve ever seen. Two sets of washing machines and dryers on one wall, and beautiful cherry cabinetry that matches what’s in the kitchen along the opposite wall. Marble countertops run the length of the room, with storage bins underneath. Sebastián opens the front-

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loading washing machine and removes the sheets from my hands. When he has the load started, he turns to face me, and I see something in his eyes that worries me. He’s about to say something that I’m positive I don’t want to hear. “Ms. Bennett.” “Please call me Holland.” “Holland . . . as you know, I’m head of Mr. Romero’s security team.” His tone is serious. I nod and wait for him to go on. “It’s my job to keep him safe and inform him of the backgrounds of those he associates with . . .” He pauses, and I hold my breath and start to shake my head back and forth. He knows. “Ms. Bennett . . . Holland, I know that you’re only nineteen years old. You’re a very smart, mature young lady, and I’m sure you’re aware that misrepresenting yourself with fake identification is illegal. King’s

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business could be closed down if he were caught serving alcohol to minors. His words hang in the air between us. I’ve been selfish by keeping my age a secret, and I hadn’t even thought about what could happen to King if we were caught with our fake IDs. The only repercussions I had to worry about were being grounded or disappointing my parents. King would have to deal with the law and codes and the courts if we were caught. “I’m not telling you this because I’m worried about King. I’m concerned for you, Holland. Mr. Romero has legal representation that is quite literally above the law, so he would never actually spend time behind bars, but you need to know that he’s a very dangerous man, and if he finds out you’ve been lying to him he could . . . well, let’s just say it wouldn’t be good for anyone. I haven’t told him and I don’t plan to, but I will if you refuse to stay away from him. King isn’t just a rich club owner. He’s a billionaire, a

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billionaire who inherited his father’s empire when he died—a very illegal, dangerous empire. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?” The only thing I really understand is that Sebastián knows I’m nineteen and he’s not telling King, period. I can’t think past that right now. I have an instant headache. The air in the laundry room is thick and oppressive and I need out. “Holland? Are you going to be all right?” Sebastián says, snapping me out of my daze. “I need to be sure you understand how serious this is. You have to stay away from King. Being associated with him could get you killed.” “What? Killed . . . but why?” I understand the problem with our age difference and that I’ve lied to him, but why on earth would I be killed for being with him unless . . . oh God, he said King had an illegal empire, didn’t he? The information starts to filter

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down and settle until I’m seeing it clearly. His club is named Ecstasy. King is a drug dealer. Oh no, no, no, no, this isn’t happening. He can’t be. Why didn’t I see it? I’m a smart girl. I know right from wrong, but ever since King touched me I’ve been making terrible decisions, putting myself in dangerous situations, engaging in extremely risky behavior, and for what? A drug dealer. “Drugs?” I ask, but Sebastián just stares at me, neither confirming nor denying my guess. That’s as good as confirming it in my mind. I drop my head back to stare at the ceiling and hide the tears forming in my eyes. My phone pings in my pocket, and I don’t even look to see who it is. I bolt for the door. The music from the club blasts my ears like an atomic bomb when I open the door. I don’t remember it being so loud last night. Everything vibrates around me—the walls, the floor, the people . . . everything. I turn for the elevator and someone just happens to be

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getting off. I race to jump in before the doors close and pace back and forth in the small, empty space. Panic sets in. He’s a drug dealer—a drug dealer. I chew my thumbnail while Sebastián’s words bounce around in my head: won’t tell him if I stay away, very dangerous, I could be killed. My stomach is churning when I exit the elevator. The fairytale environment from earlier has been transformed back into the pumping dance club with wall-to-wall people drinking, laughing and dancing. I wonder how many of them are on drugs. If King owns clubs all over the world, this could be one of many distributing drugs . . . more puzzle pieces slide into place. The clubs are a cover . . . This is all just too much. I shove through the well-dressed crowd, being groped several times before I stumble into the lobby. Savannah is waiting in her mama’s big, black Suburban right outside. Two

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bouncers sit at the door on bar stools checking IDs. One of them spots me, and he immediately stands up to hand the ID back to the girl in front of him while calling out my name. “Ms. Bennett,” he says over the noise. What does he want? The thought hardly registers before he’s standing right in front of me. “Ms. Bennett, Mr. Romero wanted me to be sure you were safe going outside tonight. Is your ride here?” “Uh yeah, right there.” I point toward Savannah. “I’ll walk you to the car,” he says, taking a hold of my elbow. I step back, reclaiming the personal space that he has just invaded. “I’m fine. There’s no need, it’s only a few steps,” I say and start for the door with Mr. Hot Bouncer on my heels. I ignore him,

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working against the line of clubbers out front, but somehow he makes it to the car first and opens the door to let me in. I stop short with my mouth hanging open when I see him there. I’m irritated, but hot bouncer guy won’t even look me in the eyes now. He just stands there holding the door, staring over my shoulder past me, until I huff and climb in. I reach to pull it shut, but he holds it open and bends to look past me at Savannah. “Lock the doors and drive safely, please. Mr. Romero wanted me to relay that message to you.” And with that, he closes the door and disappears back into the club. “What the hell was that all about?” Savannah asks. I don’t even know where to begin. How am I going to tell her about this mess? Instead of trying, I cover my eyes with my hand and cry.

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“Holland? What the fuck is going on around here? Why are you crying?” When I don’t answer, she continues verbally dissecting what little information she has. “You forget to call your mama, then you call me up in a panic, asking me to come get you, but you say King hasn’t hurt you, and then some bouncer tells you to be safe and lock the doors. What am I missing here?” Sniveling, I open the center console and pull out some tissue. I blow my nose and dry my eyes. “I can’t see him again, Savannah. He’s not just a club owner. He’s a . . . a drug dealer. I think he probably sells the drugs out of his clubs.” “What? Where’d you get that crazy idea?” she says, shaking her head. “It’s not an idea. It’s the truth. His head of security told me—well, he didn’t actually tell me, but he warned me about King. He said he has this empire or something that he inherited from his daddy when he died,

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and that he’s really dangerous. And he knows I’m only nineteen.” She lets out a long, low whistle while she starts the engine. “Wow . . . man, I thought you were in over your head with the lie about your age and having a crush on an older man, but this . . . I mean, this is like shit from the movies or HBO specials.” “I can’t believe it either,” I whisper so softly that she probably didn’t even hear me. “I’m really hot. Can you turn the air down?” I’m not only hot. I’m nauseous. The magnitude of this situation is hitting me hard, and apparently my body has decided that throwing up is the best way to purge stress. Savannah looks my way after she turns down the air, and knowing me well, she pulls over to the side of the road. I open the door and lean out, preparing for a horrible bout of retching, but it never comes. Beads of sweat line my forehead as I grip the dash and the door jamb, but

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mercifully, none of my dinner makes a reappearance. “I’m okay now. Let’s go,” I say, gulping in the cool night air. “You sure? I don’t have time to clean puke outta my mama’s car. We need to get home.” “Yes, go,” I say and wave my hand forward. The further away from club Ecstasy and King Romero’s world I get, the better off I’ll be . . . I think. Back at Savannah’s house, we couldn’t have had better timing. Just as I get changed into an oversized t-shirt of Savannah’s and settled on the couch to watch TV, Mama starts banging on the door. “Savannah, why aren’t you answering your phone?” she hollers through the door. When Savannah opens it, she storms in, red faced and frantic.

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“Hi, Mrs. Bennett. What’s up?” she says cheerily, and I sink a little further into the overstuffed couch cushions, hoping Mama doesn’t see my swollen eyes. “What’s up? What’s up, Missy, is that I’ve been trying to call you both for two hours with no answer. What’s going on over here? Where’s your mother?” “Oh, she went out with her new boyfriend. I’m sorry about the phone. Mine died. Holland, where’s your phone?” she asks, turning in the darkened room to look at me curled up on the couch. I wish like hell I could just disintegrate into the old dust-filled stuffing of the pillows where I would never have to lie to my mother again. “Um, I think it’s in my bag in your room. Sorry, Mama. I should have called, but we got caught up watching this . . .” I don’t know what the hell we are supposed to have been watching.

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“Super sad movie,” Savannah says dramatically with wide doe eyes. “Holland is such a sap, she’s been bawling since the main character got arrested and had to leave her fiancé to go to jail.” I glance at the screen and thank God Mama doesn’t know anything about Orange is the New Black, because that’s what Savannah has on. I have an overwhelming urge to roll my eyes, but I nod in agreement instead. Mama tilts her head to the side and peers through the dark to examine me closer. She’s never been suspicious of me before, and I think she’s trying to figure out if she should be now. She takes a quick breath in and blows it out when she’s satisfied nothing fishy is going on. “Well, all right, you girls don’t stay up too late now. You need your sleep. And go get your phone, Holland. I want you to answer it if I call you from now on, do you understand?”

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“Yes, Mama, I’m sorry. I’ll go get it right now,” I say and welcome the excuse to leave the room. She calls out “I love you,” and I hear the door click shut and three locks being turned. Savannah’s mama is a little paranoid about intruders. When I dig my phone from my purse, I see I have six unread texts—one from my mama, who never texts, so she must have been desperate. The other five are from King. Standing in my best friend’s bedroom with only the light of my cellphone, I stare at the screen and pray for a solution. I think I might have been falling for King, but now that I know who he really is—what he really is—I know I’ll never get past that. There’s no way in hell I could ever be involved with someone like that. My whole life has been about preparing to be a professional musician. Being associated with King would destroy everything I’ve worked so hard for. God, I hope it hasn’t already. What if someone finds out? My parents would flip, Juilliard

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would retract my entrance acceptance in a heartbeat, and all of my years of hard work would go up in smoke. No. I’m not letting that happen. I have to cut things off with King completely, starting with these texts. “Hey, whatcha doin’ standing in the dark?” Savanna asks softly. “Thinking.” I hold the phone to my chest, and two fat tears race down my cheeks. “Do you want to talk? I mean, I don’t know what to say, but I can listen if you want.” “There isn’t really anything to say. King was a mistake. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and I lost my mind.” I can’t keep the quiver from my voice, and Savannah rushes into the room, smashing me into a bear hug.

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“I’m sorry, this is all my fault. If I hadn’t begged you to go clubbing, you would have never met him.” I don’t regret meeting King, and I especially don’t regret what happened between us. It was amazing to be swept off my feet like that, and I’m glad he was my first. It was magical and intense and too good to be true. I should have known. “Don’t apologize. It’s not like you forced me. I could have said no to the clubbing, the drinking, and to King, but I didn’t, and that’s on me,” I say, untangling myself from her arms. “Let’s go finish watching Orange is the new black.” “You caught that, huh?” “Yea. I’m glad nobody started cursing or getting naked while she was standing there.” “I would have died laughing,” she says.

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“I don’t feel like laughing.” I can just make out the silhouette of Savanna nodding in the dark before she turns to lead the way back to the living room. My phone pings, notifying me of another text while I’m snuggling into my spot on the couch. “Who’s that?” she asks, and I turn my gaze toward the TV. I have to decide how to handle breaking things off with King. Should I read his texts or just delete them and block his number? If I read them, it will make me weak and I’ll feel obligated to reply. And I have a strong suspicion that King will not be ignored. Blocking his number will only prolong the inevitable until he gets home from Miami and searches me out. My phone pings again, reminding me of the waiting texts. Ugh, I need time to think and my damn phone is rushing me.

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“You gonna answer that?” she asks. “I don’t know what to do. He keeps texting, and I want to answer but I can’t.” “I can read them for you,” she offers. That wouldn’t be a bad idea if I weren’t afraid of him saying something about last night. “Thanks. I should probably do it though.” “Holland, you said earlier that you could have said no to King. Did you mean—” “Yeah,” I answer. She may as well know everything—well not everything. I look over, and she’s frozen on the other couch with her mouth hanging open. We were both virgins, and it was always assumed that she would be the first to lose hers. In fact, she teased me that I’d never give it up to anyone because I couldn’t put my violin down long enough.

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“Who are you? I mean, where is the real Holland? I can’t believe this.” “I’m not sure who I am anymore either.” “Holland, what are you gonna do? I can tell you’re into him, but damn, he’s really a drug dealer? Are you positive? Could that Sebastián person be wrong? What if he’s just trying to scare you off for some reason? I think you should talk to King before you make any decisions.” She has a point. I mean, Sebastián didn’t actually say the words, ‘King is a drug dealer,’ and I’ve only known King for less than forty-eight hours. “Look at the texts. See what he’s saying.” I sigh and cave easily, looking at his first message. When I see it’s pretty tame, I read it out loud to Savannah.

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‘Thinking of you. Make yourself at home. If you need anything, just ask Sebastián.’ “He sounds sweet, not like a drug dealer.” “What’s a drug dealer sound like?” I ask. “Like you know . . . using curse words and being bossy and stuff. I don’t know, not like that though. What’s the next one say?” She wiggles into a more attentive position on her couch and waves at my phone. ‘Boarding the jet. I’ll message when I’m in the air. Are you okay?’ “Boarding the jet? Holy shit, Holland, he has a jet? Maybe he really is a drug dealer.” “Just because he’s boarding a jet doesn’t mean he owns it.”

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“Now you’re defending him? A minute ago you were ready to dump him,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “I know. I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do. I’ve never had a boyfriend or whatever he is, and I’ve certainly never known a drug dealer, okay?” I yell and toss the phone aside. “Okay, okay, sorry. It’s just . . . I dunno. This is so crazy.” She shakes her head. “You don’t have to tell me that. I feel like I’m in the middle of a tornado. I don’t know which way is up.” “Call him.” She shrugs. “What? I can’t just call him, he’s on a business trip.” “Okay, then read the rest of his texts at least.” I grab my phone again and scroll to his third text.

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‘Getting ready to land. You’re quiet, baby. You okay?’ “He calls you baby? Oh my God, that’s serious.” She’s on her knees now, rubbing her hands on her thighs and practically vibrating with excitement. “It’s no big deal.” I lie, because it is to me. I love it when he calls me baby. “Okay, next message,” she says with enthusiasm. She’s just not getting that this is serious. It’s not a game. I have strong feelings for this man, and we both have secrets—big secrets. I sigh and look at the next message. ‘Call me.’ Short and direct. “Well that’s a little bossy—much more like a drug dealer,” she says, nodding her head up and down. “You’re not helping, Savannah.”

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“Sorry. Keep going. What else does he say?” ‘Call. Me.’ Again? Shit. “Uh, I think maybe you should call him.” I look with one eye open to see what his last message says, and it makes me sit up straight and drop my phone in my lap. “What? Holland, what did he say?” she asks, joining me on my couch. She picks up my phone to read the message herself. I hear her gasp when she reads it aloud. ‘I’m having the jet refueled. I’m coming home right now if you don’t call me—pinky swear.’ “Pinky swear? What’s that mean? Shit, Holland, call him.” She hands me the phone and I take a deep breath before dialing.

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He can’t come home. He can’t find out I’ve been lying to him about my age. He can’t know I live at home with my parents, and I can’t keep seeing a drug dealer, no matter how I feel about him. The phone doesn’t even finish ringing one time before I hear his voice. “Holland, is everything alright?” he says, and I hear the howl of a jet engine in the background. “I’m fine, sorry I didn’t text you back. I guess my phone was on vibrate. You don’t have to come home. Really. Everything’s fine.” I start to think he can’t hear me over the noise of the jet, because he doesn’t respond right away. “Something’s wrong. I hear it in your voice. You sound scared.” Shit, now what am I supposed to say? I sound scared because I am, but I can’t tell him I’m scared of him.

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“Uh no, why would I be scared? I just don’t want you to rush back. You have business there, and I’m fine.” “Holland, if someone is making you say these things, just say yes right now, okay, baby?” “Huh?” “If someone is with you that doesn’t want me to come home, and they are holding you against your will, say yes right now.” “No, no one is . . . wait, why would anyone be holding me against my will?” I ask, sitting up straighter and bouncing my foot up and down on the floor. Oh my God, am I already in danger from being associated with him? I hear him sigh heavily into the phone. “This problem in Miami could be gang related, and I guess I’m just being paranoid where you’re concerned. I’m sorry if I

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upset you. Sebastián says you left and Brian saw you off. Are you at home?” “Yes, sort of. I mean, I’m at Savannah’s spending the night.” “Oh good. Okay then. I need to get over to the club if I’m not coming home. You’re positive everything is alright?” “Yes, everything is fine.” “I miss you already, Holland.” Oh God, his voice is hypnotizing. I can’t think about anything but his mouth forming the words I miss you and his hands all over me. All the drugs and illegal activity in the world can’t stop my body from reacting to that voice. “I miss you too,” I answer breathlessly, and Savannah shoves my shoulder, bringing me back to reality. “I’ll be home soon. Keep your phone close and turn on the volume, please. I don’t like not being able to reach you.”

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“Okay,” I squeak helplessly. I can’t make myself tell him that I won’t be seeing him again . . . ever. “Think of me, Holland. Think about my hands sliding over your silky skin in the water tonight and my lips on your mouth, your neck, your perfect breasts. Think of my hard cock pressing against your back . . . fuck, I might have to get back on this plane. I can’t believe I left you like that. I’m so hard for you it hurts, baby. I can’t wait to get back to you.” His deep, gravelly voice turns me inside out. I can’t breathe. My heart is pounding in my chest so loudly that he can probably hear it in Miami. I close my eyes and think of his hands, the water, the honey . . . No one has ever spoken to me that way. I don’t even think I’ve ever heard a man say things like that in a movie. This is so much worse than I thought it would be. I have no idea how I’m going to cut this man out of my life.

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“Speechless?” he says playfully. “Uh yeah. Sorry, it’s just . . .” “I know. Believe me, I know. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget to think of me.” The line goes dead, and part of me wishes I were dead too. “So? What did he say? For a minute there I thought you were gonna faint.” “He knows something’s wrong. He wants me to think of him, and he’s coming home tomorrow. Can we talk about something else? Distract me or something. This is all just too confusing to try and figure out right now.” Savannah chews her bottom lip, and after a minute, she jumps up and takes off down the hall. When she returns carrying a violin case, she has an insanely big grin on her face. Raising an eyebrow, I reach for the instrument.

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“It’s mine from the fourth grade. It’s a piece of crap. Play. It always makes you feel better.” I open the case and discover that she’s right. It’s a piece of crap, but right now I don’t care. She knows me so well. Music has always been my coping mechanism, and Lord knows, right now I’m not coping very well. “What are you going to do?” I ask. I can’t imagine how Savannah thinks classical music is boring. She likes her music loud with a pounding beat. “I’ll just lay over there and let you play me to sleep,” she teases. “Nice, thanks.” I roll my eyes and try to tune her violin. It’s almost impossible, but I get it as close as I can and begin to play Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings. It’s one of the saddest pieces of music I know. Savannah is actually familiar with the piece. She

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has an electronic mixed version on one of her playlists. I close my eyes and let the music take me away to the place that feels most comfortable, the place that is home to my soul. I slowly slide my bow across the strings, feeling every fiber of it connecting to make the sounds that will temporarily ease my pain. If I could sit on this couch and play every minute for the rest of my life, I would. My small, comfortable life has been turned upside down by a man I can never have, a love that can never be known. I feel a part of me growing up tonight as I sit and try to figure out my very grown up problems. I’ve always felt more mature than my friends—sometimes even more mature than some adults—but this is something that even the most experienced adult would have trouble dealing with. Orange is long past being over, and Savannah is fast asleep on the couch when I finally have to put the violin down because

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my arms are too weak to play another note. As soon as I do, my real world problems come rushing back. I lay in the dark, swinging back and forth between my heart and my mind. I could easily throw all caution to the wind and tell King I lied about my age and pray that he cares enough about me to overlook it. Or I could avoid him like the plague and go to New York earlier than I had planned. Maybe some distance would help me get on with the life I’ve been dreaming of for as long as I can remember. It’s past two in the morning, and I’m exhausted when I finally lay my head down to sleep. King wanted me to think of him, and think of him I do. All night while I sleep, his face plays the leading man in all of my dreams. Some are happily ever after dreams, some are confusing and broken, and others are downright nightmares. In the morning, I don’t feel one bit refreshed, even though I sleep until eleven o’clock. Savannah is in the kitchen making

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grilled cheese and tomato soup. She’s been up for a while. She’s showered and dressed with her ear buds in, listening to something so loud that I can hear it twenty feet away. “You’re going to be deaf if you don’t turn that down, you know,” I say, fully aware that she can’t hear me, but she squints, trying to read my lips before pulling one bud out and letting it dangle from her neck. “Huh?” she says, and I chuckle and repeat myself. “You’re going to be deaf.” “It’s not that loud, hush. Here, eat something.” I take a seat at the kitchen table and see her glance at the coffee table where my phone is sitting before pouring the hot soup into mugs. “He’s been calling. I put it on vibrate so you could sleep.” I sigh and drop my head back.

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“How long does it take to fly from Miami?” I ask the ceiling. “About two hours and thirty minutes. Why?” “Because he’s probably already home. He said he would come straight home if I didn’t answer his calls.” “Shit, does he know where you live? Do you think he will just show up on your doorstep?” “Yes, absolutely. I have to call him.” “What are you gonna say?” “I don’t know, whatever comes out of my mouth I guess. I can’t figure this out, but I know he won’t give up. I’ll have to tell him I lied about my age and that I know what he is.” “What if he freaks out?” “Then he freaks out,” I say, taking the mug of soup from her.

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“Okay, it’s your funeral,” she says, sitting down next to me. I kick her shin and she yelps. “Sorry, bad choice of words. I forgot he’s a drug dealer. But seriously, why don’t you just have that Sebastián guy tell him and avoid the trouble?” “I owe it to him to tell him the truth myself. I shouldn’t have lied to him.” “He shouldn’t have lied to you either.” “It’s more like we both omitted the truth. Neither of us actually lied. I mean, he assumed I was over 21 because I was in his club, and I assumed he was just a club owner because that’s all he told me.” She shakes her head and smiles while she dips her sandwich into her soup. “What?” I ask. “You can rationalize anything, ya know that?”

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“Hush.” We eat in silence until I realize I didn’t hear her mother come in last night. “Your mama still out?” She takes a bite of her sandwich and looks past me toward the front door. “Yeah. Told ya she doesn’t usually come home when she’s with that guy.” Her voice is laced with disappointment and anger. I feel bad for her. If her mama’s not working, she’s dating. There’s never any time left for Savannah. My parents are so different from hers. Everything they do is somehow geared toward getting me to New York so I can fulfill my dreams. “Sorry, sore subject. I didn’t mean to bring it up. I just wondered if she was home.” “It’s cool. You’d better shower and call him back before your mama comes to get you for practice.” Practice. Shit, that’s right. I

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have to be there at one o’clock. I need to hurry. Should I call first and shower after, or shower and then call? Shower first, definitely. That will give me some time to think of a way to tell him that we can’t see each other anymore—as if there were any good way to tell him. “I’m going to shower,” I say, getting up to put my dishes in the dishwasher. “Grab something out of my closet to wear if you want.” “Thanks,” I say, picking up my phone. I make my way down the narrow hall to the only bathroom in Savannah’s small house, glancing at her old family photos on the walls. It’s strange how they all stop when her daddy left them, kind of like a representation of the death of her family. I’m so grateful that my parents still love each other and I never had to deal with the heartache and mess of having divorced parents.

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I start the shower in a thoughtful daze and quickly strip down and hop into the hot water. Savannah’s house is always cold, even during the hottest part of the summer. As soon as I’ve stepped under the spray, I hear a commotion coming from the front of the house. God, I’ll bet Savannah’s mama is home and Savannah’s pissed off at her for not calling, the poor thing. Savannah’s shouting gradually becomes louder and closer, and it sounds like she’s fighting with her mama’s boyfriend who kept her out all night. I wince when they’re just outside the bathroom door. I don’t want to be eavesdropping on her family problems, but I’m sort of stuck in here. I lean my head back under the spray to block out the noise when the bathroom door bursts open and I hear Savannah yelling at King—not her mama or her boyfriend. “Get the fuck out of my house. Holland, get dressed,” she shouts. I’m frozen,

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paralyzed with my hands still in my soapy hair. “Stop pulling at my clothes. Move, damn it!” King yells, and I hear them slapping at each other. Savannah’s a scrapper. She can smack, scratch and pull hair with the best of them. The shower curtain is ripped open, and I jump and lose my balance trying to cover myself, but King roughly thrusts his hand in to grab my waist, steadying me. “I told him not to come in here, Holland. You need to leave right now. I’m gonna get my daddy’s shotgun,” Savannah screams. “Little girl, you had better back off and let me talk to your friend here before I get really angry.” The power behind his voice causes her to stumble back just enough for him to quickly close and lock the door. God, this is a nightmare. I squeeze my eyes closed as the shower pelts my back and

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shampoo runs down my forehead and over my face. “Rinse off. We need to talk,” he says, yanking the curtain shut. I step back, trembling from the cooling water and the fury in King’s voice. My God, what is he doing here? Shit, what am I doing? I knew I should have called him before I showered. Now he’s in Savannah’s house, where her mama could come home any minute, not to mention my own mother is right across the street in my house, getting ready to come and take me to practice. I can’t keep my mind on what I’m supposed to be doing. My thoughts are all jumbled, and he wants me to get out. He wants to talk to me. Shit, shit, shit. I haven’t had time to wash my body or condition my hair, but King’s demanding tone isn’t one I’m willing to mess around with. I turn the faucet off with shaky hands and reach for the towel

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hanging on the towel rod just outside the shower. King grabs my wrist and pulls the curtain back again, completely exposing me. Thick, heavy steam billows around us as we stare at each other like two cowboys in a standoff. You’d think I would be more frightened or inhibited by this crazy drug lord bossing me around in my best friend’s bathroom, but I am neither. His face contorts with pain and rage, which makes what I do next so insane that neither of us thinks to stop it. I step over the side of the tub into his arms, dripping wet and shivering when the cool air hits my skin. Adrenaline blinds my common sense when I lace my arms around the back of his neck and hoist myself up, wrapping my legs around his waist. King’s hands slide easily under my ass to support me as our mouths crash together violently in a kiss filled with equal parts passion and anger.

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I don’t know what he came to say. I don’t know if he found out I’m only nineteen or if he’s just pissed that I haven’t been answering my phone, but this isn’t the sweet, tender King I’ve been dealing with for two days. This King is furious and desperate and hurting. “God damn it, Holland.” He growls between kisses, and I feel the tension and frustration rolling off of him like a cornered animal. Panic spurs me on, and I tighten my hold and push my fingers through his hair, ignorantly putting myself in harm’s way. He whirls around and sets me roughly on the edge of the vanity without breaking our kiss and works to unbutton his shirt while I fumble with his belt and unzip his suit pants. A tiny, weak voice in the back of my mind, under a pile of sheet music, is telling me to stop. This is wrong, it’s dangerous and reckless, but when he slides inside me, that pathetic voice of reason fades into nothing.

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I pull my mouth away from his and bury my face in his neck while the force of his thrusts lift me off the vanity over and over. The only sounds in the small room are King’s grunts and my gasps with every fierce penetration. There are no soft sighs or gentle moans of desire floating between us. It’s clear that this isn’t adoration or cherishing. It’s punishment—his or mine, I don’t know which, but this isn’t I miss you or I need you. This is I’m sorry and I’m angry. My apex aches with every relentless slam of his hips against mine, but I accept it willingly. If he’s trying to hurt me, the effort is soon futile when the pain turns into pure pleasure. His ferocious grunts echo off the walls of the tiny bathroom as his powerful presence drives me over the edge in seconds. I crash down around him, the rusty taste of blood spreading across my tongue as my teeth sink into his shoulder and I gasp in ecstasy. God, What the hell am I doing?

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“Bite,” King says, thrusting hard into my pulsing core. “Me.” He thrusts again and I cry out. “Again.” I obey his command without hesitation and bite down on his shoulder . . . hard. “Fuck, Holland,” he roars, slamming into me one last time as he loses control while I completely come apart at the seams in his brutal embrace. “This is killing me, God damn it! I feel things for you, but I can’t . . . I just can’t.” He pants in my ear, no longer sounding fierce or strong. Clinging to him with my heart pounding in my throat, I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. He just told me he has feelings for me, but the anguish behind the admission shakes me to the bone. My body trembles like a leaf in his hands the longer he holds me, the tighter his embrace is, until I

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can’t breathe. I really cannot breathe. I’m suffocating, so much so that I can’t speak the words my brain is screaming, “LET ME GO.” My head swims and my heart pounds like a jackhammer from the lack of oxygen. Just when I’m sure I’m going to pass out, he loosens his death grip and collapses to his knees. I gasp, gulping in the steamy air as my back scrapes against the handles of the drawers on the vanity behind me. Stunned and dizzy, I try and wrap my mind around what’s just happened here. Something is very wrong—that’s obvious—but I don’t grasp the enormity of the problem until I feel King’s body jerking in my arms and realize he is silently crying. The sobs that rack his body destroy my heart forever. It’s killing him. He has feelings for me. He can’t. It all adds up to It’s over.

Chapter Fourteen King I haven’t needed many people in my life. My father was a cold man who concentrated on building his drug empire, and my mother was wrapped up in looking like the perfect wife, so when I stepped onto the jet, I was never surer of anything in my life. I need Holland. I can’t even get on the plane without texting her and promising to text her again in a few minutes. What the fuck? The dread of having thousands of miles between us is disconcerting. If someone hadn’t fucking murdered three key distributors in my Miami club where I move the bulk of my product, I would have never left her. This fucking business was the death of my father, and it’s going to be the death of me too if I can’t find a way out.

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“Sir?” The stewardess says, lightly touching my shoulder. “Hmm?” I pull myself from my reverie and look up into a pretty young blonde woman’s eyes. It’s odd not to be attracted to her. She’s lovely, but no one compares to the sweet, innocent creature that recently robbed me of my common sense and my heart. “We’re about to take off. You’ll need your seatbelt.” She gestures to my lap, and as I buckle it, I realize that on any other occasion I would be planning which way to fuck her at cruising altitude, but not tonight. Not ever again. I wanted to find someone special, but I never imagined being pussy whipped. Kingpins don’t get pussy whipped. They manipulate and steal. They threaten and kill and rule. That was my father. He may have named me King, but he was the real King—the King of Cocaine. It’s a title I never wanted but inherited just the same when he was murdered while trying to cheat a Colombian kingpin a few years ago.

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“Can I get you a drink?” she asks, blinking her big, brown doe eyes. I glance at the gold nameplate on her blouse. Candy. Figures. She’s probably a stripper at one of my clubs as well as a stewardess. I should probably know her. Hell, I’ve probably fucked her. God, I hate the asshole dick I’ve grown to be. “Yeah, sweetheart, a rusty nail.” My brief eye contact and blasé tone make it clear that her only requirement on this flight is stewarding. She makes her way to the back of the plane, expertly mixes my drink, delivers it, and takes her seat while we taxi down the runway. Yes, she’s done this before, I’m sure. She’s familiar enough to know I fucking hate flying and that I need a drink in my hand during take-off. I swirl the ice in my tumbler and flex my jaw as the jet lifts into the air. The pressure in the cabin regulates and I relax. It’s the take-off I hate most. As soon as I hear the ding indicating it’s safe to remove my

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seatbelt, I unbuckle and text Holland again. I twist in my chair and pull at my collar when she doesn’t respond. She’s fine. I’m overreacting. I have an entire team watching out for her in my absence. There’s nothing to worry about. So why do I feel like something terrible is going to come from my leaving her? Candy approaches me with another drink and a pair of headphones. Yeah, now I remember her. A very attentive girl, she always anticipates my needs. I like that. She’s flown with me before, and I haven’t fucked her. I remember that I respected her professional attitude. I think she was a brunette, though. That must be why I didn’t recognize her tonight. “Thank you, Candy,” I say, looking at her in earnest this time. It’s a relief to know she’s not expecting anything from me. Five minutes go by, then ten. Still no reply. I heave a deep sigh and lean my head

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back, put on the headphones and close my eyes while I listen to the playlist of classical music Candy has cued up for me. It’s not easy to settle my mind, knowing what’s waiting in Miami for me and not knowing what Holland is doing, but the alcohol and the music help a lot. Candy deserves a bonus and a full-time job as my assistant. I’ll see about making that happen tomorrow. No more strip clubs for her. My neck is aching and my right foot’s asleep when Candy lightly taps my shoulder two hours later. I open my eyes and remove my headphones. Candy is just an outline in the dim lighting of the cabin, and her voice is soft and soothing. “Mr. Romero, we will be landing in fifteen minutes. I thought you might like something to eat before the seatbelt light comes on.” She’s holding a tray with my two of my favorite childhood snacks. I tilt my head to the side and frown. The drink and music I understand, but this? She must have

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done some serious research to know that my mother used to give me spicy popcorn and gelatin with mandarin oranges when I was little. In fact, I can’t think of a way she could possibly know this. She reads the question on my face and busies herself with sliding the tray table over my lap from its hidden compartment. I grab her wrist sharply, and she jerks her head so that we are eye to eye. “How do you know so much about me?” Her dark eyes widen, and I get the impression she can’t answer me—as in she is physically incapable because she is so afraid. I loosen my grip, and she relaxes microscopically. “I don’t mean to frighten you, but you do need to tell me how you know so much about my likes and dislikes.” She shifts, looking away, but I sense her answer will be honest.

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“I know your head of security, Sebastián. I asked him to help me with details to better serve you.” I release her wrist, and she transitions smoothly to the galley to make me another drink—club soda this time though, exactly what I want when I’m not in the mood to drink alcohol. My God, I never realized Sebastián was so observant. “How do you know Sebastián so well?” I ask, scooping up a handful of the popcorn. It tastes exactly the way my mother used to make it when I was a kid. Sebastián has always been part of my life. He worked for my father before I was born. There isn’t anyone still alive who knows me better. “I met him working in a club in Dallas.” I know there’s more though. She returns to set my drink down at precisely ten o’clock, and I realize that’s where I always place it too. Always.

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“Met him how? Were you a waitress or a stripper?” I ask. For the first time since taking off in Houston, her sweetness wavers. “Neither. I did the books,” she says curtly. I’ve offended her with my assumption. “Sorry, that wasn’t a dig. I just assumed from your name and because you look familiar that you . . . well, you know.” Her demeanor softens, and one corner of her lip lifts in a demure smile. “It’s short for Candace, which was my mother’s name, and I don’t care for her much, so I have always gone by Candy. And you recognize me because I’ve flown with you before.” “You were a brunette, yeah?” I ask, leaning back in my chair and lifting my ankle to rest on my knee. She’s on the up and up. Good.

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“Yes, I was,” she says, brushing a stray strand away from her face. “Why the change?” “Ah, well, that was actually Sebastián’s idea,” she says, fiddling with a bracelet on her wrist. “Oh yeah? Sebastián’s idea, huh? Why’s that?” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, looking anywhere in the cabin but directly at me. “Well, I told him how much I’d like to be permanently employed by you and . . .” “Go ahead.” “Sebastián said you prefer brunettes, and I didn’t want you to be attracted to me, so I changed my hair.” The poor thing rushes through her answer, but I’m impressed. This is a first, a woman changing something about herself to repel instead of attract me.

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“I see. Well, I appreciate your dedication to professionalism, and you don’t need to worry about your employment. You will always have a job with me, and I’m seriously involved with someone, so it’s safe to color your hair however you like.” I smirk and watch as every muscle in her body visibly uncoils. “Thank you,” she says just as the pilot’s voice comes over the intercom. “Setting down in five, sir,” he says. “You can take this, Candy. It’s okay, I’ll get something at the club.” But she doesn’t sweep it away like I expect her to. Instead, she hangs back, biting her lip. “What is it, Candy?” “Sebastián and I are involved. I want to be honest with you. I really need this job. I have a little boy to support.” Her body jerks after spewing her secret, as if she can’t believe she’s said it out loud.

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Shit, she’s fucking Sebastián. That’s fabulous. As long as I’ve known him, he’s never been married. No steady woman, no kids, just one hundred percent dedication to my family and his job. I’ll have to talk to him about this. Women make a man weak. God knows, I’ve learned that lately, and I can’t have my head of security weak in any way. It could cost us all our lives. “All right, Candy, thank you for being honest.” It very well may cost her her job, but I’ve got other things to worry about right now. Candy removes my tray, and I watch her bustle around in the galley, putting things away, wiping down counters, and arranging things that don’t need arranging. She doesn’t take her seat until seconds before the seatbelt sign begins to glow above the entrance to the galley. I’ve buckled up so she won’t have to tell me. She glances quickly at my lap and sits in her designated seat at the rear of the plane, laying her trembling

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hands in her lap. Sebastián has some serious explaining to do the minute I get home. I take my phone from the inside breast pocket of my suit coat and text Holland again. Getting ready to land. You’re quiet, baby. You okay? I text again. Call me. And again. Call. Me. If she doesn’t answer my text or call, I’m turning this plane around and flying straight back to Houston. Fuck the dead distributors, fuck my father and his empire, fuck my drug selling, murderous, lavish life. Fuck it all. The only thing that matters to me now is Holland. The plane touches down, and I breathe easier when we are back on the ground where God intended humans to be. If he wanted me to fly, he’d have given me wings.

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I’m having the jet refueled. I’m coming home right now if you don’t call me. And I will, dammit. Standing just inside the hanger in the dark, I work on my third cigarette while I wait for the jet to refuel. Dragging my hand through my hair, I rub the back of my neck. My chest is as tight as the strings on Holland’s violin and my pulse is racing. I feel like I’m having a fucking heart attack, but other than smoking, I’m healthier than a horse, so I chalk it up to anxiety. Why the hell isn’t she calling me? Doesn’t she know it’s not nice to mess with the King? No, of course she doesn’t. She doesn’t know I’m a fucking drug lord, and she never will if I can help it. I have to find a way to cash out and start over with her. The whine of the plane’s engine escalates, and I prepare to board again when I feel my pocket vibrate. I almost tear my suit trying to get to my phone, and when I see her

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gorgeous face on the screen, I tip my head back to look into the twinkling stars of the Miami sky and sigh. Thank fucking God, it’s her. She apologizes for not calling sooner, and I flirt so shamelessly that I can feel her blush through the phone. Something isn’t quite right though. I can’t pinpoint it, but it bothers me, a lot. After I agree not to come home right away, I head to the club with a nagging feeling of doom. Carlos, my head of security in Miami, maneuvers the car away from the airstrip, sitting stiffly in the driver’s seat and sweating bullets. How appropriate. “Fill me in before we get there. I need everything you’ve got before I start fucking talking to the cops.” “Alberto Guerrero, Nikolai Alkaev and Juan Martinez were all shot in the VIP area—close range, one shot to the head each, same weapon. I checked it all out before the

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police got there. Neat and clean, nobody caught on camera, nobody in security saw the shooter, no obvious explanation, and nobody’s talking. How the fuck did nobody see the shooter?” I shout. Carlos cringes and jerks his head away from the boom of my voice. “Sir, the cameras were disabled and the guards on the VIP floor were switching shifts. We change switch times randomly, but they still hit at exactly the right moment, when we were at our weakest.” “There should never be a moment of weakness, Carlos, ever. That’s why I fucking pay you out the ass.” I reach out to grip the dash to keep from punching Carlos in the throat. I need to get everything out of him first, though. He can’t fill me in if he’s holding his neck and gasping for breath. Those three distributors were from all corners of the world, and we were on the verge of moving product overseas regularly.

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“Sir, I think it was an inside job.” Carlos’s voice trembles. If it’s an inside job, it’s his responsibility, and when you fuck up that royally, you don’t get to live. He’s got balls being honest, and I respect that. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s going to die though. The decision won’t be entirely up to me. Sebastián has always handled these situations. It’s his hands that technically get dirty, not mine. “Do you know who?” I ask, trying like hell to keep my tone even and controlled, when inside I want to pummel him for allowing this to happen. Three of my key people are dead, and it could be an insider who’s responsible, so Carlos has to live until I get all the facts. “We’ve been questioning the whole staff, and there’s a waiter named Sanchez who looks like he could be dirty, but he’s also Juan Martinez’s nephew.”

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“That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he kill his own Uncle?” “I guess Sanchez wanted to be part of the business but Juan wouldn’t let him. He told him it was too dangerous or some shit, made him mad, so he took em all out. He’s a waiter, and I swear, Boss, his psychological testing was all totally normal, and he’s never done an illegal thing in his life.” “Why suspect him then?” “There’s no other explanation except . . . I think Sebastián knows something. He won’t tell me, though.” Sebastián? I just left him, and he never mentioned anything about an inside job. Carlos glances over, raising his eyebrows, and a knot starts to form in my stomach. I need to talk to Sebastián now. I jab Sebastián’s number on my contact list and grip the phone hard. What’s he keeping from me, and why? He informs me of every infinitesimal detail of the business,

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but something about this smells really really bad. Smokes. I need my smokes. Patting my chest with my free hand, I find them inside my breast pocket, shake one up, and take it between my lips. I hardly notice when Carlos reaches across the front seat and lights it for me. Dragging long and hard, I smoke half the cigarette in one inhalation while waiting for Sebastián to answer. “Hey, Boss, how’s everything going down there?” “I have three dead men and I’m being told it’s an inside job. You know anything about that?” My body vibrates waiting for Sebastián’s response while the palm trees of Ocean Drive slide by. “What are you really asking, King? Do you think I had something to do with it?”

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“I don’t know, Sebastián, did you?” The silence that hangs on the line between us tells me one of two things. He’s hiding something or he’s shocked and fucking pissed as hell. I’m praying it’s the latter. “King, I have been loyal to the Romero family since I was seventeen when your pop took me in and gave me a job protecting a delivery from Columbia. I would never do anything to jeopardize you or your business.” For the first time in . . . hell, my entire life, I doubt him. The outside of my fist connects with the car door at the same time my heart sags in my chest. He has been keeping Candy a secret. What’s to say he isn’t hiding something else? I take a deep drag off of my cigarette and blow it out vehemently. “Prove it.”

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“Prove it? What are you talking about, King? I’ve been ‘proving it’ for thirty years. My whole life has been spent protecting you and your parents.” “All right, I’m just going to come out and say this. You’re keeping something from me. What is it?” Sebastián clears his throat and that seals the deal. Here it comes. “I’m doing what I always do, King. I’m protecting you. I’ve never seen you fall so hard for a woman, so I of course did a background check on Holland.” “A background check, so?” How could that possibly matter? “King, she’s a teenager.” His voice fades, and I drop my hand holding the phone in my lap. I can’t fucking breathe. No way. I met her in the club. She had to be twenty-one to get in. We have a foolproof way of checking IDs. She can’t be a

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kid. She’s so mature, and the sex—God, the sex . . . he has to be wrong. This can’t be true. He was supposed to tell me about Candy or the insider who murdered my distributers. He wasn’t supposed to tell me that the first woman I’ve ever given a shit about isn’t even a woman but a teenager. “Wait, wait, you said a teenager. Exactly how old is she? Please, don’t you dare say she’s fifteen. I may have a stroke, Sebastián.” “Nineteen. And King . . . she knows about you.” “Turn around, turn the car around, Carlos. Turn around, turn around, turn around! I scream as a billion thoughts fight for the lead on the stage of my mind. Carlos obeys, whipping the car in a U-turn right in the middle of Ocean Drive, nearly causing a ten-car pile-up. Maybe he did cause an accident—who knows?

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I can deal with nineteen. I mean, I don’t like it. She lied to me, and she’s six years younger than I am, but if she knows what I am, I’m sure it’s over. “Uh, Boss . . . the phone.” Carlos risks a few words to bring my attention back to the phone in my hand. Sebastián is shouting my name. I can’t talk. I press the red disconnect button. “Airport—just get me to the airport,” I say, and Carlos increases our speed exponentially. The battle in my head continues. She plays the violin like a professional. How can a nineteen-year-old be so incredibly talented? We have things in common. She fucking stops my heart with her smile. I roll down the window and gulp the muggy air into my lungs. She’s young and talented, with an unparalleled career in music ahead of her, and she knows I’m a drug lord. As hopeless as it is, I need to get to her.

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I need to explain. She has to understand how much I care for her and that I had every intention of giving up the Romero empire if it meant she would stay with me.

Chapter Fifteen Holland “I didn’t want you to know about my business. I didn’t want you to think I was that kind of man.” His voice catches as I push my hands against his chest and see the misery in his glassy eyes. “But you are that kind of man. You sell illegal drugs to people and they ruin their lives with them. You kill people, and God knows what else.” “It was my father’s empire. He died and left me to deal with it. I had no choice, you have to believe that. I would give it all up for you. I want you. I want to prove to you that I’m not who you think I am.” “I can’t.” It kills me to say those two simple words, but I have to. I have to let him go.

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His chin drops, and I feel his soft hair feathering against the damp skin on my chest as he begins to rock our joined bodies back and forth. There isn’t a thing I can say to fix this—a gesture, a word, a thought—nothing. It is what it is, and it’s terrible. A knock on the bathroom door jolts me back to reality. King and I are in Savannah’s bathroom, where our mama’s could easily find us. I can’t add my parent’s devastation to the mounding list of heartache that this two-day-old relationship has caused. I may never find a man like him again, but my age and his ‘career’ won’t ever allow us to be together, period. “Holland. Are you okay in there? Holland, answer me. Your mama’s gonna be here any second,” she says into the crack of the door, rapping several times in between words. “She’s gonna fuckin’ kill you both if he doesn’t get outta here.” Rap-rap-rap-rap. “God, King, if you care about her at all, you’d

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leave so she doesn’t get punished for the rest of her life.” Rap-rap-rap. King untangles himself from me. He stands and pulls me off the floor in front of him, but he won’t meet my eyes. I even move an inch in his direction, but he intentionally looks the opposite way. With wide, tear-filled eyes, I watch as he tucks his shirt into his pants with shaky hands, not bothering to wipe the tears from his face. Savannah keeps up her incessant knocking and verbal protests while I stand naked, dripping wet in front of this man turned zombie who can’t even look at me. “King? Please, I . . . I know we can’t fix this, but please don’t leave like this, please . . .” I don’t even recognize my own voice, it’s so small and weak and desperate. I frown when I think about him lying to me. He’s a damn drug dealer or lord or whatever he is. This isn’t my fault, not really . . . is it?

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I lean my ass against the vanity and feel the sting of the cut on my back and the knife in my chest while King absently reaches around me for the towel I was looking for earlier. He presses it against my belly and my arms float to grasp it while he leans in, enveloping me with his familiar smell of soap and a hint of cigarette smoke. He presses a kiss on my forehead, and still avoiding my eyes, he turns to open the bathroom door. Savannah falls in against him, still knocking and fussing. King rights her and slips past without a word. Just like that, he’s gone from my life, taking a colossal piece of me with him that I’ll never be able to get back. My world tilts, and Savannah sounds like she’s talking through the end of a tin can when she rushes in, shutting the bathroom door. Her hands hover an inch off of my skin and her eyes dart from my face to my hands clutching the towel. She assesses my

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shaking legs and snaps her eyes back to mine. “Are you hurt?” she asks, unaware of the weight of her question. I’ve never hurt more. Every hair on my head needs him, every cell in my body wants him, and every ounce of happiness evaporates, leaving me void of all the pleasures he brought to my life. This is heartbreak . . . how do people survive it? I’m not equipped for the highs and lows of such a powerful relationship. Why has life sucker punched me so hard in the heart? This is Romeo and Juliet dramatic, Cleopatra and Mark Antony miserable. Shit, if Edward hadn’t saved Bella with his venom, it would be Twilight tragic. I nod silently, and Savannah snatches the towel from my hands, patting and drying me in her protective, motherly way. How did she get to be so maternal? She doesn’t have any little brothers or sisters. She never even

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babysat the kids in the neighborhood, but she sure knows how to mother hen me to death. “I can do that,” I say when she is about to discover the gash on my back. I wrap the towel under my arms and tuck a corner between my breasts to hold it in place. “What did he say?” she asks. “He’s a drug lord . . . it’s over.” My last two words catch in my throat, and Savannah wraps me in her arms while I let go of the sobs I’ve been holding back. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry, really I am. I see how nuts ya’ll were for each other, but it’s for the best. It could never go anywhere, you know? He’s just too . . . too . . . I don’t know . . . too everything. Too old, too illegal, too gorgeous, too rich . . . I’m not helping, am I?”

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Her shoulders slump and I shake my head. She is definitely not helping at all. I need to think about something else—as if that were possible. I have to go to practice and my mama’s coming, I have to get dressed and put on my game face. ‘Suck it up, buttercup,’ she would say. I know I can never go back to being the naive virgin violin prodigy that I was two days ago. My time with King changed me forever, but somehow I am going to try and put this behind me and start again, focus on my future, and put all of my attention back into my music. Mama is in the driveway ten minutes later, and I numbly slide into the passenger seat dressed in Savannah’s clothes. I try like hell to act normal. Mama’s usually very observant, but thankfully today she’s on the phone discussing hotel reservations with my daddy, who’s still out of town on business. After a quick ‘hey honey’, she backs the car out of the driveway and chats while we drive to STRINGS. Her voice is a muffled

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background noise until my ears perk up when she mentions a trip to New York. Crap, I almost forgot that we’re going for a weekend to tour Juilliard again and settle all the final arrangements for my move in two and a half months. We fly out next Friday to meet Daddy in the city so he doesn’t have to come the entire way home from Atlanta. A trip . . . just what I don’t feel like doing, but honestly, it’s probably the best distraction I could ask for right now. Concentrate on your music. Think about your future and practice, I tell myself. Shut up! I shout at the levelheaded alter ego in my head. I’m dying. I don’t want to think about my future. I want King. I want to be a twenty-one-year-old woman, and I want King to be an upstanding member of society so we can be together forever and live in the suburbs and have babies. I’m not asking for anything out of the unusual, really. It’s the American dream, but that’s the problem.

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Just like the American dream, it’s unachievable and unrealistic. I turn and watch the houses in my neighborhood whiz by and prop my elbow on the edge of the car window to wipe away a tear sliding down my cheek. As much as this hurts, part of me is really pissed too. How did I let this happen? I made choices, stupid choices that come with consequences, and now I have to pay. I’m not a sniffling, whining baby. I shouldn’t be crying in the car over a man I met two days ago, wishing for things that can never be. But I am.

Chapter Sixteen King I refused to allow myself to think about it while driving. It’s just not safe. No, that’s a cop out. I just can’t think about it because it hurts too fucking much. I wish I could go to sleep and wake up with no memory of Holland and her hot, wet skin against mine, her strong legs slinking around my waist while she pushes her . . . fuck, stop. She’s a kid. I keep trying to wrap my brain around that, but it’s not happening. I spent the entire flight home going over and over every single moment of our time together. Yeah, a lot of it was spent having sex, but she was so much more than a sexy fuck. She was the real deal. My heart beat faster when I was with her, but I was never more at peace. With her in my arms, the world felt right. That piece of me I’ve been looking for . . . it was her.

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The darkness of the parking garage is a welcome relief from the blazing hot Houston sun and my aching head. I’m prone to migraines, and I’ve got a whopper. It’s private here. No one else is allowed to park here except for Sebastián, and he’s dealing with Carlos. The guy knew this business was cut throat—literally—and he still insisted he was up for the job two years ago when I promoted him. My father would roll over in his grave if I didn’t allow Sebastián to do his job, so now I’m faced with finding a new head of security for my gateway club in Miami. Fucking great. I cut the engine and recline the seat back. I lace my fingers behind my neck and squeeze my head between my biceps. I have the urge to scream, just yell until my nicotine-riddled lungs are sore to relieve some of this stress, but my throbbing head keeps my screaming at bay. I’ve never been in a situation I couldn’t buy, sell, trade or murder my way out of, until now.

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Flopping my elbows down, my left one makes contact with the metal handle of the door, and for a second the sharp, shooting pain masks the pain of my headache. “Fuck.” I yell, and my headache pain takes the forefront again. I need a smoke. I pat my chest pockets and then my pants before I remember I smoked my last one. Figures. Wait, I keep a pack in here for emergencies. I flip open the center console, and thank God, there’s half a pack of Newports begging to be chain-smoked. I light one up with the cheap, disposable lighter that has a picture of a pair of pink tits on the side of it. I suck hard and wait for the familiar rush of cancer causing toxins to flood my lungs and calm my nerves. Smoking usually helps, but after I met Holland, I started cutting back a lot—until I took off for Miami. I’ve sizzled so many cancer sticks since then that my lungs ache, but the need for something nags at me relentlessly. It’s not cigarettes I need, though . . . it’s her.

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I curse when the fiberglass filter hits the inside of my fingers and the sulfurous smell of burning flesh invades my nostrils. I fumble around until it’s smoldering in the ashtray instead of between my fingers, and when I sit up, I have a nice head rush. Fucking great . . . I’ve been spacing off between smokes for over an hour, my headache is worse than ever, my hand is throbbing, and I still haven’t come to grips with having to leave Holland. I’ve never been addicted to anything other than cigarettes, but I am hooked on her. My skin crawls like a meth addict without a score, and I can’t help seeing the irony in it all. I’m a drug lord who’s been sent to rehab to suffer against his will, just like many of my customers. “No,” I say aloud to make it more real. If I hear myself say it, maybe I’ll listen. I slam the seat back to its proper position and throw the door open, nearly scratching the Audi in the stall next to me. It doesn’t matter if I leave a dent. It’s my fucking car anyway.

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The slam of the Rover’s door echoes throughout the cavernous garage, along with the sound of my pounding feet against the cement. I’m going up for a drink. Maybe it will help me forget for a while. I need an escape, however temporary it may be. I squint in the bright light of the elevator and feel my way over the buttons for the VIP club. When it starts to lift, a wave of nausea rolls through me and a thin layer of perspiration covers my face. No drink. I need my bed and maybe a couple of sleeping pills instead. None of this pain is going away anytime soon. When the doors open, I cross the empty club, and when I pass the bartender, I point to my penthouse door. He buzzes me in, and I almost cry for the second time today. Fucking headache, fucking Holland, fucking drug empire, fucking Dad. I toe off my shoes and un-tuck my shirt while I struggle to my bedroom. When

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I’m there, I don’t even turn on the lights. I just finish stripping down, pop two pills from the bottle on my dresser, and slip between the sheets. I’m not there for two seconds—in fact, my head doesn’t even make contact with the pillow—before I feel a warm, soft leg curling over my hip. “What the fuck. Crystal, what are you doing here? How did you get in?” I shout. She doesn’t even startle. I’m more affected by the sound of my voice than she is. I moan and collapse onto my pillow. “Get out.” “But baby, it’s been weeks. I miss you. Are you having another headache? Let me rub your shoulders. Turn over and I’ll make it all better.” “No. Crystal, get the fuck out of my bed. You’ve never been invited in here. What makes you think I want you here now?”

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The hand that was caressing my shoulder stops, and a tiny gasp escapes her lips. I’ve never been blatantly cruel to Crystal, but she’s taken this too far. I go to her when I want something, not the other way around. We fuck at her place or a hotel. Whoever let her in here is going to be very sorry. If I weren’t in so much pain, I’d probably break King’s rule number five, never hit a woman. “King, why have you been avoiding me? Is it that little girl I walked in on you having dinner with? You can’t be serious about her.” That’s it. I was going to let her slink away with her tail between her legs, but calling Holland out as a child snaps the thin thread of control I’m working with. I bolt out of bed and reach to turn on the light, but I end up grabbing it and throwing it against the wall when my fingers fail to find the

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switch. Crystal crawls backward to the opposite side of the bed, screaming. “I said get the fuck out of my house, Crystal. Don’t call me, don’t come to the club, and if I ever catch you in my bed again, you’re dead! Do you understand me? Dead.” I can’t see her, but I sense her scurrying around the room, probably grabbing her clothes and pulling on what she dares to before running down the hall. Another surge of adrenaline flows through my veins, and I find the remaining crystal letter K bookend that Crystal cleverly gifted me and hurl it down the hall, just missing her before it explodes into a thousand tiny fragments against a wall. “God damn it, King, what the fuck is wrong with you? I was just trying to . . .” she says, hopping up and down, trying to stuff her round ass into her tight jeans. Crystal dresses too young for her age. I always hated that.

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“Shut up and leave now, Crystal. Seriously, before you get hurt.” Her eyes widen and she stops dressing. With her shirt open and her jeans unbuttoned, she turns to stomp out of the penthouse, slamming the door in her wake on purpose. She’s been witness to several of my migraines, so she knows firsthand how miserable they make me. The slam was her last dig, and it served its purpose. My head is wrecked now, but nowhere as wrecked as my heart.

Chapter Sixteen Holland Practice is horrible. I can’t concentrate, my fingers are all over the place, and nothing’s flowing. For the first time in my life, music isn’t calming or soothing; it’s exasperating. I want to be at home in my bed with the covers pulled over my head so I can bawl my head off. If I can just be alone for a few hours, maybe I could purge him from my system and get my life back on track. Yeah right, Holland, you keep telling yourself that. Mama is sitting in the waiting room while I practice, as if I need another thing to worry about right now. If Shanna says anything about King being here yesterday, I’m dead meat. As if she were reading my mind, Mama opens the door to the practice room a crack.

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“Okay if I come in?” “Yeah, you may as well. I’m not having a great day,” I say laying my bow across my legs with a deep sigh. “I noticed.” She lowers her eyes to the floor, shaking her head. She’s disappointed. Oh my God. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mama disappointed in me. “You should have stayed home last night instead of staying up all night watching movies with Savannah. I knew better than to let you spend the night before a practice day.” As if there were any non-practice days. I can’t remember a day that I didn’t play for a minimum of three hours. “It’s one off day. Gosh, Mama can’t I ever just relax and have some fun?” As soon as the words tumble from my lips, I regret them. I sounded whiney and ungrateful. I’ve never complained about my lack of social life

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because I enjoy being at home, and I love practicing. It’s never been a chore. But now that I’ve had a taste of living on the edge a little, I’m interested. “Holland. What’s gotten into you?” I shrug one shoulder and pick up my bow, running it across the strings in a horrible screech just to annoy her. I don’t know who I am lately, and what’s worse is that I don’t think I want to go back to the person I used to be. “I’m going to ignore that and chalk it up to sleep deprivation. But I’ll tell ya what, there will be no more staying the night at Savannah’s if you have a practice room reserved the next day. We can’t afford to do this if you aren’t going to take it seriously and give it one hundred percent, Holland. This is your future—” “Mama, God, I get it. I’m off my game for one day and you think I’m throwing my future away.”

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I’m on my feet and packing my violin in its case before she’s able to process the fact that I have just raised my voice to her for the first time ever. I’m so emotionally tired that I just want to go home. Squeezing past her in the doorway, I mumble something about having to be perfect all the time and stomp down the hall and into the street. It’s so hot already, and the smell of tacos from the Mexican restaurant next door mixed with car exhaust is nauseating. Beads of sweat are forming on my forehead when Mama catches up with me. “Are you sick, honey?” She presses the back of her hand against my cheek and I brush her away. “I’m fine. It’s just hot out here. Can we please just go home?” Her arm drops to her side and she narrows her eyes to look at me . . . hard. She’s off balance. My attitude sucks right now, and for once I wish I hadn’t always

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been so damn good. If I had thrown in an occasional hissy fit or misbehaved a few times, this wouldn’t be so hard. “Yes, okay. Let's go.” She pinches her lips together and stalks down the hill to our car. I follow and watch her as she robotically gets into the driver’s seat while I put my violin in the back. She’s really pissed, but I’ve got too much on my plate right now to worry about out apologizing, and I sorta don’t want to anyway. *** At home, I trudge upstairs to my room and Mama goes in the opposite direction to the kitchen to start dinner. When I close the door and lean my back against it, the tears I’ve been holding back for hours fill my eyes. I wrap my arms around my waist, trying to hold myself together. The scene in the bathroom this morning with King engulfs my mind. His angry face and stern voice saying we need to talk, the pain in his eyes when he

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pulled back the shower curtain, and finally the way his body shook in my arms when he broke down and cried. It’s like a modern day Romeo and Juliet, except it’s not our families keeping us apart; it’s our age difference and drugs. I stumble across the room and climb in bed, burying my face in my pillow. The more I cry, the worse I feel. Isn’t crying supposed to help relieve the pain, heal the heart? Well if it is, I’m doing it wrong, because after a solid hour of sobbing like somebody just died, all I feel is exhausted. My head hurts, and my eyes are so swollen that I can hardly see when I roll onto my back and stare at my ceiling fan circling slowly overhead. I single out one blade and follow it around and around with my eyes and remember how cool I used to think that was. One blade can look so clear and obvious when it’s the only thing you’re looking at, but when you lose track of it, they all blend

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together again. I’ve taken my eyes off of my dream of becoming a professional violinist, and now it’s spinning out of control, lost like that damn blade. A soft knock on the door pulls me from my fan metaphor. Shit, Mama can’t see me like this. But she never knocks. Maybe it’s Savannah. I can’t risk it, so I very quietly slip from the bed and pad across the floor into the bathroom and close the door before saying ‘come in’. “Honey? I’ve got sweet tea and Lorna Doones.” Sweet tea and Lorna Doones cookies. She’s trying to make up. Time to pack my bags, because I’m going on a guilt trip. “I was just going to shower.” My face is pressed against the door, and I squeeze my swollen eyes shut and grit my teeth while I wait for her to decide if she’s going to let me have my space or be stubborn and stand her ground until I come out.

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“Okay . . . I’ll leave them right here. I have to run an errand. I’ll be home in a half hour. Are you okay?” Thank God, she chose space. I’m spent, and I don’t think I could handle guilt on top of heartbreak today. “Thanks, Mama. I’m just going to study for a while. Love you,” I call through the door. When I hear her leave, I slide down into a heap on the floor. I don’t want a shower. I may never shower again without having traumatic flashbacks. I’m too weak to get up, so I curl up into a ball on the floor and try to think about nothing, like a blank white wall, empty space, eternal nothingness. “Holland?” I feel the door gently nudge against my back, and I open my eyes. When I blink and see the furry fibers of the rug from my bathroom floor up close and personal, my heart accelerates and I sit up. Mama. Shit.

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“You like never pass up sweet tea and Lorna Doones, woman. What are you doing in here?” I hear Savannah say and slump against the door. “Hey, you’re smashing me here.” “Sorry.” I scoot away so she can open the door. Her eyes pop when she sees me, but for once, she doesn’t comment on my lack of makeup, sad looking hair, and puffy eyes. Taking a seat on the toilet, she hands me the tepid glass of sweet tea, but I shake my head. I’m not sure it would stay down if I drank it. “Well I’m not wasting a perfectly good glass of sweet tea,” she says, taking a big gulp and setting it on the vanity. “I saw your mom leave and tried to call you. When you didn’t answer after like fifty calls and a hundred texts, I decided to come over here and make sure you were okay. So I guess you’re not okay, huh?” I shake my head again.

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“I was a bitch to my mama at practice today, you know . . . just to make sure I was completely miserable.” “Ah, hence the tea and cookies.” Savannah narrows her eyes at the tea. “Yep.” “Can I do anything?” She reaches out to put her hand on my shoulder, and the warmth of her hand brings the water works again. When a sob catches in my throat, she kneels down on the floor and wraps her arms around me, shushing and smoothing my crazy bird nest hair against my back. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.” Savannah guides me to my feet and back to my room. When she tucks the blanket under my chin like a toddler, I make a twisted sort of laugh/cry sound and she giggles. “You’re such a baby.” She rolls her eyes, but I know she’s teasing. Anyone can see I’m suffering.

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“I know. Pathetic, huh?” I swipe the tears that are about to trickle into my ears off of my face and crack a smile. Only Savannah could make me smile right now. She knows what to say and how to say it like nobody else. “So we need to make a plan. Let’s make a list of things that will help you feel better and forget ol’ what’s his name.” “I think I’ve had just about enough of your lists, and King is pretty hard to forget.” Savannah sits on the bed, tucking her leg under her butt, and chews her thumbnail—a nasty habit I’ve tried to get her to quit forever. I look at her thumb with raised brows, and she shoves her hands into her lap. With one nervous habit under control, another surfaces, and her knee begins bouncing up and down. “You’re gonna make me sea sick,” I say. She jumps up with a huff and starts pacing back and forth at the foot of my bed.

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“I can’t help it. I feel responsible for this whole thing, and I can’t figure out how to fix it.” “It’s not your fault. I told you I had choices, and I made the wrong ones. There’s no fixing this, it’s over no matter what we feel. We’re six years apart in age, and more importantly, what he does for a living is incredibly illegal.” It sounds so logical when I say it out loud, so simple and straightforward, but inside my heart it’s anything but. “Okay, so what do we do?” she asks. “Homework.” “Homework?” “Yeah, normal old regular homework. Go home and get your computer and your backpack. We need to study for finals.” She stops pacing and scratches the top of her head with one finger. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

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And the first of hopefully many normal, boring evenings begins when she returns. We spread out our binders and folders full of papers from our last year of high school. Savannah and I started kindergarten late. We have always been the oldest in our class, and we are the only two graduating at nineteen, going on twenty. Savannah starts off strong studying, but she ends up scrolling through Facebook and Pinterest, stopping every minute or so to laugh and show me a funny meme or quote. I roll my puffy eyes and try to cram a million facts and figures into my head in hopes that it will shove out the memories of King. As soon as she’s packed up and gone, he creeps back in like a thief, stealing the relief I was starting to feel, and the raw, open hole in my heart is exposed and bleeding again.

Chapter Seventeen King It’s been four long weeks without Holland. I’ve thrown myself back into the life of a drug lord full throttle. In two short days I discovered my light, my anchor, the person who made me want to be an upstanding, honorable man. But after the catastrophic ending of our abbreviated romance, that’s impossible. I’ve gone back into the dark. This is a world I’m familiar with, the one I’ve always known. One more drink and I’m out. I’m leaving Miami in the morning. I’ve been on a reckless binge for five long days. Candy keeps telling me I need to sleep, and she’s usually right. She’s been telling me to take it easy all week, but I’m not interested in taking it easy. I’m interested in all things self-

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destructive, and if she doesn’t like it she can just fuck off. “King . . .” Candy says, her voice laced with concern. “I know, Candy. That’s the hundredth time you’ve reminded me. Don’t say it again.” I reach out to set my drink down, but I’m seeing three of everything, and my hand bumps against the edge of the table, sloshing scotch whisky and ice cubes all over the floor. “Whoa there.” Candy thrusts her hand out, catching the glass before it completely slips out of my hand. Our fingers brush, and my bloodshot eyes meet her serious gaze. “You really should go back to the hotel, sir.” I flop back into the leather booth and wink at her despite how irritated I am right now. “I pay you to keep track of my schedule, not babysit me, so give it a rest.” Taking

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the hint, she turns away, and the pulsing crowd of club goers swallows her up. I know Candy, though. She’s out there somewhere watching over me, and deep down inside, I appreciate that. I’ll never tell her, but I do. My world is a dangerous world when someone is in his or her right mind, and I am so not in my right mind. I haven’t been since Sebastián told me the only person in my life who’s ever made sense is a minor. I’m navigating in the dark, completely off course, and I don’t even fucking care. “Melody, come here.” I close one eye and crook my finger at the sexy little kitten that’s been hovering around me all week. She’s never too close like some of the annoying, junkie sluts who have been throwing themselves at me, hoping for a free high or some prime cock. Those women make me want to vomit. Not Melody, though. She’s never out of my sight. Whenever I look around, no matter where I am, her forest

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green eyes are quietly watching, waiting, anticipating my needs. “You ready?” I ask. She doesn’t speak. She just nods. I like that—no strings, no complications, no feelings. She’s just there when I want her and gone when I don’t. I stand and sway, but Melody steadies me. I drape my heavy arm over her petite shoulders as we make our way to the doors and into a car that I’m positive Candy has had waiting on standby for hours. “I’ve got this, baby, slide on in,” I say, slurring my words, leaning heavily against the luxury SUV and watching her perfect, round ass disappear into the back seat. Melody’s not a working girl, not a stripper or a druggie, and she doesn’t drink. She’s more of a groupie. Most importantly, she is without a doubt twenty-three years old. Lord knows, I’ve had her checked out. There’s nothing I don’t know about her. When I fall in after her, she stays in her spot by the

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opposite window until I pat the space next to me, inviting her to come closer. “Do you need anything tonight?” she asks in her baby voice. That’s the worst thing about Melody, her shrill as nails on a chalkboard voice. No one’s perfect though . . . no one except Holland. “Just take me home and put me to bed, baby, that’s all.” She slides her hand from my knee along the inside of my thigh. When she’s gone far enough, I take her wrist and return her hand to her lap. Melody doesn’t complain. She simply laces her fingers with mine and rests her head against my shoulder. We arrive in front of the Welch Hotel, and when the driver hustles around to open my door, I’m blasted by the humid, heavy wind blowing in off the ocean. I can taste the salt in the air—or maybe that’s the salt from tequila shots earlier. Who fucking knows?

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While walking through the grand lobby, as always, I’m practically accosted by George, the concierge. “Mr. Romero, sir! Is there anything I can send up for you this evening?” He’s obnoxious—good at his job, but what the fuck does he think I’m going to want at three thirty in the morning? Sure as hell wouldn’t be drugs. I’m the most famous non-drug using drug Lord in the world. And not women, obviously. I’ve got a beautiful one on my arm . . . well, more like under my arm, trying to keep all six foot five of me in an upright position. “No, I’m god . . . good . . .” Shit, I’m fucking plastered. I loll my head back and watch George’s brows lift before he goes back to shuffling papers around at his concierge podium. When we stumble into the room after a nauseating elevator ride, Melody helps me out of my clothes. She is patient with me,

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and after what seems like a long time of me weaving and swaying about, she undresses and slides into the California king bed next to me like a good girl. She knows the rules: no touching below the waist and no sex of any kind. She can plaster herself against me if she wants to—in fact, I rather like having her warm body next to me. I’ve taken to closing my eyes in my drunken stupor and imagining this quiet, obedient girl is my intelligent, talented, sexy Holland. I haven’t fucked anyone since Holland launched herself into my arms a month ago in Savannah’s bathroom, and I don’t plan to for a very long time . . . maybe never. I’ve had the best, and I’m not willing to settle for less. Maybe I’ll wait the two years until she’s legal and try again? Yeah, right, King. She’s sheer perfection. There’s no way she’s going to be single then, not to mention the fact that she knows what I do for a living. She doesn’t approve of my lifestyle, and I don’t blame her. I was going to change for her . . . I wanted to be different,

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better . . . but now she’s gone, and I’m trying to set a Guinness world record for consecutive days being drunk as fuck. My heavy eyelids droop, and after several feeble attempts to keep them open, I give in. The room still tilts in the dark while the alcohol numbs my heart, keeping the painful memories at bay. Melody’s steady, even breathing helps to lull me into an agonizing sleep, where no amount of alcohol can block Holland from my mind. She haunts every dream, with her clear grey eyes looking through me or past me like I don’t exist. Worse are the dreams where she is with me again—her sweet, citrusy scent invades my nose, her hot, smooth skin slides over mine, the sexy sound of her moan fills my ears when I make her come, her silky hair slides between my fingers, and I swear to God she’s real when I wake up panting and covered with sweat, with a heart full of hope and a major hard on.

Chapter Eighteen Holland New York is amazing, exactly what I needed to take my mind off of King. Daddy’s meeting us at the hotel in Manhattan this morning. Mama and I flew in last night so we would be well rested for a Saturday full of touring the school and dorms, but even with all the excitement, I can’t shake the feeling of emptiness that’s been boring a hole through me all week. I’m actually kind of pissed that it’s affecting my Juilliard experience. If I hadn’t met King, I would be one hundred and ten percent peeing in my pants excited, but instead, I’m dark and gloomy inside. I put on a smile and fake it till I make it in front of my parents so they won’t be suspicious. I mean, this is my chance to study with the best of the best in the world. There

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should be no reason for me to be down in the dumps. “You almost ready, honey?” Mama says from the adjoining room of the hotel suite. “Yeah, I’ll be right there. I just have to find my shoes. Have you seen my white Converse?” “Oh, Holland, do you have to wear those things? They aren’t very feminine or professional.” Mama is standing in the door with her hands on her hips. “Yes, Mama, I do. We’re going to be doing a lot of walking, and I don’t want blisters on my feet. I’m wearing a skirt, see?” I say in my own defense, spinning in a circle to show that I’ve taken her advice to dress up a little. It’s a long, straight black eyelet skirt with a slit up the back. I didn’t have anything to do with this outfit, though. Savannah chose the white sleeveless blouse with a multicolored striped blazer. It’s hers. She

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insisted I break away from my black and white habit and add some color to my—in her own words—‘pathetically dull and boring’ ensemble. She wouldn’t approve of the shoes either, but I don’t care. This outfit’s modest, comfortable, and versatile—very much like me. Mama rolls her eyes and turns to finish getting ready to go meet Daddy. I find my shoe tucked in the bottom my duffle bag. I swear I packed them both in my suitcase . . . Savannah. That brat tried to sabotage me. She hates Converse, says they’re clunky and sloppy. The nerve. And for some reason, she especially hates this pair that says Love down the back of the heel and Life on the other. I’m trying really hard to love life right now, so the shoes are my way of saying fuck this whole thing with King. After a quick ride in a disgusting cab that smells like a mixture of barf and sweat, we walk past the reflecting pool in Lincoln

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Center and into my new home away from home, The Juilliard School. The June Noble Larkin lobby entrance is open and inviting, and I’m shocked that this enormous, foreign place actually feels like home the second I set foot inside. “Sweetie, close your mouth,” My mom says, reaching out to actually close my mouth for me while Daddy brushes her hand away. “Oh, leave her be, Gloria. She’s taking it all in. It’s pretty impressive, isn’t it, Princess?” Daddy’s arm circles my shoulder, pulling me into a side hug. God, I love him. He’s such an honest, patient, generous man that sometimes I wonder how he ended up with my mama—not that she isn’t great too. She’s just the opposite of him in every way possible. “Yeah. Wow, it’s so much bigger than I thought. The pictures didn’t do it justice.” “Nothing but the best for you,” Daddy says. His warm, smiling eyes are on me, and

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I have the sudden urge to cry. This is it; this is what I’ve worked my whole life for, what they have worked so hard to give me. “Oh now, none of that, Princess. This is gonna be a fun day. no crying.” He gives me one more quick squeeze before opening the door to my future. Juilliard is impressive and inspiring. After an hour of touring The Paul Recital Hall, The Peter Jay Sharp theater, one of ninety-eight private practice rooms, a library that houses original manuscripts by Beethoven and Mozart, and the classrooms where I’ll be taking my liberal arts classes, we are ready to head over to the dorms. Our guide suggests a lunch break first, though, so we roam the streets of Manhattan and settle on a little Italian restaurant where we stuff ourselves until we’re nauseated with the best pasta I’ve ever eaten. An hour and a half later, our guide meets us in the lobby of The Meredith

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Wilson Residence Hall and we take an elevator to the seventh floor to tour a dorm suite. My parents haven’t told me anything about my living arrangements. They wanted it to be a surprise, but I couldn’t wait to see so I Googled it. I know that each suite is set up for eight students, including a common area in the center, with five connected bedrooms—three doubles and two singles. I’m assuming I will be in a double, as it’s less expensive, and I kind of like the idea of not being totally alone. “This is nicer than my first apartment,” Mama says quietly, gazing out a bay window at the panoramic view of the Lincoln Center and Manhattan. “Are you happy, Princess?” Daddy asks. He thinks this is the first time I’ve seen the dorms. “Yeah, of course, Daddy. It’s beautiful. I can’t believe how much space there is.”

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“Wait until you see upstairs. They have a fitness center and private practice rooms. No more driving to STRINGS to practice,” he says. Our afternoon is long and exhausting. After looking through the room and all of the amenities in the residence hall, we are allowed to return to the school to wander around on our own. When we get back at the hotel, I collapse into bed and thank God I wore my Converse. My feet ache, but it would have been so much worse if I’d worn the pumps Mama wanted me to wear. I lay in the dark and listen to my parents chat in the room next door. You’d think they were going to be the ones living here next fall. It’s sorta cute how they banter back and forth, until I hear Mama kiss Daddy and tell him she would love to be a doe-eyed freshman if he were her professor. Ew. I get up and quietly close the adjoining door and

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turn on the light. My phone beeps and my heart skips a beat. I haven’t thought of King all day, but like Pavlov’s dog, the beep of an incoming text makes me hopeful. It feels like an eternity since I’ve seen his ruggedly handsome face or heard his gruff voice, and now every molecule in my body aches for his touch. Just like that, my long, happy day full of sensational new experiences turns to shit. I toe off my shoes and kick them across the room into the bathroom and flop on my bed with a huff. I know it’s not him, but a tiny part of me wants to believe it is, so I hold the phone face down against my chest so I can’t see who it is. It beeps again, and again and again. Savannah. She’s popped my fantasy bubble with her relentless texting. I tilt the screen up and read her messages. How’s the big apple? How was your tour? Holland. I’m talking to you. Don’t ignore me, woman.

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Hey. Best friend Savannah here. Remember me? My God, she’s impatient. Keep your panties on, woman! It went great, dorms are nice and the views are phenomenal. NYC is the biggest place I’ve ever seen. Sorta scary. I think I’ll stay at school or the dorm for the entire four years . .. No way. You have to get the whole big city experience, ride the nasty subway, get lost looking for museums, hang out in Central Park, party in clubs—oh wait, scratch that, sorry. How are you anyway? Clubs . . . ugh . . . I can safely say that I will not be setting foot in a dance club ever again, even when I am twenty-one and legal. I think I’ve had enough of that scene to last a lifetime. I lie and tell her I’m fine and everything’s fine, but she knows fine is a blanket term for about a million things. This time fine means I’m horrible and struggling,

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but I’m still alive. She gets it, like only a best friend can, and steers the conversation away from any topic that might make me think of King, but it’s pointless. I’m alone and tired and emotionally spent; essentially, I’m weak. I want to call him, text him, reach out and tell him I’m thinking about him, and I miss him. I’d kill to watch his dark eyelashes fan up and down lazily, to feel his rough fingers trail up and down my bare backside while he holds me against his chest. I’ve stopped texting and it’s my turn to reply, but I’m busy daydreaming about King, so when the phone actually rings in my hands, I jump and drop it on my face. “Ow,” I shout, fumbling with the phone to answer it. “Stop thinking about him,” Savannah says sternly. “How did you know?”

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“Lucky guess. You haven’t responded for like five minutes, stupid. You were either asleep or thinking of him.” “So you risked waking me up after my long day?” I say. “Had to be sure. Now go to sleep. Think of that crazy school of yours and how cool it’s gonna be when you don’t have any parents around to tell ya what to do.” I sigh heavily into her ear. Easier said than done. “Yes, ma’am,” I say, dragging out the yes. “Okay, night, don’t let the big city bed bugs bite.” She’s giggling now, because she knows how much I hate the thought of sleeping on sheets in a bed that millions of other people have slept on before me. They could have bedbugs—real ones. “Shut up.” “Shutting. Laters, baby.” Her Fifty Shades of Grey reference makes me smile.

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We watched FSOG with Mika one weekend when we were supposed to be studying. If my mama knew about that, she’d be as shocked as I was while watching it. I was aware of the basics about sex, but I’d never seen anything like that. I chalked it up to an educational experience while those two made crude remarks and laughed their horny asses off. *** “You’re burning,” I say. Savannah has somehow fallen asleep under the scorching hot Houston, Texas sun. It’s the fourth of July and one hundred degrees in the shade. I’m panting and nauseous, desperately in need of a dip in her pool, and she’s just over there in her lounger softly snoring, one hand limp at her side, still loosely holding a romance novel she was reading earlier. I don’t know how she does it. “Huh?” Her grip on the book tightens as she starts to come around.

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“I said you’re burning, Sleeping Beauty, and I’m dying over here. Let’s get in the water before I puke all over your deck.” “Gross. Okay, okay, ya don’t have to get all dramatic on me.” She sits up and pokes at her chest and belly, testing to see if she’s truly burned. “Eh, it’s all good, just a little pink.” I raise my eyebrows when she looks at me. She’s a lobster in denial. “You must have sun stroke. You’re fried,” I say. “Come on, pukey, let’s swim.” She waves her arm in the direction of the pool and jumps up. How the hell does she do that? I’m dizzy when I stand up slowly and carefully in this heat, but she can go from zero to sixty in ten seconds without blinking an eye. I’m more sensitive to the sun, I guess, which is weird because she’s the one with

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blonde hair and fair skin, and I’m as dark as my daddy in the summer. Savannah jumps into the deep end feet first, holding her nose, and I ease in via the stairs in the shallow end and meet her halfway across the pool. “It’s like bath water.” I wrinkle my nose and shade my eyes with one hand. “It’s been hot as hell for three weeks straight. It never gets to cool down,” she says, smoothing her wet hair away from her face with both hands and wringing the remaining water from it. “You wanna go inside? You don’t look so great, pukey.” “Stop calling me that, and yes, I need to lay down.” “I think you’re the one with sunstroke, pukey,” she says, exaggerating her new nickname for me. I cup my hands together and shove a wave of water into her face. I squeal

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and turn to swim away before she attacks me. I hate that she calls me that all the time now. I had the flu and I’m still recovering, but she just won’t let it drop. Savannah may be the motherly one in our friendship, but she’s totally not into sick people, so when she had to spend a week holding my hair and bringing me Sprite, she decided to punish me with a nickname. Mama had to work, so she begged—or more like blackmailed—Savannah to help me. She saw Savannah come home a couple of mornings at dawn when her mama was at work. She promised not to tell if she stayed with me while I was sick. She wanted to know for sure that somebody was going to be here with me, and Savannah didn’t want to risk being punished. When Savannah opens the sliding glass door on her porch, I gulp in the cold air-conditioned air and make a beeline for

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the couch, where I flop down on my back and pull my towel tight around my body. “Shit, now I’m freezing,” I say. “Well duh, you’re all wet, and you know my mama keeps the thermostat at like 70. Ya wanna go back outside?” “God, no. I’d rather freeze. I can’t breathe out there.” I turn onto my side and curl into a ball, watching Savannah strut around the kitchen dripping wet, fixing us some sweet tea with not so much as a shiver. “You gonna be okay to go to fireworks tonight?” “Yeah, I should be fine once the sun goes down.” I hope. I really don’t want to miss it. Savannah is dating a boy from our little group of friends, and everyone is getting together to watch the fireworks and build a bonfire on the beach. Savannah ditched her summer itinerary after the debacle with King and me, but she’s still trying

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to pack as much fun into our last summer together as possible. “Good, because I don’t want Troy to see me holding your hair back while you barf into the ocean.” She smiles and hands me my tea. I finish half the glass in one drink. “You’re so compassionate, thanks,” I say, rolling my eyes and setting the glass on the coffee table. “When’s your mama gonna be home?” I ask as she drops herself into a recliner sideways, dangling her long, tan legs over the arm. “Not till eight. They close at seven, but she has to clean up.” “The grill or the salon?” I ask. Her mama has to work at a bar and grill, a hair salon, and a nursing home to keep their house since her daddy left them.

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“The grill. The salon’s closed on the 4th of July, and the grill doesn’t get any business after six because of the fireworks and all.” “Okay, do you have to check in or anything?” I need to go home and show my face before my parents go to their friend’s house for a BBQ. “Nope, we can go whenever. She’s going out with Daniel. I probably won’t see her till tomorrow.” “Is Daniel the big guy with long blonde hair or the Harley guy?” I ask. Her mama’s been through a dozen guys in the last month alone. I can’t keep up. “No, silly. Both of those guys are old news. Daniel’s the slick, sexy suit she’s been seeing for a week or so. He’s hot and mysterious and . . . hot.” Wow. For her to say he’s hot twice, he must be volcanic. She’s not

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usually into her mama’s boyfriends. This one must be different. “Is he nice?” I ask. “Yeah, like really polite and stuff. He’s always shaking my hand and calling me Miss Savannah. I think she really likes this one.” “That’s good, right? I mean, it’s been a couple of years since . . . well . . .” “Since my piece of shit daddy ditched us and left my mama twisting in the wind financially and emotionally and me fatherless? You don’t have to pussyfoot around, Holland. It’s okay, and yeah, this could be really good if he treats her right and doesn’t turn out to be someone fake or into something illegal. Mama isn’t usually the best judge of character. She follows her heart all the time.” Ouch. She wasn’t referring to my relationship with King, but ‘hot’ and ‘into something illegal’ hit pretty close to home.

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“Sorry.” I twist my lips and press them together. I really do feel bad for both of them, and I admire her mama’s ability to bounce back. I wasn’t married for twenty years like Savannah’s mama, but deep feelings are deep feelings, and I’m not sure I’ll ever bounce back after King. *** The bonfire was fun until it wasn’t. We were all oohing and ahhing over the fireworks that were being launched up the beach when my flu decided to come back with a vengeance. Troy was in fact a witness to Savannah holding my hair back while I violently threw up at the edge of the ocean. I wandered down the beach earlier when my mouth started watering and the panic of impending sickness returned. I thought I was alone until I heard Savannah’s voice from behind me.

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“Aw shit. Pukey again?” she says, right before I doubled over, wrapping my arms around my waist, and lost it. “God, I’m so sorry,” I say, panting between retching and dry heaves. “I really thought I was better.” She waits for me to settle, and when I’m able to stand up, her next words knock me down again. “Holland, I think maybe this isn’t the flu. Have you had your period since . . . well, you know . . . since King?” My period? It’s only been like . . . I quickly calculate in my head how many weeks it’s been since King and I were together. It’s been a month, maybe five weeks. I can’t remember when I had my last period. I sway when the dark horizon tilts and bend over when I feel acid in my throat again. It can’t be. It’s just the damn flu. I’ll be fine with a little more rest. I’m sure I just overdid it today in the sun.

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“Troy. Come here,” she shouts, and I turn my head to the side. The ocean breeze blows my hair away from my face, and I see poor Troy standing on the edge of the bonfire, where he’s frozen mid-stride. He must have been coming to see about Savannah and stopped when he saw me getting sick. Now, he’s being summoned closer to the scene, and it’s clear that he would rather turn and walk through the blazing fire than come any closer. “It’s okay. Don’t make him come. He’s freaking out.” “I need help getting you to the car so I can take you home.” “I can drive myself. I don’t want you to have to leave the party because of me.” She bends over and gives me a don’t be a moron look. “We’re taking you home. You can’t drive, and I’m going to buy a pregnancy test at the drugstore so we can make sure you’re

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not carrying a prince or princess in there.” Her eyes move to my belly and back to my face. “Stop saying that,” I yell, but she ignores me and takes my arm to help me toward Troy. “We’re taking her home,” she says, trudging through the sand past Troy with me leaning heavily against her. Troy mumbles a weak protest, and Savannah whips her head around, smacking me in the face with the ends of her wild blonde hair. I can only imagine the look she’s giving him, because even with his obvious barf phobia, he’s jogging to catch up with us. I manage not to throw up in Savannah’s Durango. The nausea is only mildly annoying by the time we’re home. My house is empty and still as she helps me to bed. She says she’ll be right back. She’s going to the closest twenty-four hour Walgreens for a home pregnancy test.

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I don’t want her to. I don’t even want to entertain the idea that I could be . . . I can’t even think it, although it has been a faint whisper in the back of my mind the entire time I’ve been sick. I cannot be that girl, the dumb girl who gets knocked up before college and drops out, giving up on her dreams. But what if I am? Oh God, my life will be over. My parents will disown me, I’ll lose my scholarship to Juilliard, my dream of playing with The New York Philharmonic Orchestra will go up in smoke—sixteen years of blood, sweat and tears over. My heart is pounding, and I’m shaking uncontrollably when I hop up, fling my comforter back, and race to my bathroom. I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my face over and over until the vanity counter is covered in pools and the mirror is speckled with drops of water. I look up into my terrified eyes. I thought this was over. I was starting to

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accept that the thing with King was just a huge mistake, probably one of many in my young adult life. But if I’m pregnant, it’s much more than just a mistake. It’s a barrier to my future as big and wide as the Grand Canyon, expansive and impossible to cross and dangerous as hell. It’s one thing to get pregnant with some kid my own age, but to get pregnant with a dangerous drug lord who has more enemies than I can imagine . . . “NO. I am not pregnant, and that’s final,” I yell aloud to no one but myself. I grab a towel and wipe my face and mop the counter and mirror. When I’m done, I go back to my room, turn on the lights, straighten the bed linens, and get out my violin. I don’t even hear Savannah when she returns. I’m exactly where I want to be, lost in the music, where no one can steal my dreams or crush my heart, where real life

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won't rear its ugly head and wreak havoc on my future with an unexpected baby. She gently touches my shoulder, and I jump a foot off the ground and drop my lifeline to sanity—my bow. She holds up a box containing two pregnancy tests and bites her lip. I squeeze my eyes closed until I see multicolored sparkles behind my lids. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to know. She carefully removes the violin from my tight grip and leads me to the bathroom, where my fate will be proven revealed and sealed.

Chapter Eighteen King “King . . . do you have a minute?” Sebastián stands just inside my office door, looking paler than I’ve ever seen him. “Yeah, sure. You okay, old man?” I lean back in my chair, and the leather upholstery strains against my weight while a knot forms in my gut. Something doesn’t feel right. His usual confident stride is stiff and full of tension when he crosses my office. I watch as he carefully lowers himself into the chair across from me, crossing his legs and dragging his hand down his face, sighing. “No, King, I’m not. I have something to tell you, and I’m not sure how to do it.”

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“You’re kind of worrying me, man. What’s going on? Somebody die or something?” “I received a phone call this morning, and I’ve spent most of the day confirming the information given to me. I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily, but now that I know it’s true, it’s necessary. “Necessary to worry me about what, Sebastián?” He’s a straightforward guy who doesn’t usually beat around the bush. I’ve always liked that about him, but right now, Sebastián is making me nervous. He won’t meet my eyes as he rubs his palms on his thighs. “It’s about Miss Bennett,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Holland?” I haven’t spoken her name for weeks, and when I do, a familiar ache begins in my chest again. I’m on my feet in seconds, pushing my chair back against the wall so hard that I hear the faint crack of

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plaster crumbling onto the floor. Sebastián is up too, backing away from me, holding his hands out in front of him. I told him to keep her safe. There were supposed to be eyes on her twenty-four seven. If something’s happened to her, so help me . . . “Yes, King. She’s fine, she hasn’t been hurt, she’s fine. Calm down.” I’m toe to toe with him now, and my vision has gone blurry and red. “You come in here all cryptic and freaked out, tell me this is about Holland, and expect me to calm down. What the fuck is going on?” I roar. He steps back and behind a wing back chair for protection from the potential blowback. He isn’t afraid, but he did watch me suffer when Holland was cut from my life, so he knows that any news about her could make me lose my shit. Sebastián is just being cautious.

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“Her mother contacted me,” he says, inching around the chair away from me. “Her mother? Why on earth would her mother be calling you?” I follow him around the chair. “King . . .” We are playing ring around the chair at this point, and my blood is pounding in my temples. “Sebastián, you’d better spit it out before I fucking strangle it out of you.” My words vibrate from my lips. My entire body is shaking. “She says Holland is pregnant and that you’re the father, King. She’s threatening to go to the authorities if you don’t speak to Holland and get her to have an abortion.” Time stands still. I stare into Sebastián’s eyes. His words travel through my ears and into my brain, where they are slowly absorbed. The connecter between audible and processed thoughts seems to

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have gone on vacation, though, and the words ‘Holland is pregnant’ are stranded at the train station, unable to be understood. “She’s very adamant that her daughter is going to Juilliard this fall, and she wants you to pay her tuition and encourage Holland to have an abortion in exchange for her silence about your business.” The only words that have been allowed onto the train platform in my brain are Holland, pregnant, abortion and Juilliard. The rest of them disintegrate in the air between us, unimportant and insignificant. She wasn’t on birth control. Why did she lie? She was drunk and she said she never drinks. Why didn’t I think about that? Oh God, she was probably a virgin. Things are beginning to make sense—the pain, the look of surprise on her face, the speckles of blood. Fuck, how did I let this happen? I’m on autopilot as I stalk out of the apartment and through the empty club down

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to the parking garage. Sebastián stumbles out of the elevator a few moments after me, yelling something about blackmail and flying off the handle. I slam the door of the Rover, blocking out Sebastián’s warnings, and jam the voice command button before I pull out of my spot. I cruise past a very distraught Sebastián and watch him yell and wave his arms all over like one of those air dancer blow-up characters outside the car dealerships. I keep my eyes straight ahead, but when I look in the rearview mirror, he’s sprinting toward a car to follow me. That’s all right with me. I might need some backup. “Phone.” I say, and a pleasant robotic female voice asks if I’d like to dial by number or name. “Name.” The hands-free device beeps, and a lump forms in my throat when I speak her name for the second time in weeks.

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“Holland Bennett.” I’m surprised Sebastián didn’t remove her from my auto dial list. “Dialing Holland Bennett,” says the disembodied voice. I have no idea what I’m going to say, I just need to speak to her. I need to know if it’s true. I need to hear her say it with my own ears . . . we’re having a baby. Oh my God, a baby. I’ve become a master at repressing my desire for Holland. There was no hope, no way to fix this. I buried it deep in that garden of temptation, and I’ve stayed far, far away from it. And now . . . now there may be a life growing inside of her, a life that we created, a life that will permanently tie us together forever . . . the thought is mind blowing. Every muscle in my body burns and twitches when I think of holding her in my

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arms again. My heart aches to tell her how much I need her. Surprisingly, I have no doubts about whether or not I want her to have our baby. If she is indeed pregnant, I do. I need her to know that I’ll be there for her every step of the way, that I’ll take care of her and keep her safe. If she will have me—fuck that. She will have me. I’m not taking no for an answer. This is my child too. I drag my hand through my hair and punch the steering wheel. Goddamn it, Sebastián had better have his facts straight. If there’s no baby and I go barging back into her life . . . no, he wouldn’t tell me something like this if he weren’t sure, and he was sure. Speeding and weaving in and out of traffic, his words begin to sort themselves out in my mind. Her mother wants to blackmail me? Really? She has no idea who she’s dealing with. I have the law in my back pocket all over the world, but much more so here in Houston and Miami, where I need

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insiders to keep the flow of drugs moving smoothly across the border from Mexico and into the ports of Miami. Nobody is going to blackmail King Romero, and nobody will be fucking murdering my child. As far as paying for Holland to go to Juilliard, fuck yeah, I would have done that anyway if they had asked. I don’t take kindly to threats, and Holland’s mom is about to find that out the hard way. “No answer.” The feminine robotic voice says. I didn’t really expect her to answer. Her mother is probably monitoring her calls, waiting to see what I’m going to do. What am I going to do? Glancing in my rearview mirror, I see Sebastián floating through traffic, following me at a discrete distance in my Bugatti. He would choose that car. He loves it, and I never let him drive it. “Call Sebastián,” I say, and instantly we are connected.

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“I see you. Hang back in case I need you. I’m going to her friend’s house across the street, Savannah, remember?” “Yes, sir, how could I forget?” If I know Sebastián—and I do—he’s rolling his eyes when he sighs into the phone. Savannah caused quite a fuss that first night in the club while trying to find Holland, and Sebastián was the one who had to deal with her bossy, overbearing, sassy mouth. Sebastián is a very dominant man. The only person in this world that he takes orders from is me. He’s assertive and powerful. The people under him in my organization fear him, and rightly so. When he gives an order, they know it’s not just their job on the line. It’s their life if it’s not carried out to his liking. I was proud of him for keeping his cool while dealing with the intoxicated, demanding girl who was insisting that her best friend had been roofied and kidnapped.

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Fifteen long ass minutes later, I’m pulling into Savannah’s driveway, trying to decide whether to barge in or call first. The adrenaline bubbling up inside me makes the decision, and I jump out and head up the shallow flight of steps in front of her modest middle-class home. I ring the bell and turn to face Holland’s house directly across the street. It’s similar to Savannah’s except the lawn is manicured and the house is maintained better. A train whistles in the distance, and just when I’m about to bang on the door, it swings open and the air around me seems to go missing. “Holland,” I whisper. My voice has abandoned me. She’s even more beautiful than I remembered, if that’s even possible. Her eyes widen and she clutches the doorframe as she staggers back, and her hand flies protectively to her abdomen. That one natural, instinctual reaction is all I needed . . . we’re having a baby. Being this close to Holland again jump starts my heart

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and calms my soul. No one else affects me this way. She’s my home, and I’ve been away far too long. “King . . . what are you doing here?” Her voice is quiet and timid, almost afraid. “I think you know very well why I’m here.” I raise my hand to caress her cheek, but she turns away. I gently take her chin and turn it back, but she bows her head, unwilling to meet my eyes. “Holland, you can’t push me away. This is something we have to face together, no matter what the world says about our age or our careers, no matter what you think of me and what I am. This child, our child, is more important than any of that.” I step into her space and place my hand over hers on her belly. “I’m not leaving you alone in this. Can I come inside so we can talk? If you say no, I’ll pick you up and take you somewhere else anyway, so . . .”

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“Well in that case, yes, I guess you’d better come in.” She steps aside to let me pass. As I move past her, I take her hand in mine and lead her into the living room, where Savannah is watching television in her swimsuit. “Holy shit.” She drops the bag of chips she was eating onto the couch, and her mouth hangs open with a few chips still visible. “Nice to see you too, Savannah. Can we have some privacy?” I know it’s rude to ask her to leave the room in her own house, but I don’t care. I need to be alone with Holland. “You’re asking me to leave my own living room so you can make my best friend feel like shit?” she yells, unfolding her legs from underneath her to scoot to the edge of the couch. ‘Mama bear’ looks like she’s preparing to launch off the couch and attack me—a man five times her body mass. She’s

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annoying as fuck, but I have to admit that I love her fierce loyalty and protectiveness. “Hold on, firecracker.” I hold up my hand. “I’m here to help and offer support, and you have to admit that we have some things to talk about.” She’s on her feet now, with her hands clenched into little fists at her sides. We both look at Holland for direction, and when I glance back at Savannah, she’s looking at our hands. She raises her brows high before returning her eyes to Holland, but she doesn’t pull away or drop my hand. “Are you okay with this? I mean do you want me to leave? I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone with him, Holland. He’s a drug deal—” “That’s enough,” I say, cutting her off.

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“I’m not here to discuss how I earn my living.” I face Holland and take her other hand, placing them together in mine. “I just want to talk, that’s all.” She nods, and Savannah huffs off, stomping down the hall and leaving us alone. “Just yell if he upsets you. I’ve got Daddy’s shotgun back here, and I know how to use it,” she yells over her shoulder. Fuck. Savannah and a shotgun. Just what I need today. “Don’t worry, I don’t think she really knows how to shoot it,” Holland says, shaking her head. “I heard that, and yes I do,” Savannah yells and slams a door somewhere down the hall. “She’s all bark and no bite.” One corner of her mouth lifts in a small smile and she shrugs.

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“I’ve told you before that I like her protectiveness, even though it’s completely misplaced when it comes to me. I’d never intentionally hurt you.” I pull her against me and wrap her arms around my waist. I slide my fingers behind her neck into her soft, thick hair and place my other hand on the small of her back. I bury my nose in her hair and breathe in the woodsy, citrus scent that I will forever associate with Holland. She doesn’t resist, but she also doesn’t melt into me the way she used to. Her muscles are stiff and tense, and her hands are still. “I’m so sorry.” “For what?” Her voice is muffled against the jacket of my suit, and as much as I don’t want to, I release my hold on her. As soon as I do, she takes two big steps away and begins wringing her hands. I fucking hate seeing her unnerved because of me. “For leaving without saying goodbye, for putting you in this position, for not

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suspecting, for not knowing. My eyes slide down her long, delicate neck, past her perfect breasts, and rest on her abdomen. “You couldn’t know. I didn’t even know. There’s nothing to apologize for.” “Can we sit down?” She nods, and I move to the couch where there is plenty of room for her to sit next to me, but she takes the overstuffed chair across from me instead. “So no birth control, huh?” Her head drops into her hands, and I see a big tear fall from behind the veil of her hair and splat on the hardwood floor between her feet. I want to go to her and kiss her tears away and comfort her, but she’s made it clear that she needs distance. “My doctor said I had endometriosis. I didn’t think . . .” “How long have you known?”

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“A week.” “Look at me, Holland.” She sniffs loudly, and I look around for a box of tissue. I spot one on an end table and hand her the whole box. She lifts her head, meeting my eyes, and my heart cracks down the center into two pitiful pieces when I see the tears streaming down her face. I’ve never seen her cry, and I vow in this moment to do whatever it takes to keep from ever seeing it again. “Here.” I hand her the tissue, and she blows her nose. “I . . . I didn’t mean to lie, King, really. I just thought . . . I got caught up in everything, and I was drunk and—” “Shush, I know . . . you didn’t think you could get pregnant. There’s no sense in rehashing the past. It is what it is, and now we need to deal with it together.”

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“This is all such a big mess now. I can’t go to Juilliard this fall, and my mama’s livid. She wants to kill you, ya know. My daddy can’t look me in the eyes, and I feel like shit.” Her words tumble out like an avalanche, faster and faster until she chokes—or hiccups, I can’t tell which. She looks so young sitting there with her puffy eyes and clean face in a t-shirt and cut offs. It’s hard to believe I ever took her for twenty-one. “Will you please come over here, Holland?” I have to comfort her. She’s miserable, but she needs to be in control, so I ask instead of using my usual upfront ‘Get your ass over here’ technique. I wait and hold my breath. This is important. If she will come and sit with me, we might have a chance. If she won’t . . . well, then . . . then I’ll just have to work harder to earn her trust. We sit in a sort of face off for much too long, and I’m about to break the silence when she stands and steps around the coffee table that’s between us to sit next to

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me—not too close, but on the couch just the same. “Thank you,” I say and reach out to take her hand. “So we made a mistake—a big one—but everyone makes mistakes. We just have to work harder to fix this one.” Relief ripples across her face, disappearing as quickly as it came. She wants to believe me. That’s a start. “How did you find out?” she asks. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we stay united in our decisions.” I rub the back of my neck before looking back into her eyes. “Holland, do you want to keep this baby?” I’ll move heaven and earth to keep that baby growing inside of her, but I know that ultimately, it’s her choice. She nods her

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head up and down without hesitating, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank God.” Sebastián said her mother wanted me to convince her to have an abortion, so I was pretty sure she wanted to keep the baby, but my dangerous lifestyle scares her, so there was that chance. My business is hardly conducive to having a child, but for Holland, I’ll happily step down. I’ve never met anyone I could imagine spending the rest of my life with until her, and I’m not about to let her go again. I give her warm hand a quick squeeze and smile. God, I want to kiss her so badly right now. I can almost taste her sweet mouth, feel her soft lips gliding over mine. “You really want the baby?” she asks. “More than anything in the world—no, scratch that—not more than you, but that kid’s a close second.” A brick wall crumbles between us as soon as those words leave my lips, and she’s crawling into my lap

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with her arms around my neck. Sobs rack her body, but now they aren’t cries of defeat and regret. They’re tears of relief. “Shush, shush, baby, it’s gonna be okay. We can do this.” I slide my fingers through her silky hair, relishing every opportunity to touch her. Every time she lets me in, it’s like another second chance. She feels so fucking right in my arms. Despite the fight we have ahead of us, I have no doubt that we are meant to be together.

Chapter Nineteen Holland I’ve known I’m pregnant for two weeks now, and it still hasn’t sunk in. King is also back in my life, another thing that hasn’t sunk in. “Holland, honey it’s time to go,” Mama says. She has taken to pretending nothing has happened. She drives me back and forth to STRINGS to practice and to lessons, chatting about the weather, television shows, and any other insignificant bit of small talk she can think of. All the while, I have been watching too many YouTube videos about giving birth and reading What to Expect When You're Expecting every chance I get. That’s how we deal with problems, I guess. She ignores the issue, and I immerse myself into it.

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“Coming,” I holler down the stairs. I’ve never considered not playing the violin, but I came close a week ago when I vomited in the trash in my practice room. Kneeling there alone with the stench of puke in my nose, a thin sheen of sweat on my forehead and tears streaming down my face, I wanted nothing more than to drop my violin and go home, crawl between crisp, clean sheets, and stay in bed . . . forever. Mama is relentless, though. She’d rather die than see me quit playing. She wants me to have an abortion so I can go to Juilliard this fall as planned. She’s never said the words out loud, but it’s clear that she’s not interested in being a grandma. She’s always wanted me to succeed in the music world, and I’ve never given her any indication that I wouldn’t, because until now, we always wanted the same thing. Now that it may not be a possibility, she’s starting to fray at the edges, like it’s her dream being crushed, not mine—and maybe it is. I’ve started wondering if she has been pushing me all

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these years because it’s something she wanted. She played all through school and college, and even auditioned for a spot in the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, but she wasn’t awarded the spot. She saw my talent and jumped at the chance to live her dreams through me. I can’t believe I never saw it. I thank God for King’s support every day. When Savannah held up that stick with a pink plus sign on it, I thought my life was over. I didn’t believe her at first. I did another one, and when it was positive too, I made her go to the pharmacy for two more. I guess I thought if I did enough of them, one would finally give me the result I wanted. Wrong. All four donned bright pink plusses, like a neon sign in a bar window. I actually broke all of them in half and threw them all over the bathroom, screaming like a lunatic. I’ve come a long way in the past two weeks. I tried to deny the four positive tests, and then

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the reality of it all set in and I was terrified. I had to tell my parents, and I had to tell them everything. The lies had to stop. The guilt was eating me alive. I’m just not cut out for deceit. Mama freaked out, to say the least. After a moment of sitting with her jaw in her lap, it was on. I’ve never seen her like that before, screaming and running around, flailing her arms, pointing her finger in my face. Daddy had to take her outside to calm her down. I didn’t wait around to see what would happen next. I went straight across the street to Savannah’s house, where I stayed for two days and two nights crying and blubbering until Daddy came to get me. He hasn’t said much about it at all, but he did want to meet King. I begged him not to get him involved, but he said King has a right to know, and he has a point. I just couldn’t bring myself to call him. One of them must have, though, because I know Savannah wouldn’t. She kinda

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hates him now for knocking me up and ruining my future. “You look nice today, honey. Got your violin?” Mama tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear and smiles like she doesn’t have a care in the world. I’ve been playing along for days, but it’s weird. “Yeah, it’s in the back.” “Okay, missy, let’s go.” I’m starting to wonder if we have a history of mental illness in our family, because she’s acting nuts. I raise my eyebrows and loll my head to the window while she backs the car out of the garage and down the driveway. Resting my elbow on the door handle with my chin in my hand, I watch the world go by and wonder what all the people in the cars and on the street are dealing with in their lives. Do any of them have an unexpected baby on the way, a drug lord boyfriend who’s six years older than them, and a ruined career? I’m guessing not.

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Mom’s humming along with a pop song playing on the radio and tapping her thumbs on the steering wheel. Yeah, there’s definitely got to be some psychiatric history in our family tree. When I’ve taken my seat in the orchestra pit, I slip my phone from my pocket and text King. Mama’s sitting back a few rows so she can’t see me. She took my phone the day after I told her I was pregnant, but King slipped me a brand new one yesterday when he stopped by. It’s surreal that he just pops in whenever he wants, and my parents allow it. I spend a lot of time at Savannah’s house. I left her out of my confession story. I knew they wouldn’t want me to see her again if they knew it was all her idea. I blamed a mystery girl instead. I told them I met her at a football game and she convinced me to use fake IDs to get into King’s club. My text is answered immediately, and as always, he wants to know how I am, how I

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feel, and if I’m okay. God, the man asks me if I’m okay a million times a day, but I love it. I feel like he’s the only person totally in my corner. I can see myself loving him. There’s no doubt about it. I felt it the night I met him, but the way he earns his living scares me. After a long day and night of talking it all through, he told me that he had been ready to give it all up until he found out I was nineteen. With everything out in the open, we were free to make some serious decisions about the baby and his business and Juilliard. Having the baby wasn’t debatable for me. I’d never be able to have an abortion. I can’t imagine purposely taking the life of a helpless baby, but even more than that, I’d never be able to hurt something that was part of King. The baby is due in February, and I’m delaying Juilliard a year if they will still take me. King assured me that it wouldn’t be a problem, but I made him promise to let me do it on my own, with no bribes or special favors. He agreed, but I’m

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not sure he wouldn’t secretly do it anyway if they refused me. He’s used to getting what he wants. In fact, I think I may have been the first thing he wanted that he couldn’t have. Our problems are still as real as they were when we met. I’m still young and he’s still a drug lord, but the baby brings a responsibility to the table that can’t be ignored. He could have paid me off or done the minimal visitation and child support required if he hadn’t cared for me. It would have been much easier for him. I told him how crazy my mama is acting and how Daddy won’t even look at me. He wanted me to come live with him, but I wanted to see if my parents would calm down. Part of me is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Other than the severe nausea, angry parents and delay at Juilliard, things aren’t as bad as I had expected, and I owe that all to King.

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He’s been in contact with the dean of admissions at Juilliard about my delay and offered to pay my tuition when I go back. He dotes on me and spoils me. Even Savannah is starting to come around . . . a little. My phone vibrates in my lap, and I turn it over quickly before the conductor reaches his podium. I’m missing you. I’ll be over to see you later, and if you feel up to it, we can go for dinner, or maybe just to my place to relax and get away for a while. I shoot him a quick reply. Mama might not like that. Don’t worry about your mother. I’ll handle her. Pick you up at six. -Your King The signature means he’s done, finished, no discussion, whatever he’s said is law, and the subject has been dismissed. Okay, see you then. H

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I turn the phone off and tuck it under my leg just as the conductor approaches. I sneak a peek out into the auditorium to check on my mother. She’s still looking at her phone. Good. After a long, grueling practice, I slip out, surrounded by a dozen members of the string section, to the bathroom before Mama can snag me. I’ve swallowed back the nausea so long that my mouth is watering. I’m clammy, and I need some relief. Thankfully, I make into the tiny, dark, two-stalled bathroom and vomit before anyone else enters. I wash my hands and brush my teeth with the toothbrush I’ve taken to carrying around in my bag before I exit and look down the hall to my right for my mother. When I turn left, I step right into a solid wall of muscle. I don’t even get a chance to see who it is before King has swept me off my feet and into his arms.

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“Oh.” I giggle when I realize who it is. “You should really be more careful, Holland. I could have been a dangerous drug lord.” “Uh, yeah. Next time, I’ll make sure to have my drug lord radar turned on.” I play along with the lighthearted moment, but I can’t help wondering if he realizes that he really is a dangerous drug lord that I should by all rights be afraid of. There is something about him though, something genuine and light that tells me he wasn’t meant for this lifestyle. King was thrust into his illegal career after the murder of his father, and I worry every second of every day that he might suffer the same fate. What if he can’t get out? What if he does get out and somebody tries to kill him for leaving? There’s no one left in his family to take his place. Everyone else is dead, so who would even take his place?

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“Are you hungry now that you’re empty again?” We’re walking down the hall toward the auditorium. King is walking. I’m being carried. “How do you know I’m empty?” He looks down at me and lifts one corner of his mouth in a smirk. “Holland, you just came from the bathroom after a two-hour practice. I think you set a record for hours without vomiting.” I sigh and rest my head on his shoulder. He’s right. I puke a lot, and it sucks. “Sorry, it’s not the most attractive way to start a relationship.” “Hush, you’re beautiful all the time . . . even with your head in the toilet.” He laughs and I play slap his cheek. “Your idea of beautiful is very different from mine then.” “Maybe so, but you should be happy I dig a pukey girl.”

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“Stop. You’re not going to start with that stupid nickname too, are you?” “What nickname?” he asks, feigning innocence with raised eyebrows and batting eyelashes. “I’m serious, King. Please, Savannah’s bad enough.” “Okay, okay, you win.” His lips tenderly press against my forehead while he continues down the long hall. “Where are you taking me? Mama’s going to be waiting. She’s probably already freaking out.” “Don’t worry about your mother. I told her I’m taking you for the rest of the day.” His voice is calm and cool, and I wonder how the hell he pulled that off. “She just let you take me?” “Yes.”

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“Without a fight or an argument? She just walked out and left me here?” I don’t believe it. “You sound like you don’t want to spend time with me.” We’ve reached the door. He turns around to push through with his backside. Everyone has cleared out of the auditorium, and the lights are turned down. “I didn’t say that. I’m just really surprised. She has been acting so weird lately.” “Weird how?” “She acts like nothing’s going on, like I’m not pregnant and I’m still going to Juilliard.” His arms tighten around me, and I feel tension roll through his body. “What? You know why she’s being psycho, don’t you?” I curl my fingers around the lapel of his suit coat, and he turns his face so that we are nose to nose again. Deep

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frown lines pucker between his eyes, I don’t like this, not one bit. “Where do you want to eat?” he says. “Where do I want . . . wait . . . King, don’t try to change the subject. You know something. Tell me.” “Talk later, eat now, so where?” “I’m not hungry, you pick.” I cross my arms over my chest and pout. Why won’t he just tell me? “Okay, good. I was hoping you would say that—not the part about not being hungry, of course, but I’ve got this afternoon all planned out. “Oh you do, huh?” So this wasn’t an impromptu visit. He has plans . . . after dinner at the club in a fairytale land, I know King can make just about anything happen in an instant.

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We’ve made it into the parking lot, and King hasn’t even broken a sweat. He isn’t short of breath at all, but I feel a little guilty letting him carry me like a baby. “You know I can walk, right?” “Yes, I know. I’ve missed holding you. You’re not going to deprive me of that, now are you?” He looks into my eyes with a ‘you wouldn’t dare’ look and I surrender. I’m all his. He can baby me, spoil me, whatever. I’m okay with it all. I’m just happy I can see him without sneaking around. “No, never.” I reach up and trail my fingers along his scruffy jaw, where he’s grown a little more than a five o’clock shadow. His dark eyes flit to mine and back to where he’s buckling me into the Rover. His hand lingers, gently pressing against my belly. A hot gust of dusty air rushes in around us before he closes the door. I watch him run around the front of the truck with his suit coat flapping and his carefully styled

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hair swirling in the wind. He’s breathtaking. The confident way he moves makes my heart swell when he slides in next to me, disheveled and smiling his model perfect smile . . . or is it? For the first time, I notice an imperfection in this beautiful man, a bottom tooth that looks like it’s been knocked out of the tidy row of pearly whites just a smidgen. I like it. It makes him seem . . . more human. “Ready?” “Yep.” He’s excited, and it’s adorable. “You’re sweet; have I told you that?” “Hmm . . . not lately,” I say, tapping my finger against my lips and shaking my head back and forth. “Well, you are. Don’t forget that, okay?” I nod and close my eyes. Sometimes this seems like a dream instead of a

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nightmare, and this is one of those times when I have to actually pinch myself to be sure. After ten minutes, he pulls into the garage of Ecstasy and I glance over at him. “We just have to stop here for a couple of minutes.” “That’s what you said the last time. What are you cooking up?” I ask. “You’ll see, come on.” I love this playful side of King. In the midst of all of our problems, he can still act like a kid. When the elevator doors slide shut in front of us, King presses a button I’ve never noticed before. “What does the R stand for?” “Roof.” He winks and sidesteps next to me, slinking his arm around my waist.

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“And I want you to know that I’ve checked with your obstetrician, and she assures me this is okay.” “What’s okay?” I ask just as the elevator opens and I’m twenty feet from a helicopter. Its blades whir and chop, and I instinctively cover my eyes and turn into King’s side. He holds me tighter and speaks directly into my ear. “You okay with heights?” he half shouts, and I pull away to give him a leery wide-eyed stare. I hate heights. “Ah, so you’re not okay with heights?” he says, shaking his head back and forth. “Not really.” “You’ll be fine. You’re with me. You can cover your eyes, and we’ll sit in the back.” He’s rubbing my arms up and down, trying to reassure me. I can’t believe I’ve got goose bumps in ninety-five-degree weather.

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“You’re shaking, baby.” He steps back and bends his knees to look up at me through the veil of hair covering my face. “I pinky swear you will be perfectly fine.” He offers me his pinky. I giggle at his juvenile comforting tactic and link my pinky finger with his. After a quick shake, he tucks me under his arm and hustles me across the helipad before I have time to change my mind. My hair is whipping around my face as we crouch and hustle toward the chopper door. King lifts me into the fuselage, and when we are seated, he moves my hair out of my face and places his large hands on either side of my head. “I’m going to help strap you in, and we will be in the air in a couple of minutes, okay?” “Okay.”

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He sets about clicking and tugging on straps while the blades begin to whirl faster and faster and the whup whup whup begins to match the pace of my pulse pounding in my ears. I try not to think about being thousands of feet off the ground in this tin can, but my body and mind betray me. I’m going to faint, or puke, or faint and then puke. I look over at King, and he must see the panic in my eyes. “Breathe, baby, in and out.” He inhales through his nose and gestures for me to do the same. “Close your eyes and concentrate on your breath flowing into your lungs and back out.” He blows out his breath, and I do the same. “That’s it, baby, you’re doing great. Everything’s going to be fine. We’ll be in South Padre in forty-five minutes, on the beach, having dinner. Just breathe . . .” His voice is so soothing and calm. He continues talking to me, encouraging me to take deep,

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cleansing breaths while we take off, and by the time we’re at the correct altitude, my nerves have settled, but not my stomach. “Thanks. You’re gonna make a great birthing coach,” I say, and he winks at me from across the aisle. “It’s all about the breathing. Do you meditate?” “No, but playing the violin is sort of like meditation, I guess.” “Then next time, we’ll bring it and you can play while we fly.” “Next time? Can’t we just take a plane? It’s much quieter.” He doesn’t respond, so I know there will be a next time. Being a pregnant party pooper sucks. I can’t even bring myself to look out the window. The constant queasy feeling is so bad that I’m afraid I may vomit all over King’s expensive loafers.

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“Almost there,” he says. “Did you say South Padre?” “Yeah, the water’s beautiful there. We can eat and go for a swim if you’re up to it.” “I might feel better when my feet are on solid ground.” My hands are folded over my belly, and I’m sure my skin is a lovely shade of green. “I’m sorry. You really don’t like flying, do you?” “What gave it away? My reaction to seeing the helicopter, or the fact that I can’t look anywhere but directly at you?” I hear him chuckle through the headset, and I swear to get him back for this somehow. A little while later, when my feet hit the sand outside a hotel that King owns, I couldn’t be more grateful. In fact, I’d rather drive the six hours back home than ride in that thing again.

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We stroll hand in hand along the beach, listening to the seagulls and the softly rolling waves of the ocean. I feel better physically. I’m not nearly as nauseous, and emotionally, I’m calm and content just being with King. He’s unusually quiet, and he’s been glancing at me periodically. “What are you thinking?” I ask. King looks down at his bare feet in the sand, and a thick curl falls against his forehead. “I’m thinking how fucking lucky I am to have found you, that I can’t believe you’re nineteen and you’re carrying my child. I’m thinking that I can’t believe you’re going to be a mother, and what’s crazier is that I’m going to be a father. I’m thinking it’s insane how badly I want to touch you every time I see you, and that I never knew I could love someone this hard.” I stop walking and turn to face him. He cups my cheek with his hand and I lean

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into it, savoring the warmth of his skin and the deep sincerity of his words. He loves me. This amazing, multifaceted man loves me. Out of the billions of women on the planet, it’s me he wants to be with. Me. “Now you—what are you thinking?” He tries to push my fluttering hair away from my face, but the breeze is strong here and it won’t stay put. “I’m thinking that I can’t believe you love me.” I turn and look away from him, down the long stretch of beach. He places one finger against my chin and moves my head until we’re eye to eye again. “Holland, believe it. I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t, but just know that no matter what ever happens between us,”—His hand slides down to my belly—“all three of us, I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. Pinky swear.” “Pinky swear,” I say, and for the second time today, we shake on it and I jump

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into his arms. Tears fill my eyes, and I choke back a sob. He folds me into his strong, protective arms, cradling me against his chest. “Now that we’ve expressed our undying love, can we go eat?” I sniffle and smile against his previously crisp blue shirt. “Yeah. I can’t believe it, but I’m actually hungry.” “Hallelujah. Let’s hurry before that passes and you throw up on my new shoes.” “Very funny.” I gently swat at him, and we continue down the edge of the water to a beachfront café, where we sit outside and talk and eat. Being with King is as natural as playing the violin for me. I’m at ease and relaxed. Our conversations flow effortlessly, and the sound of his voice permeates my soul the same way music does. Now that our secrets are out in the open, we can really get to know each other,

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and despite the age gap, we have a lot in common. “Do you believe in God?” he asks. “Well yeah, of course.” “I mean, like, do you believe there is a God or a higher power.” “I believe in God. I’m Catholic,” I say. “Me too.” “Really? You’re Catholic? Do you go to church?” I ask. “Does the Pope wear white?” “Well yeah, I just didn’t think, ya know, because you’re . . .” “A drug dealer?” “Yeah, sorry.” It doesn’t seem possible that this open, loving, kind man is a criminal. I mean, yeah, at times he’s bossy, but he’s never abrasive or cruel like the characters I’ve seen on TV or in the books I’ve read.

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“Don’t apologize. I know it’s hard for you to imagine the life I lead. I never want you to. I’m getting closer to making an uneventful exit. I want us to live comfortably, but more importantly, I want us to be safe. You’re my top priority now, you and the jelly bean.” King moved his chair next to mine as soon as we sat down. He has been touching me all day, and now his hand is resting on my tummy. The café is quiet. In fact, I don’t think I’ve heard another customer come in or out. “Jelly bean, huh?” “Yep, he’s probably a little bigger than a jelly bean though. I’ve been reading up on fetal development.” He waggles his eyebrows up and down, and I laugh when he pulls me into his lap. “He? Do you know something I don’t?”

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“No I just hate calling my baby an ‘it’.” “This is a public place, you know. I shouldn’t be sitting on your lap.” “I had them close down for lunch so we could be alone. It’s easier to concentrate on you when I don’t have to be paranoid about the crowd.” That explains the quiet. “Don’t they lose a lot of money closing down on a beautiful day like this?” I ask. “I paid them three times what they bring in during lunch on their best day. Don’t worry about the restaurant. They’ll be fine.” Three times their best day? This is a popular place. That must be a ridiculous amount of money. “You have that kind of money? Like throw it out the window of a tall building kind of money?” I ask.

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He chuckles. “Yeah, throw it out the window kind of money.” “That reminds me. I need to talk to you about something,” he says as he moves me off of his lap and back into my own chair. “Throwing money out of a window reminds you of something that has to do with me?” I ask. “Well not exactly. It is about money, though, and your mother.” King leans forward with his elbows on his knees and takes both of my hands in his. “Okay . . . I’m not so sure I want to hear this, but go ahead.” He looks out at the ocean and sighs. “When your mother found out you were pregnant, she went a little . . . over the edge. She called Sebastián, threatening to turn me into the police if I didn’t agree to her demands.”

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“My mama blackmailed you?” “She tried, and I may have given her the impression that she was getting what she wanted.” I’m afraid to ask, but I know I have to. “What did she want?” He leans forward with his elbows still on his knees to take my hands. I don’t like this. “The reason your mom is acting so chipper is because she thinks I’m going to persuade you to have an abortion and pay your tuition to Juilliard.” “What? No, no, no, she did not ask you to do that! She wouldn’t.” I snatch my hands from his and push my chair back hard. It crashes into the table behind ours, and King is on his feet.

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“I know she’s disappointed in me and she’s angry that I have to wait to go to Juilliard, but she wouldn’t . . .” Maybe she would. The seagulls circling overhead are so damn loud. I’m watching King’s lips move, but I can’t hear what the hell he’s saying, and I’m having some serious tunnel vision . . . shit, I think I’m gonna pass out . . .

Chapter Twenty King “Holland! Holland, open your eyes. Please, baby, open your eyes.” I pat her cheek and try to get some kind of response. I should have fucking kept this shit about her mother to myself. I shouldn’t have forced her on that helicopter. I shouldn’t have her out, walking around on the beach in the middle of a hot afternoon. What the hell was I thinking? I keep jostling her until her eyes flutter open and she looks around confused. “Hey, sweet girl. Shit, you had me worried there for a minute.” And it was probably actually no longer than a minute, but it felt like fucking forever. The waiter is standing next to us with a glass of water, and the hostess grabbed a

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tablecloth, wadded it up, and tucked it under her head. “Did I faint?” “Yes, you did. Are you hurt?” I saw her fall. She didn’t hit her head, so I’m ninety percent sure she’s fine, but I want to hear her say it. “My hip hurts a little,” she says, straining to sit up. I straddle her, so she couldn’t move if she tried. “Just stay down for a minute,” I press two fingers against her mouth when she tries to argue. “Shush. Relax. I’m sorry. I should have left the thing with your mother alone. I knew you’d be upset, but I didn’t think . . . well, I didn’t think you’d pass out.” “I’ve never fainted before,” she says, looking from the waiter to the hostess. “The seagulls . . .”

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“Seagulls?” “Yeah, they were mad . . . and so loud.” “Are you sure you didn’t bump your head?” I run my fingers through her hair, checking for bumps. “Never mind, I’m fine. Can I get up now?” “Yes, let me help you though.” I stand and pull her slowly to her feet. She wobbles, and I scoop her into my arms and carry her through the restaurant. I’ve had enough. Our waiter and the hostess are hot on my heels, asking if I want an ambulance. I ignore them and carry Holland through the lobby, outside, and straight into the limo waiting out front. I open the door and help her in. She looks around the car wide eyed. It’s fun to see her experience the things that I’ve always taken for granted. I rode to a private school

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in a limo every day, dressed head to toe in designer clothes. Holland is looking much better. Her coloring is back to its normal bronze tone, and the glimmer is back in her stormy grey eyes. “Come here.” I pat the seat, and when she scoots closer, I pull her down and lay her head in my lap, facing the partition window. “We’re going to drive home; it will take longer, but I think it’s best. You’ve had enough stress for one day.” “King, please tell me my mother didn’t say those things,” she says with so much desperation in her eyes that it stops my heart. I’m not used to feeling helpless, but Gloria is a piece of work, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about her blatant disregard for Holland’s wellbeing. She’s a pit bull when it comes to her daughter becoming a professional violinist. She’s had her eye on the prize for so long that she can’t imagine

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Holland having a different future, and I’m not so sure I disagree. Her talent is unreal. I’ve never heard anyone more gifted. It would be an epic waste if she didn’t follow her dreams all the way to the top. “Your mother didn’t say those things.” I lie, because sometimes a lie is more comforting than the truth. “Thank you,” she says, playing along. She pulls her knees up, snuggling in against me, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders. “Rest your head on my shoulder and sleep for a while. You’ve had a big day.” “We didn’t get to go swimming,” she says. “I know, next time,” I say, rubbing my hand up and down her arm. “And we can drive next time?” she asks.

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“Yes, baby, we can drive.” I kiss the side of her head and turn the television on to some mindless comedy show while I check my email for the day on my phone. It isn’t long before her breathing slows and every muscle in her body relaxes. I take advantage of our time alone and smooth her hair away from her face, memorizing every one of her beautiful, delicate features. We’ve yet to spend an entire night together, so I’ve never an opportunity to watch her sleep. She looks so young when she’s sleeping, and it tears me up that I may be ruining her life. Could Gloria be right? Am I destroying her career? Am I taking away what she’s spent her whole life preparing for? Am I a fucking cradle robber? Holland misrepresented herself that night in the club, but there were alarms going off in my head even then. The world may see her as an innocent young woman being taken advantage of by a bad boy player, but Holland knows what she wants. She is more

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mellow and responsible than any other woman I’ve ever ‘dated’. She’s the complete package—brains, epic talent, and beauty . . . God, she’s beautiful. She slays me with her high cheekbones, full lips, and her curves that go on for days And to make things even more perfect, we enjoy the same kind of music and the same books, we’re both Roman Catholics, she has old-fashioned morals, and we’re both driven and successful in our own rights. The age difference won’t matter when we’re older. It’s not like there are twenty years separating us, just six, soon to be five as her birthday is next month. I was planning a spectacular party, but after today, I think it’s best to keep things low key until she’s past this nausea. I reach over to place my hand on her tummy, where a tiny life is growing. I haven’t been able to keep my hands off of her all day. The way she smiles up at me through her long lashes is crippling. She turns me back

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into the caveman that I was the night I met her at the club. I want to toss her over my shoulder drag her to my bedroom, strip her down, and lick her from head to toe. I’m hard as fuck sitting here with her warm body plastered against my side, but I know she’s having a difficult time with morning sickness, so I’ve been keeping my distance. Why the fuck do they call it morning sickness? Holland is a barfing machine from sunup to sunset. She’s losing weight, and she’s tired and stressed. Being pregnant is hard for the average woman, let alone doing it when you’re nineteen and on the verge of professional musical greatness. She keeps a brave face on, but she can only take so much, and today I gave her too much. Her mother’s going to have a meltdown when she finds out we’re keeping this baby. She thinks I’m talking to Holland today about terminating, but in reality, I’m

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going to ask her to stay with me for the rest of the pregnancy—or permanently, if she will. She needs some space, and I’m selfish when it comes to Holland. I want her all to myself. I’m not worried about her mother, but I want Holland to feel like she has her support. Her father is a different story. He wants whatever Holland wants, but he seems nervous about disagreeing with his wife. It’s obvious who wears the pants in that family, but Gloria’s no match for me. Not even close. An hour before we’re home, she starts to stir in my arms. My back is stiff from sitting still for hours, and my cock is even stiffer from rubbing against the heat between her legs. She ended up crawling in my lap and straddling me half asleep two hours ago, and every bump in the road is another reminder of how much I need to be inside of her. “King?” “Yeah, baby, I’m here.”

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“What time is it?” she says, straightening up on my lap and rubbing her eyes like a little girl waking from a nap. “Seven. We’ve only got an hour until we’re home.” The car hits a rather large bump in the road, and she grabs my shoulders while I grab her waist at the same time for support. I groan when she nudges the straining bulge in my pants. “Sorry I didn’t mean to . . .” “You’re fine.” “You’re not, though.” A slow, sly smile spreads across her lips as her hand slides between my legs to stroke my aching cock. “Holland, no.” I’m not one for restraint or discipline when it comes to sex, and especially when it comes to sex with Holland, but her condition fluctuates by the hour, and I’m on foreign ground here.

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“Sorry.” she says. Fuck, she thinks I’m rejecting her, but I’d love nothing more than to strip her down right here, right now, and bury my face between her legs until she screams my name. But I can’t, I won’t. I take her face in my hands and look into her eyes. “Don’t apologize, baby. I just don’t think you’re up to it. Believe me, I want to. I really want to.” Her big, stormy grey pools gaze up at me and she blinks slowly once . . . twice . . . I have no idea what she’s thinking—none at all—until she begins to loosen the drawstring of her linen pants. I can’t speak. I can’t even move. She is just that exquisite, the perfect balance of sensuality and innocence. Her eyes are full of wonder and curiosity, but her body speaks the language that mine understands. Wanton and shameless, she slips out of her thin pants and the tiny scrap of lace

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she calls panties. Who bought her those, anyway? Surely not her mother. Note to self: find out where she got those later. Her eyes never leave mine as she returns to straddling my hips and unbuckles my belt. My hands are planted at my sides on the warm leather seats. She’s running the show, and I can’t make myself interrupt, even though I know I should. She never kisses my mouth. her hands are still working my zipper down, but her eyes are already fucking me. She still doesn’t touch my aching cock, and I’m about to ask her to—or do it myself—when she shakes her head back and forth. Her hands slide along the waistband of my pants and dip inside to my hips on both sides to help me push them down. I hold my breath as I watch her lean forward to grip the back of the seat on either side of my head. Her long tresses fall around us like a curtain blocking out the world. My cock is

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standing at full mast when she lifts up onto her knees and brushes her wet slit against the tip of my cock until she’s in the perfect position to slowly, torturously and deliciously sink down around me. My lungs burn when I release the breath I’ve been holding, and the thin tendrils of her hair flutter around her heart-shaped face. She stills when she’s entirely consumed me, and I drop my head back, moaning, and grip the seat. I have the almost uncontrollable urge to pump my hips up into her fiercely and work her over hard. But she’s the one setting the pace, so I watch as she glides up until I’m barely touching her wet folds with the tip of my cock. She pauses, looking deep into my eyes, before slowly impaling herself again. The sigh that escapes her lips has me holding on by a thread. God, I want to flip her over and lay her down on the seat and fuck her hard all the way home, but she deserves so much more than being mindlessly pounded. She

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deserves to be adored and glorified. She deserves so much more than me. If it’s her plan to torture me slowly, she’s succeeding. She slowly rotates her hips in tiny, sexy little fucking circles, clenching around me as she rises and sighing when she sinks down, impaling herself over and over. How did she learn to do that? Oh my God, her sigh is driving me to the edge of my sanity. I’ve fucked in a limo many times—so many times that it’s practically passé—but not with Holland. Every damn thing with her is so much more erotic and sultry and . . . fucking hot. I want to come right now as badly as I don’t. This is so, so good. I plan on making it last as long as I can possibly hold out. At last, she dips her face to kiss my parted lips, and I moan into her mouth. I haven’t touched her yet. I’ve been trying to let her have control, but the moment her mouth meets mine, my hands are on her ass,

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spreading her wider, lifting and pushing into the hot wetness that begs for more of me with every thrust. My brain is scrambled at the sight of her parted lips, the sound of her panting against my mouth and my ear, her breath heating my cheek, her fingers digging into my shoulders when I give her what she wants and take what I need . . . she’s fucking exquisite. I love the way her breath huffs out softly when I push deep into her, and the way it catches in her throat when I hit that spot that brings her teetering to the edge. The sounds this woman makes could make a celibate monk come. Suddenly, I’m not thinking about her nausea or the baby or the driver—who can’t hear or see us, but can probably feel the limo rocking. I’m not worried about our future, or her mother, or her music, or my drug business. The only thing I care about is making the woman in my arms feel good. I want to

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help her escape, if only for a little while, from all the pressures closing in on us. I’m trying to hold off, but my body isn’t listening to my mind when I hook my hands behind her knees. I pull them up to my sides and enter her at an impossibly deep angle and pause . . . it’s the calm before the storm. Her hands are in my hair, her face is buried in my neck, and her heart is beating wildly against my chest—or is that mine? I can’t even tell us apart. I slide my hands up and curl them behind her shoulders, bracing myself for the orgasm of all fucking orgasms when she says, “Wait.” Wait? I’m plateauing . . . panting and frantic, on the edge of ecstasy, when I feel her smiling against my cheek and realize I’m being played. Played by the violinist. How fitting.

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“What’s your plan here, baby?” I murmur in her hair, trying like hell not to blow my wad while she teases me. “No . . . plan . . . just wanted to see if you could . . . wait,” she says between pants. Little vixen. “I can wait, but the longer you sit there, the harder I’ll fuck you when you’ve decided to stop teasing.” Her smile broadens. “Then I should hold still?” “No,” I growl, changing positions to lay her down on the seat where I wanted her fifteen minutes ago to show her who the boss really is. Her hands ball into tiny fists against my chest, and laughter bubbles from her lips until I can’t take the beauty of her anymore, and I thrust into her hard and fast. I watch her transform from a playful kitten into a slinky, sensual puma. She has mind blowing natural instincts when it comes to sex. She

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follows every cue I give her until her eyes roll back in her head and she loses control. This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting to see again for weeks. Her lips part and she arches against me, and we go there, to that place where heaven and hell mix for just a few seconds, combining purity and sin that explodes into the abyss. She is absolutely the other half of me. If there were ever any doubt in my mind, there is none now. She’s fucking amazing, and she’s mine. Unspoiled, unpolluted and authentic, never touched or pleasured by another man’s hands, and never will be. As long as my heart beats and there is breath in my body, she is mine and mine alone.

Chapter Twenty-One Holland I curl into a ball on my side and snuggle deeper into a warm, peaceful haze of mint and spice. As the fog lifts from my brain, I peek out of one eye to see King laying in front of me, mirroring my position. He’s asleep. I close my eye and try to think . . . where am I . . . oh yes. Helicopter, beach, lunch . . . fainting, limo, and sex. Good Lord, the sex. “Welcome back, sleepy head. I thought you’d never come around.” I open my eyes and find myself in King’s bed in his apartment. He trails his finger along the side of my cheek, ending with his hand cupping my face. The air around us is chilly. My nose is cold, and I swear I could probably see my breath if the lights were turned up brighter. The only warmth is in our little cocoon under

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the covers. I scoot closer to him, and he turns me around to spoon the entire length of his body. “You have something against heat?” I ask, and he kisses my ear. “You’re cold?” “Uh, yeah. It’s gotta be like forty degrees in here. My nose is running.” He feels my nose for drips and, finding none, he rubs his free hand up and down my arm in an attempt to warm me, but it’s useless. I’m a Popsicle. “I like it cold. I’ll have Sebastián turn it up when you’re here, though, if you like, but I rather like keeping you warm myself.” “Maybe a little bit of both.” “I can live with that.” He rolls away for only a second to get his phone from the bedside table behind us, and I shiver when the cold air rushes between us. He’s back against me in seconds, which causes me to

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shiver again, but for different reasons. He props up on his elbow, and I listen to him have a brief conversation with Sebastián, instructing him to turn up the thermostat. “You can’t do that? Run a thermostat, I mean?” If he tells me no, I’m going to lose faith in him as a man. My daddy has been teaching me practical things like that for years. I can change the oil in a car, flip a breaker switch when the power goes out, change the light bulb over the stove and in the fridge, and fix just about anything that can go wrong with a toilet. Daddy’s been into DIY ever since Mama made him figure out how to do electrical and plumbing work to save money. ‘That could be Juilliard money,’ she used to tell him when the sink was leaking and he wanted to call a plumber. I felt bad that he worked so hard at his job and got bossed around by Mama at home, so I pitched in and started helping. Mama . . . ugh, God, the thought of her demanding that King pay for Juilliard

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and encourage me to have an abortion disgusts me. I hope he doesn’t want to talk about her anymore, because I don’t. “You okay, baby?” His arms tighten around me and I feel so safe, so at home. “Yeah, I’m just cold. It’s freezing in here,” I say, pulling the covers up over my shoulder. It’s a half lie. I am freezing, but more so, a piece of my heart is breaking over my mama. How could she be so awful? It’s a delay in my career, not the end of it. She’s always been pro-life, she taught me to be prolife and she raised me in the Catholic Church. I can’t believe she blackmailed King into encouraging me to abort. Who asks a father to have his own child killed? I’m really starting to wonder if I know who she is at all. “And yes, for the record, I am perfectly capable of running a thermostat, but the control is in the security room downstairs in the club, where they control the

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temperature throughout the building. I’ll keep you warm, though. Don’t worry.” He wraps his long, lean muscles around my limbs, curling around me like a cat and nuzzling into my neck. His warm breath on my skin causes another shiver to race up my spine. Under the heavy gold and black duvet, he protects me from the chill in the air. It occurs to me that he protects me from so many things in my life right now—the critical eyes of the world, my mother, the Juilliard admissions board, and probably other things I don’t even want to know about. He is on my side all the way . . . or our side, I should say. All three of us. “Well, that’s a relief. I thought I was going to have to find a replacement for you.” Braving the cold air, I slide my hand out from under the covers, along his scruffy jawline, and back into the soft curls on the nape of his neck.

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“Oh, baby, no one can replace me. I’m the King. And I’m deeply wounded to know such an insignificant task would make you reconsider our relationship,” he says, nibbling my earlobe. I feel bad for teasing him. “You’re right. You’re irreplaceable, and I love you too much to ever let you go—even when you try to freeze me to death.” I’ve never told him that before, but now seems like the right time to start, and he doesn’t miss a beat returning the sentiment. “I love you too, sweet Holland, so, so much. You’ll never know just how much.” “Thank you for having my back . . . with my mama, ya know, and the Juilliard people. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.” “I’m more than happy to have your back anytime,” he says, pressing his thick length into my backside. “And your front.” His hand slinks up from my waist to cup my breast. “And all the parts in between,” he

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says, kissing my neck. Electricity zaps across the surface of my skin, igniting a fire in my core. Now I’m hot, but I don’t know if it’s from King’s heat kicking in or King’s heat kicking in. “Are you trying to get me pregnant again?” “Maybe.” His scruff plays against my cheek when he smiles against it. “I don’t think I can handle more than one.” King plunges us into darkness when he pulls the duvet over our heads and rolls me underneath him. “You’re not doing this alone, baby. You’ve got me, and I can do anything.” I believe him beyond a shadow of a doubt. We could have a litter of kids, and I think King would rise to the occasion—pun intended. *** Four hours later, at home, on my back in my own bed, with my hands behind my

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head, I’m feeling opposite of how I did at King’s today. Funny how a place I’ve spent every day of my life in feels so irrelevant, and the place I’ve spent nearly no time in feels like home. It’s not the place, though. It’s the company. My parents are at each other all the time about my situation, as Mama calls it, and they’re miserable to be around. They think they’re being sly and secretive, but I hear their slightly raised voices at night in the room next to mine, arguing about whether or not I should keep my baby. It’s not up to them. It’s my damn baby. Daddy isn’t happy about any of this, and what good father would be, but thankfully, he wants whatever I want. He says it’s my body and my life, and that God doesn’t make mistakes. He must have wanted me to have a baby, or he wouldn’t have given me one. It’s a simple way of thinking, I suppose, but I believe it’s true. Mama, on the other hand, sounds like she’s going to have an aneurism or break her teeth off when she

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gets going about my future and my career and how hard she’s worked, how much she’s sacrificed, and what a waste it is to throw it all away for a baby. She even had the gall to say I could have a baby anytime, but I can only go to Juilliard now. To hear her talk about it, you’d think it was her own talent and career that’s being wasted. I want to go back to King’s where I feel wanted and loved. King asked me to live with him today, and I happily accepted, but he thought it would be best to ease my parents into the idea. My birthday is next month, and I’ll be twenty. Twenty sounds so much better than nineteen when you’re talking about pregnancy. People are so judgmental about teen pregnancy. When a teenager gets pregnant, they say she got knocked up, but when it’s a twenty-year-old, she’s having a baby. “Why aren’t you practicing?” Mama asks from my open door. One of her strange new rules is that I have to keep my door open

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at all times, so I didn’t even know she was standing there. I don’t know what the hell she thinks she’s going to accomplish with the new rule. I’m already pregnant. What else could happen? “I was just resting. I’ll start now,” I say, slowly sitting up and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed without getting dizzy or nauseated. King was right. Moving slowly is much better. When I pick up my violin and raise my bow, I expect her to leave me alone, but she hangs back, pressing her hand against the door jamb and looking down at the floor. “What did you two do today?” Her eyes never leave her feet. She’s nervous. She wants to know if he asked me to get an abortion. She still doesn’t know that I know that she’s trying to blackmail King, and I’m not telling her. I want to see her squirm. “Nothing much. We had lunch and talked, that’s all.”

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“Lunch . . . and talking,” she repeats. “Yeah.” Squirm, Mama, squirm. “Did you talk about the . . . about . . .” “The baby? No, we didn’t.” I drag my bow across the strings, playing the first notes of Brahms’s Lullaby just to irritate her. She looks up at me, wide-eyed, but she composes herself quickly. I blink innocently and begin playing scales to warm up, essentially dismissing her, but she doesn’t move. I continue my scales, and when I’m finished, I switch to a piece of my favorite music, trying to get lost in it—but it’s impossible with her standing there, staring at me. I play louder and louder, trying to get my message across, and at some point she gets it and leaves. With my back to the door, I can’t see her go, but I don’t feel her eyes boring a hole in my back anymore. Only then am I able to let my fingers fly up and down

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the strings with the passion and determination of a person fighting for her life. I feel as though I’m fighting for my life lately, the life that I want with King and the life inside of me that my mama wants to smudge out. Two hours later, I tuck my violin into its case. I’m exhausted after my long day with King, but if I hadn’t practiced for a little while, Mama would never have been satisfied. I catch my reflection in the mirror over my dresser when I turn around. “You’re going to be a mother. You . . . Holland Bennett . . . a mama.” I turn to the side and smooth my hands over my belly. This doesn’t feel real. I mean, the nausea is real as hell, but the baby growing in there won’t be until I can see it. We have an appointment with the obstetrician later this week, and I’ll be having my first ultrasound. Maybe then it will feel real. ***

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Twelve weeks, twenty weeks, thirty weeks, and now thirty-four. It’s January and I’m freezing. My teeth are chattering as I wait on the sidewalk in front of STRINGS for Sebastián to pull the car around. It’s forty degrees, which isn’t cold by most people’s standards, but when you’re used to sixty degree highs, forty is damn near arctic. I couldn’t see my toes anymore if I tried. My eight-and-a-half-month pregnant belly blocks my view of anything below my waist. King assures me my shoes match when he helps me dress every day. He tends to me tirelessly every day, picking things up off the floor that I’ve dropped and making sure I don’t slip getting into the tub. He even painted my toenails once, but he ended up taking me for a pedicure the next day because he messed them up so badly. I would have never known they were a mess except that he laid me down in bed and lifted my foot up high to show me.

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I moved in above the club with King when I was five months along because my mama was insufferable. She pouted and complained and bitched and moaned on and on about my decision to keep the baby. She had me so depressed that there were days that King had to come and force me out of bed. It got so bad that Daddy moved into a hotel nearby after a huge blowout in the middle of the grocery store. Right there, between the celery and the tomatoes, she lost her shit and started screaming that she’d wasted her entire life supporting my dream, and that I was an ungrateful, selfish daughter with no respect. He turned around and left her gripping the shopping cart in the hard light of the produce aisle, with customers staring while she shouted after him. And when she noticed, she shouted at them to mind their own business. I know this because Mr. Jefferies told Mrs. Moore, who of course passed the juicy gossip on to her book

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club that Savannah’s mother attends. Small world. I visited Daddy in his hotel room one afternoon and listened as he confirmed the story. I felt so guilty, but he assured me that it was a long time coming and that they had been pretending for years to be happy for my sake—and that made me feel even guiltier. I hated leaving him there. The room was so cold and unlike home, with no photographs or knickknacks, only generic lamps and a clock radio that was cemented to the bedside table. King offered to put him up somewhere nicer, but he declined, as I knew he would. Daddy’s too proud for that. Daddy was the only buffer between my mother and me, so when he left, I did too. King insisted. He said the stress wasn’t good for the baby or me, but I knew he just really wanted to have me under his roof, and to be honest, it was a huge relief. He was right, too, of course. I got more rest, ate

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healthier, got more exercise—in and out of bed—and felt a million times better. King has also been teaching me to drive, and yeah . . . that’s been interesting. I never got my license when everybody else did in high school. I never went anywhere besides practice and school, and if I did, Mama insisted on driving me. It’s crazy how easy it is to see that she was controlling me now that I’m out of her grasp. I never questioned her decisions or her rules because she brainwashed me into believing it was all for me—for my future, for my career—but now, I think a lot of that was her trying to live vicariously through me to achieve her own dreams. So at age twenty, I am learning to drive. Learning to drive is not something to do when your hormone levels are roller coasting up and down. Poor King is so patient, though. More than once, we had to pull over so I could cry. Everything sounds so

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much more critical when you’re pregnant. ‘Holland, you need to put on your blinker to switch lanes.’ ‘Holland, ease up on the gas.’ ‘Holland, watch out. Squirrel!’ Ugh, I got so frustrated, but he was persistent, and today, Sebastián is taking me to the Department of Transportation to get my license. King had to leave town unexpectedly for the day, and I want to surprise him with it when he gets home tonight. I really wanted Savannah to go with me, but she’s working at a cosmetics counter full time at Saks Fifth Avenue. I miss her so much. King is wonderful, but sometimes a girl just needs her best girlfriend. I’m proud of her, though. She couldn’t afford to go to college, and she’s doing something she’s awesome at. King offered to pay for her to go to cosmetology school, but she said no. She’s afraid she won’t do well and his money will go to waste if she flunks, and she says nobody’s going to sing Beauty School Dropout behind her back. I am convinced she

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would flourish if she just gave it a chance. She’s smart when she applies herself. I’m not giving up on her, though. That girl is phenomenal with hair and makeup, and I’m not about to let that talent go to waste. Five minutes later, when I’m about to text King and complain about being cold, Sebastián pulls up to the curb in the Bentley. Not very many people my age can say they learned to drive in a Bentley, but not very many people are involved with a man like King. The Bentley is pretentious, but so is King—to an extent—but his boyish charm more than makes up for it. The window glides down and Sebastián leans across the seat. “Don’t move. I’ll come around,” he says. I wait until the window is up to roll my eyes. My helicopter boyfriend is rubbing off on everyone around us. Sebastián won’t

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even so much as let me open my own car door. “Thanks, Sebastián.” I step off the curb and lower myself into the front seat, holding onto the edge of the roof. When I think I’m close, I release my hand and plop the rest of the way into the soft, warmed leather seat. I turn to Sebastián and smile with pride. Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes. He doesn’t like me to do any plopping at this point in my pregnancy. He’s scared it’ll break my water or something, and honestly, I’m not sure it wouldn’t, but I’m just too large and in charge to help it now. “Please be careful, Ms. Benn—Holland.” Sebastián hasn’t been able to stop calling me Ms. Bennett, but when he does, he corrects himself right away. One afternoon I had an emotional meltdown. He called me Ms. Bennett, and I cried for half an hour because I thought it sounded so old.

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“How are you feeling this afternoon?” he asks when we’re both buckled in and pulling into traffic. “Fine. Cold. Can we turn up the heat?” I briskly rub my hands together and begin to relax my tense muscles into the heated seat. I love heated seats. I didn’t even know there was such a thing until I got into King’s Audi for the first time and thought I was wetting my pants when the warmth spread across my butt and thighs. King thought that was hilarious. He chuckled all the way to the symphony that night. “Of course.” Sebastián taps a button on the steering wheel column, increasing the flow of hot air until I’m sweating, which doesn’t take more than three minutes in my condition. “I’m dying of heat stroke, Sebastián,” I say, pressing my hand to my forehead and fanning myself. He turns the heat down with a sigh, and I feel tears prick at the corners of

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my eyes. I’m sick of being pregnant. I’m not gonna lie—I want my body back, and I’m sick of being so damn emotional. At the DOT, he jumps out to open my door, and by the grace of God, he allows me to walk in alone, on my own two feet. The smell of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke are mildly nauseating in the waiting area where I snap ticket number 800 from the dispenser. I say a little prayer thanking God that King quit smoking in my second trimester, and then I say another when the display screen shows that they are on #799. I squirm in one of the uncomfortable chairs and drop my purse on accident. I watch it sag onto the floor between my feet . . . great. I’ll probably throw up if I bend over that far to get it. Should I wait for Sebastián or attempt to pick it up myself? The DOT isn’t the kind of place you take your hands off your purse in, so I scoot my legs to the side and reach for the beautiful bag King gave me for my birthday last August. My

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fingers just barely skim the leather strap when a feminine, well-manicured hand takes my elbow. “Let me, baby, don’t hurt yourself.” The woman rights me in my seat and easily squats down to grab my purse. She hands it to me, smiling and glancing at my big belly. “Oh gosh, thank you so much. It’s impossible to reach anything these days.” “No problem. I remember being pregnant all too well,” she says. “I can’t believe people do this more than once,” I say. I adjust myself in the hard chair and catch a glimpse of Sebastián coming through the door. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be one of those people,” she says, chuckling. “I’m Candy. Nice to meet you.” She thrusts her hand out, and I reach across my belly to shake it.

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“I’m Holland, and thanks again,” I say, looking down at my purse and back up at her. “Is everything okay here?” Sebastián says as he approaches. “Yes, fine, Sebastián. I just dropped my purse, and Candy here saved me from falling on my face trying to get it.” I gesture toward Candy, but Sebastián ignores her. “You could have waited. I told you I wouldn’t be long.” I hold up my hand vertical to my cheek, blocking Candy’s view of me, and purposely whisper loudly, “This place is sorta shady, Daddy. I didn’t want anybody snatching my purse.” He rolls his eyes and takes the seat on my left, and Candy sits down on my right. I’m surprised at his lack of manners. Sebastián has never been overly chummy with strangers, but he is always respectful.

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“Your daddy’s kinda cute,” Candy says quietly, looking around me at Sebastián. He stares straight ahead and never acknowledges her compliment. What a stick in the mud. He can’t be mad that I teased him about his age, because he is old enough to be my daddy, maybe even my pop, so I don’t know why his panties are in a wad. “He’s not really my daddy. I was just kidding.” I turn to join her in assessing Sebastián. He shifts in his chair and places his ankle on his knee while he tries not to look at us. “Hmm, too bad. I could have been a grandma,” Candy says. “Number 800.” A robotic voice announces over the PA. “That’s me,” I say, and Sebastián rises from his chair to help me up. “It was nice to meet you, Candy. He’s usually more friendly. Sorry . . .” I say.

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Sebastián snorts in disgust and places his hand on the small of my back to guide me away. “It’s okay, sugar. Good luck with the baby.” She has such a genuine, warm smile, and I miss her companionship as soon as we walk away. Savannah hasn’t been right across the street for a long time, and although I still see her often, it’s not the same. I miss girl talk. “Thanks,” I say as Sebastián practically pushes me toward the counter where I sign my name and have my picture taken. Ten minutes later, a heavyset woman in a tight polyester DOT uniform hands me my first driver’s license. The picture looks like a mug shot. I’m puffy and pale, but inside, my old skinny self is jumping up and down with excitement, chanting I did it! I did it! For a moment, I almost regret not waiting for King to share this milestone with me, but there aren’t many ways to surprise a billionaire.

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“So why were you so rude in there?” I ask Sebastián when we’re headed home. “I wasn’t rude. You shouldn’t talk to strangers.” “I couldn’t just let her pick up my purse and not thank her.” “Yes, you could have. She could have been a pickpocket. Did you check your bag?” Sebastián gestures toward my purse. “You’ve been in security too long.” “Maybe so, but you’re my responsibility while King is gone, and you are his top priority, so that means you’re my top priority.” “Well, I’ve been making it through every day for twenty years without the two of you, so I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine.” “Holland . . . do you remember when I told you to stay away from him, that he was dangerous? Nothing has changed. If you

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hadn’t been pregnant, you could have gotten away. You would never have been associated with him and you wouldn’t be a target. King is extremely thorough when it comes to your security for a good reason. Anybody who has a problem with him knows that his weakness is you.” I watch Sebastián’s foot moving from the break to the accelerator and back to break. I’m a target, a weakness? The idea crossed my mind early on in our relationship, but King has always made me feel so comfortable and safe. Sebastián glances over to me and back to the road. “I don’t mean to scare you, but I can only protect you as much as you allow me to. If you don’t know you’re in danger, how can you watch out for it?” “Should I be worried about something specific, Sebastián?”

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Sebastián maneuvers the car across two lanes of traffic and pulls into a hardware parking lot. He shifts into park with the car still running and turns his full attention on me. “You are always in danger. You will always be in danger, and so is your child. Unless King finds some way to get out of this business, you will be looking over your shoulders for the rest of your lives.” My gaze drifts away from his dark eyes to the passenger window, where raindrops are beginning to drizzle down the glass. The weather seems to be mirroring my mood. His words repeat in my head, and for the millionth time in the past eight months, I wonder how my life could have taken such a drastic turn. Sometimes my reflections are upbeat and pleasant, like how could I have possibly found such a loving, caring man? Other times, like right now, I can only imagine what an ominous, dark life King leads

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and how much danger his life brings to us all. My silence is Sebastián’s cue to take me home. He makes sure I’m inside the apartment and that I’ve locked the doors before he leaves me—if he ever really leaves me. I pad down the hall to our bedroom, strip down to my bra and panties, and crawl in between the two thousand thread count, Egyptian cotton sheets. Lightning flashes through the room, casting long shadows on the wall, and five seconds later, I jump when a crack of thunder follows. I usually enjoy a good thunderstorm, but it’s three o’clock in the afternoon, and King’s dangerous life is weighing heavy on my mind. I need the escape that only sleep can bring.

Chapter Twenty-Two King This long fucking day needs to be over. I hate being away from Holland, and I spent fifty percent of my day in the air flying to and from Miami and the other half dealing with distributors and the incompetent replacements for the members that were gunned down in my club eight months ago. When I drag my ass into the apartment, the only thing I can think about is crawling into bed with Holland. I promised her I wouldn’t be gone all night, but the storm delayed me for hours. Technically, I made it, though, since it’s before midnight. The apartment is dark and quiet. I’m standing at the kitchen table with my suit coat draped over my arm, shuffling through the mail, when a dim sliver of light cutting across the floor outside our bedroom catches

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my eye. She’s probably awake. She’s up every couple of hours going to the bathroom lately, and as happy as I am to talk to her, I wish she were getting better sleep. I make my way quietly down the hall, loosening my tie, and pause at the threshold of the bedroom. She’s sleeping. The soft glow of the light on her bedside table illuminates her flawless skin. She looks like an angel curled around her white body pillow, wearing her bra that she has begun to grow out of in the most delicious way and lace panties. She refused to buy larger lingerie, choosing to wear her panties under her belly. She says it’s comfortable, but I think it’s vanity, and that’s okay. She has no reason to worry about her changing body. As far as I’m concerned, she’s more gorgeous now than she’s ever been, soft in all the best places and toned in others. She’s been working out every day with me since the nausea let up, and she couldn’t be in better shape.

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The curtains are open. She must have fallen asleep watching the storm. I could stand here and watch her soft shoulder rise and fall with every breath for hours, but the duvet is slipping onto the floor, leaving her uncovered. There was a time when she couldn’t sleep without being covered. She used to curl up in my arms to stay warm, but no more. I’ve even had Sebastián turn the air conditioning back to where I kept it before I met her. I can hardly remember life without Holland. There’s never been a more perfect example of love at first sight. The moment I laid eyes on her, my life began. Her stormy grey eyes called to my soul, and her mature, talented personality unlocked my heart. Add to that a baby, and you have perfection. I cross the room and right the duvet without disturbing her and notice her open purse on the bed by her feet. Why is she sleeping with her purse? I pick it up to move it and notice her open wallet on top, sporting

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a brand new driver’s license. She got her license while I was gone? I’ve been teaching her to drive for months, and she went and got her license without me? “I wanted to surprise you,” she says in a sleepy voice from under the duvet. I pull the puffy material away from her face. “I didn’t mean to wake you. This is awesome, baby,” I say holding up her wallet. “You didn’t want to wait for me?” She turns to her back and slides her arms out from under the covers and flops them down at her sides, pulling the blanket taught and accentuating her pregnant belly. “I couldn’t have King Romero sitting in the smelly DOT, waiting with me for my license,” she says, widening her eyes and placing her hand over her heart. “Me? It’s you who shouldn’t be sitting in that germ-infested ghetto room, exposing King Jr. to who knows what.”

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I hang her bag over the arm of a chair next to the window, toe off my shoes, and undress while she watches. When I’m clad in just my boxers, I climb in next to her, not even wasting time to round the bed to my own side. “Scoot, Little Mama.” I nudge her gently and slip her body pillow out from under her arms and legs and slide it over to my side of the bed. I’m her body pillow now. “I’m not so little anymore.” “You have no idea, do you?” “Well, since I don’t know what you’re talking about . . .” “Pregnancy agrees with you, baby,” I say, tucking a wayward lock of her hair behind her ear and kissing the tip of her nose, earning me an eye roll. “As long as you think so, I guess that’s all that matters.”

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“You’d better believe it, sexy.” I slide my hand over the curve of her hip and behind her knee, pulling her leg up over mine. A trademark moan escapes her lips, and I’m a goner. “You cannot make those noises and expect me to sleep.” “I’m not expecting you to sleep.” Her arms snake around my neck and she attempts to press her core against my growing erection, but there is a very important certain someone playing cock block. “Ugh, see? I can’t even get close to you anymore.” “You’re not being very creative, baby. Let’s turn you over.” Sliding my arm between the sheets and her waist, I help her turn until her back is to my front. “Ah, God, Holland, you’re killing me.” And she is. She’s really fucking killing me here. All I want to do is thrust balls deep into

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her hot pussy and make her come again and again, but these last few weeks, I’ve been treating her like glass. Holland has voiced her discontent loud and clear on more than one occasion, but I’m not budging. I’m not trying to meet my baby that way. The second she’s facing away from me, her back is arched and she’s pressing her ass into my cock, tempting me, torturing me, pushing me to the very edge of my tolerance. “Please, King, I need you. I miss you. I’m full-term. The baby could come any time now and it would be all right. Please . . .” Fuck . . . I’ve been just barely controlling my desires, but no way can I listen to her beg me for something I’m dying to give her. “Okay, but we’re doing this my way, got it?” My words are stern, but my resolve is weak. She nods against my chest as her hand slides between our bodies to stroke my cock. All of my reservations fly out the window when I snap the tiny edge of her lace

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panties and slide my hand between her legs and find her soaking wet for me. “You are the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever put my hands on, woman. Are you sure you’re okay with this?” I press my cock against her bare ass, knowing damn good and well that she is. “Yes, please, please . . .” She twists her face, offering me her mouth, and I slide my tongue between her lips and lift my hips to work my boxers off. I mirror the motion of our tongues with my fingers along her wet slit, stroking and circling until I realize she’s having trouble keeping her leg up. Without missing a stroke, I continue to work my magic and reach farther over her to bend her body pillow in half and prop her leg up on it, spreading her wide and allowing her to relax, enjoying the fruits of my labor. Labor . . . fuck, don’t think about that right now. Just put it out of your mind, King. I unclasp her bra, releasing her heavy breasts, and tilt her

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back against me to slide my fingers around her nipple. “No, King . . . please.” She wraps her hand around my pulsing hard on and guides it to where she wants it. She’s impatient and ready . . . oh so ready. I remove her hand and slowly, carefully, I slide my tip along her slit, rubbing my length between her wet folds, against her clit and back to the pucker of her ass, causing her to gasp. The fingers of one hand are clutching her pillow, and her other hand is pressing against the padded headboard. Her breath comes in short, quick pants as I trail kisses up and down her neck. “I’m going to fuck you nice and slow now, baby,” I whisper into her ear as I slide into my favorite place on earth. I draw blood from my lip when I bite down and rein in the urge to be rough with her. “Ah, King, yes. Yes, God, I’ve missed you so much.”

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She lets go of her pillow and reaches back to grab my hair, and I lift her leg and enter her deeper than I should. “Oh yeah, baby, fuck . . . I’ve missed you, too. I’ve missed making you wet.” When I slide out, she whimpers. “You want more? Are you sure you can handle it? We can stop if you’re uncomfortable.” I know she’s not. She’s fucking loving this almost as much as I am, but anticipation is the hottest aphrodisiac. “Yes . . .” “Yes what?” I reach under her belly and between her legs and slowly circle her clit with my tip poised at her entrance. “King. Stop,” she says, hitting her pillow. “Stop? You want me to stop?” I remove my hand and pull my cock away from her entrance, causing her more frustration. I don’t know why I’m doing it. Maybe I’m

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sensing this is the last time I’ll be able to make love to her before she has our baby, or maybe it’s revenge for all the times in the past month that she’s flaunted her tight ass while we were working out, or the way she bends over, exposing her newly plump breasts when she kisses me goodbye every morning. Maybe it’s payback for seeing if I could wait that day in the limo. “God, no, King! That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Give it to me. Stop teasing me.” I slide back into her and return my hand to the hot spot between her legs. In and out, I make love to her slowly, leisurely working her up, little by little, until she’s on the edge, and then backing off to make it last longer. I make her come twice with my hand. Our bodies are covered in sweat, the covers are thrown off in complete abandon, and I know she’s ready again when I thrust one final time into her saturated

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core, roaring with release and savoring every part of this woman I love inside and out. “Better?” I ask, still pulsing inside of her and panting against her neck with a mouthful of her hair. Her heart is beating wildly under my hand as we work on catching our breath. “Oh yeah, but somebody else isn’t happy now.” She takes my hand from her chest and moves it over her taught belly, where King Jr. is protesting with strong kicks and punches. “Wow, he’s really ticked off that I’m invading his space, huh?” I prop up on my elbow to watch the ripples of movement change the shape of her belly. “You do realize it could be a girl, right? Like as in a fifty-fifty chance . . .” “Of course, but he’s a boy, aren’t you, King Jr.?” I slide my cock from the warm place it’s just been reunited with and turn

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Holland onto her back. She’s so beautiful with her bedroom eyes, flushed cheeks and damp hair. Postcoital pregnancy glow. Yeah, it’s more addictive than any drug ever made. I scoot down between her legs and bend her knees to spread her legs so I have room to kneel and press my cheek against her nonexistent navel. Our little person continues to squirm and kick, but with my arms around her belly, it feels like I’m holding ‘him’. “Oh,” Holland says, followed by a giggle when the baby gives my face a particularly hard kick. “I saw your head move with that one.” “Shush, he’s talking to me.” “Oh yeah? what’s ‘she’ saying?” “He says he loves you very much, but would you please stop referring to him as a her?” Giggling, she wiggles until I free her so she can turn to her side.

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“Help me up before I wet the bed. I’ve had to pee since you woke me,” she says, flashing me her megawatt smile. I assist her to the side of the bed and surprise her by scooping her up and delivering her to the bathroom. “I can’t believe you can still lift me. I’m a whale.” Her luscious full bottom lip thrusts out in the most adorable pout when she refers to herself as a whale, and I stand her to face the mirror. In our en-suite bathroom, her presence is obvious everywhere—makeup, toiletries, brushes, curling irons, straighteners, and other paraphernalia cover the counter. “Now you know why I do weight training every day.” I wink, and she slaps my arm. “Hey, you’re supposed to say ‘oh, baby, you’re light as a feather.’ not ‘I have to pump iron everyday just to pick you up.’”

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“I’m kidding. You really are as light as a feather. I wish you’d eat more.” I kiss her on the nose and start the shower while she sits down to relieve herself. We’re like an old married couple, comfortable and familiar enough to do the most intimate things in front of each other without a second thought. When the temperature is just right and the room is filled with a billowing cloud of steam, I help her into the shower. I’ve been so fucking worried about her slipping in the bath or shower. I had a friend in high school who got his girlfriend pregnant. She fell in the shower and lost their baby when she was six months along. I was with him when he found her, so needless to say, the experience left an impression. Leaning her forehead against my chest, I pull her into a quick embrace and turn her away to shampoo her hair.

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“We can get cleaned up and go back to bed. I don’t have anywhere to be today,” I say. “I only slept for an hour before you came home, so that sounds good.” “So let’s talk more about your driver’s license. When are you and Savannah going to test it out?” “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her all week. She’s been busy with her new job.” She’s sad. I hear it in her voice, and a pang of guilt shoots through my heart because I know I monopolize a lot of her time, and she would be at Juilliard right now, starting her career. I’ve tried to keep her busy. She’s enrolled in online classes, but they aren’t necessary. She was well ahead in credits after taking many advanced level classes last year. We traveled some during her second trimester. I took her to New York again. We spoke to the board of admissions at Juilliard about her delayed start, and then

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we went to my house in Malibu for Christmas and the New Year. Her parents’ relationship is tentative at best lately, and she was glad to spend the holidays out of town, although she did miss Savannah. “Do you regret . . .?” My hands glide over her soapy breasts and down to her belly, where she covers them with hers. I prop my chin on her shoulder. “Never, not for one second. Well, maybe a couple of seconds when I was barfing my brains out early on.” When she relaxes against my shoulder, I’m surprised at how relieved I am to hear her say those words. “I don’t blame you for that, and for the record, I’ve never regretted it either, not even when you were barfing your brains out.” “Well good . . . I think,” she says.

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“Tomorrow’s Saturday. Maybe Savannah will be able to come by and help you test drive your new car.” Her face tilts toward mine, and I see a tiny frown line between her eyes. “You didn’t . . . King, I don’t need a car. You have so many. I can drive one of those.” “Nonsense, those are my cars. You need your own.” I step away, pour soap on her loofa, and start washing her back to avoid an argument. She’s taking the car, period. It’s safe, and it will be a good family vehicle for all of us when we do regular family things like . . . hell, I don’t even know what normal families do. “I was planning on surprising you when we went to get your license, but since you’ve flipped the script on that, I’ll have it delivered tomorrow. Rinse.”

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I turn her by the shoulders to face me and place my hands on either side of her head, gently tilting it back to rinse out the shampoo. “You’re sort of a bully, you know?” she says with her eyes closed as water cascades over every gorgeous curve of her body. She’s biting her lip to keep from laughing. “You don’t know the half of it, baby.” She releases her lip and a smile spreads across her lips for a moment before it falls suddenly. “King?” Her eyes fly open and she stares at me with lifted brows and her mouth agape. “What? Are you okay? Did your water break? Are you having a contraction?” She bursts out laughing, and for a second I wonder if pregnant women have moments of insanity. While she laughs, she places her hand on my shoulder for support.

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“I’m sorry.” Giggle. “Your face.” More giggling. “Was priceless.” Her hand covers her mouth as she laughs harder and I sigh. Fuck . . . I’m a first time father. What’s she expect? I’m always fucking worried. She’s not due for four weeks, but anything can happen. “I just realized I don’t know when your birthday is,” she says when her fits of giggles subside. “May fourteenth, nineteen ninetynine.” “Wow, you’re old,” she deadpans until I can’t hold it in anymore and we both burst out laughing together. There are six years between us, but you’d never know to be around us. Her maturity and my occasional immaturity bring us to a very level playing field, even if the world doesn’t see it that way.

Chapter Twenty-Three Holland I’ve been contracting for a week on and off. I haven’t mentioned it to King, though. He’s so skittish that I can’t even burp without him asking, ‘Are you okay?’ It’s cute, but Lord, he’s going to be an overprotective daddy. I’m due today . . . Valentine's Day, which is appropriate considering the amount of love flowing between the three of us, but for some reason, King doesn’t think I’ll deliver today. He’s so sure of this that he’s planned a double date with Savannah and her boyfriend, Troy, which is going to be weird . . . really weird. King and I relate on more of an adult level. I’m an old soul, and he’s well . . . he’s just old. Savannah and Troy’s relationship is new and full of insecurities, but Savannah has some serious trust issues. I think it stems

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from being abandoned by her father. She says Troy is ‘shady as fuck’, but she also says she loves him. It’s a whole different kind of drama than what King and I have gone through, are going through, and will continue to go through if my mama has anything to do with it. “All set for date night?” King enters the bathroom, tying his tie and eyeing the vanity that I have monopolized with all of my girlie things. He tends to use the royal throne across the hall unless we are bathing together, in which case I join him for a bath. “Yeah, I just have to find some shoes to wear. I still have feet, don’t I?” I stretch my neck trying to look over my blue chiffon covered belly, but it’s hopeless. “Yes, baby, you still have the most beautiful feet of any woman, ever.” He slides his arms around my ‘waist’ from behind, but his hands don’t meet in the front anymore.

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“Oh, stop lying. I’m enormous, and I know my feet are swollen and ugly. Can’t we just stay home and lay in bed with a box of ding dongs and watch The Brady Bunch or something?” I stick out my bottom lip and pout in a last-ditch effort to derail his dinner plans. “No way, this could be our last date before we become parents, and it’s our first Valentine’s Day together. Come on, I’ll get you some shoes.” I lay my mascara down and let him lead me to the bed. I sit and lean back on my arms while he disappears into the closet for my shoes. “When are you going to tell me where we’re going?” “Not until we’re there.” “Have I ever been there?” “Oh yes, lots of times.”

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Lots of times? I’ve never been to any restaurant lots of times. He returns holding a strappy pair of flat sandals that will go perfectly with my blue sleeveless dress. “You’re being so mysterious.” “You are trying to ruin my surprise,” he says, squatting between my legs to buckle my shoes when I feel a warm gush of fluid spreading under me. I gasp and sit up straight, but that just makes the gushing increase, and I watch the thin material of my dress turn dark with wetness. “Okay, you’ve told me to stop overreacting, so I’m going to ignore that gasp . . .” King’s eyes move up my legs until he sees what I’m seeing. I watch his Adam’s apple jump in his throat when he swallows hard. Our eyes meet and time stands still. This is it. After all these months of waiting and planning, our lives are about to change forever.

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“Is that?” he asks, looking from my lap to my face. “Uh huh.” I nod, keeping my eyes on his. I don’t want to look anymore. “Should we go?” “Uh huh.” King leaves me to get a towel and some comfortable clothes for me to change into. He calls Savannah and calmly tells her we are going to the hospital because my water broke, and we’re sorry to have to cancel. I’m starting to freak out at his lack of freaking out when he makes another call, asking Sebastián to bring the car around and to throw a garbage bag on the passenger seat. When he hangs up and slips his phone into the breast pocket of his suit that he was dressed in for our evening out, I can’t hold back anymore. “Why are you so calm? We’re having a baby, King, a baby. Shit, this is really

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happening. I’m not ready to be a mama. I can’t do this.” He crosses the room to wrap his arms around me in front of the mirror, where I’ve been rooted for the last few minutes, looking at myself. “Hey . . . hey, breathe, baby . . . deep breaths in through your nose, out through your mouth.” I follow his instructions and listen to his soothing voice. “That’s it, good girl, just like that. You’re going to be fine, you’re prepared, you’re smart, and you are going to be a wonderful mother.” “Who are you?” I ask between deep breaths. “I’m actually very good in stressful situations when I know I have to be.” He smiles crookedly at me in the mirror and slides his hands from my belly to squeeze my shoulders.

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“Ready, champ?” He turns me to face him and holds his hand up for a high-five, and I slap it. “I guess so, there’s no going back now, huh?” “Nope. Everything is going to be fine, baby, really. Don’t worry, okay?” “Pinky swear?” I ask. One corner of his mouth lifts in a smile as he nods his head up and down, offering me his pinky finger. “Yeah, baby, pinky swear.” He pulls me into a kiss by our joined pinky fingers. It’s a kiss full of reassurance and tenderness that relaxes me. It’s a kiss that says ‘let me help you’, ‘let me shoulder some of this burden.’ “Are you having contractions yet?” “No, well yeah, I mean . . . I don’t know. I’ve been having Braxton Hicks for a

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week. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. How do I know the difference?” “It’s all right. I knew. I felt them when you were sleeping, and my guess is that they’ll hurt when they’re real.” He shrugs and slings our overnight bag over his shoulder at the same time that he guides me toward the door with his free hand on my back. I twist to look back one last time, making sure we have everything, and notice the white duvet covered in amniotic fluid. “I think we need a new comforter.” “Already bought a replacement. It’s in the closet.” “Well, you’ve just everything, haven’t you?”

thought

of

“I like to be prepared and organized.” When he winks at me, a warm sensation spreads through my chest, and I know he will make good on his pinky swear. Everything is going to be okay. I love him and I trust him. I

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have no doubt that he will take care of us and make sure we’re safe forever. When we step outside the quiet club entrance, Sebastián is waiting in the car King gave to me when I got my license. He thought a white Mercedes sedan would be a perfect first car for me—a family car, he said . . . ha. Savannah’s eyes popped out of her head when she saw that the speedometer went over two hundred and fifty mph the first time we took it for a test drive, but she quickly stifled her enthusiasm when King gave her a ‘don’t you fucking dare’ look. “You okay?” I knew he couldn’t go much longer without asking, and I’d like to tell him ‘Yeah, sure’, but I’m not. I think I’ve figured out the difference between Braxton hicks and real contractions, and real contractions suck. My belly is tight, and I feel like I’m having the worst period of my life every five minutes.

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“It’s starting to hurt,” I say, pausing with my hand on the roof of the car to breathe through one of these miserable period cramps before getting in. “We’ll be there in a few minutes. Contractions can come on faster when your water breaks.” I look up at him with disbelief when the wave of pain subsides, and he shrugs again. “What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” he says, as if that’s the answer to everything. Sebastián is standing on the sidewalk, looking down into the car when I get in. “Buena suerte y felicitaciones,” he says. Sebastián isn’t one to be very sentimental, but his words spoken in his native language are full of sincerity, and his expression is tender and encouraging. He has been teaching me Spanish since I moved in with

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King, so I know he just told me good luck and congratulations. “Thanks, see you soon,” I say. King slides into the driver’s seat and closes my window before pulling away. We’re having a baby . . . I can’t believe it.

Chapter Twenty-Four King Eight pounds and one ounce of perfection entered our world six hours later. “She’s perfect.” Tears are streaming down her flushed cheeks. The delivery was exhausting, but Holland was a champ. She’s a little shaky still from the hormones rushing through her body, so I offer to take our daughter from her so she can rest. “Of course she is, do you want me to take her?” “No, I need both of you close. Can you just come and sit next to me?” “Of course, but are you hurting?” I nod toward her belly. I have just witnessed a doctor performing what I consider to be a gruesome

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repair of Holland’s female anatomy. He assured me everything went fine and that ‘things’ will be back to normal before we know it. I don’t think I’m ever going to be back to normal after watching an entire human come out of her body. I can’t imagine how she’s sitting on her ass after all that. She’s got to be sore. She was phenomenal. She even refused an epidural when the doctors and nurses were practically insisting she have one. “Are you disappointed she’s not a boy?” she asks. “You’re kidding, right?” I raise my eyebrows and sit on the edge of the bed, wiping her tears away with a scratchy hospital tissue. “Blow,” I say and hold another tissue to her nose. “Okay, Daddy.” One corner of her mouth lifts in a mischievous smile with the double entendre, and she honks loudly into the tissue before handing it back to me.

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“Watch it now, Mommy,” I say, and when I stretch forward to toss it into the trash, she reaches out to stop me, placing her hand on my stubble covered cheek. Her eyes are serious now, and the playfulness is gone. “I mean it. I know you were looking forward to having a son.” Her eyes dart back and forth between mine, trying to read what I’m thinking. The truth is that I am so incredibly smitten with this beautiful baby girl that I couldn’t care less that she’s not a boy. I cover her hand on my cheek with mine and tell her exactly that. “Don’t ever, for a second, think that I’m disappointed. I thought she was a boy . . . I don’t know why, but she’s not, and I’m glad. Do you want to know why?” “Yes.” “Because now I have two remarkable, stunning women in my life instead of just

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one, and it doesn’t get much better than that, baby. It doesn’t get better than that.” I pull her into the crook of my neck, pressing her face against my skin so I can kiss the top of her head. She snuggles against me, holding the baby between us and trying not to smash her. “Here, let me have her,” I say, taking the little pink bundle out of her arms. I stand and turn to sit in the bed next to her. I slide one arm around her shoulders and hold the baby in my other arm so Holland can rest her head on my chest and ogle her. “It’s weird, thoughtfully.

huh?”

she

says

“Being a parent? Yeah, really weird. Doesn’t feel real yet.” “It’s gonna feel real when she’s waking us up every two hours to eat.” I feel her smile against my chest.

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“It won’t be that bad. You’ve been getting up every two hours to pee for months,” I remind her. “That’s true. What are we going to name her?” Holland alternates between tenderly stroking the baby’s cheek with the tip of her finger and running her hand along the waffled texture of the pink blanket. She’s having trouble believing this is real too. “You don’t have any girl names picked out?” I ask. “No, you were dead set on her being a boy.” “All right. Okay, do you want to name her after your mother?” “King, that’s not even funny.” “Sorry, you’re right. Speaking of your mother, did you call her and tell her you were coming to the hospital?”

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“No. She never wanted me to have her, so I figured she wouldn’t want to be a part of this.” “I think you should call. She’s your mom, baby. Don’t you think she’s gotten past the baby thing yet?” “It’s not so much the baby thing as it is the violin thing. She thinks any chance of my being a professional violinist went out the window when I decided to have a baby. She’s obsessed with my success.” “You can be successful at more than one thing, you know. I mean, your talent is larger than life. I have no doubt you’ll be famous. A baby is just a little detour on the map. You’re still going to get there, just not when you planned on it.” “When she planned on it.” “Let’s not hash this over again today of all days. We’ll deal with your mother later, but I do think you should call her and tell her

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she’s a grandma.” I smile and wink. She’s going to hate that title. “Yeah, she’s gonna love that . . . Grandma.” “Back to names—how about Destiny or Doris?” “Destiny . . . or . . . Doris?” She giggles, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I should have never mentioned her mother. “No? Okay, how about September or Marlene?” I say. Our nurse is shuffling around at the other end of the room, cleaning up after the delivery. She stops and raises her eyebrows, giving me an ‘are you nuts’ look. “September? What the heck, King, it’s February.” “Okay, February then.”

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“No, no months or seasons. Something romantic because she was born on Valentine’s Day.” “Romantic. Okay, let’s see . . .” I’ve been messing around, but now I’m really thinking. What is a romantic name for a girl? “Juliette, like from Romeo and Juliette. I know it’s a tragic story, but it was the ultimate romance, don’t you think?” “Yes, I do, and I love it. Juliette,” she says to the tiny wrinkly face sleeping in my arms. “Your name will be Juliette.” I glance up at the nurse who is finishing up, and she gives me a very approving smile before leaving the room. “Your nurse likes it too,” I say. “She’s probably just glad we didn’t name her September.” “Whatever, September’s a great name. What about a middle name?”

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“We could name her after your mama . . . wait, I don’t even know what your mama’s name was. That’s terrible, King. I’m so sorry I’ve never asked.” She props up on her elbow to look at my face and winces. “Wow, that numbing medicine is really wearing off,” she says. “I’ll get the nurse. You need some pain meds. And don’t worry about my mother’s name. You already know it.” “I do? How?” “Because I just told you, Juliette.” I kiss her again on the head before getting up to put Juliette into the bassinette. “Oh, King, your mama’s name was Juliette?” “It was her middle name. Her first was Isabelle.” “Did you think I wouldn’t like it?”

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“I wasn’t sure. People are so into weird names these days,” I say, shrugging as if naming my daughter after my mother isn’t that important, but it is. I loved my mother very much, and a big piece of me died when she died. Naming my daughter after her feels like I’m getting a little bit of her back. If Holland had shot down my suggestion, it would have stung. “Well, I love it, and just so you know, I would have named her Gertrude if it made you happy.” “Yeah? I can’t believe it. My grandma’s name was Gertrude. We can name her Juliette Gertrude Romero.” And with that, Juliette burst into tears. “She doesn’t like it, and you’re kidding, right? About the Gertrude thing?” “Yeah, just messing with ya. Why don’t we give her your middle name?”

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“Blue? Really? It’s sorta weird. I thought you didn’t like weird.” “It’s not weird, and yes, really. Let’s name her Juliette Blue Romero. It sounds perfect.” “Okay, so now that she has a name, can I take a nap?” Her big puppy dog eyes tug at my heart. “You don’t have to ask me, baby. You’ve been through a lot today. I’d say you deserve a good, long nap. You want me to call Savannah and your dad? I’ll tell them to visit tomorrow when you’re more up to it.” “Yeah, that’s good, but you’ll come back to bed with me, right?” I move to her side and take the hair tie from her wrist. I scoop her damp hair into a ponytail the way she likes it, all messy and floppy on top of her head, and secure it with the band.

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“I’ll go make the calls and tell Sebastián about the baby—he’s in the waiting room—then I’ll be back, promise.” “Pinky swear?” she asks. “Yeah, baby, pinky swear,” I say, linking pinky fingers with her again. “Great work today, champ. You were fucking amazing.” “Thanks.” She snuggles down into bed with her arms wrapped around her pillow. Her weak smile and droopy eyes tell me all I need to know. She needs some serious rest. I tuck her in and dim the lights. “Should I take her to the nursery so you can sleep?” “No, please, just roll her over here next to me.” “You sure?” “Yeah, I don’t want to be separated from her.”

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“Okay,” I say, rolling the bassinette right up next to her bed and lowering the bed rail so she can reach out and touch Juliette while she sleeps. Standing in the door of her hospital room, I watch the two of them until Holland’s heavy eyelids close and Juliette is still under her mother’s hand. They’re so beautiful that I slip out my phone and take a picture of the tender moment. Those two girls are my world. They are my responsibility, and I plan on providing them with everything they need in life to grow and flourish. After being alone in the world for the past five years, it’s an amazing feeling to have people I can call family again. “King.” Someone whispers from behind me, and I turn to see Sebastián and Candy holding hands a few feet away. I still have a hard time thinking of those two as a couple for some reason.

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I motion for them to come closer and hold my finger over my lips. “They’re sleeping,” I say, and Candy peeks around me to look at them. “Girl or boy?” Sebastián asks. “Girl,” I say. “You were wrong,” he says. Candy clasps her hands together. “A girl,” she whispers loudly. “Yep, now I have two women in my life. Here are some pictures I took earlier.” I hold out my phone to Sebastián, and he scrolls through them, his face brightening a little more with every photo. “What did you name her?” he asks. “Juliette . . . Juliette Blue Romero,” I say with just a little pride. Sebastián stops scrolling and stares at me. Candy notices the awkward stillness and compliments me on the name.

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“It’s so beautiful. Where did you come up with it?” she asks. “It was his mother’s middle name,” Sebastián answers, handing me back my phone, and I swear I see tears in his eyes before he turns abruptly and walks away. “Oh, did I say something wrong?” Candy asks. “I don’t think so. He knew my mother very well. Maybe it just brought back some memories or something,” I say for her benefit, but inside, I’m really shocked at Sebastián’s strong reaction to my naming my daughter after my mother. I thought it was a perfectly acceptable thing to do, but Sebastián seemed torn between grief and anger when I told him. “Oh, okay. Yeah, I guess you’re right. Hey, can I see those pictures now?” she asks, and I hand her my phone.

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“I’m gonna go see if he’s okay. Be right back.” I turn and head down the hall where Sebastián disappeared. When I find him, he’s in the hospital lobby, staring out the window into the dark with his hands in his pockets. I stand next to him and look out into the dark parking lot of the hospital. “You okay?” I ask “Oh yeah. Just caught me by surprise with the name is all.” “Yeah? It’s not so weird to name your kid after your mother, is it?” “No, of course not. We just all figured it was a boy. You were pretty insistent, so I figured you had the OB tell you and you were just keeping it a secret.” “Nope, I’m just as surprised as you are.”

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“Is Holland all right? Did everything go well?” “Yep, she’s great—tired as hell, but she was amazing.” I glance over and catch him swiping tears from his face. “What’s going on with you? Why the tears, old man?” I ask. “Just happy for you, that’s all, King. I never saw this coming, but I know it’s what you’ve always wanted.” “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” An ambulance speeds by the window, drawing our attention back to the parking lot with its red and blue flashing lights. I slide my hand to the back of my neck and sigh. “Now I just need to get out of this this damn business without getting us all killed.”

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Sebastián turns to look at me hard for a long time before turning to look out the dark window again. His cold, skeptical eyes drain me of the adrenaline high I’ve been riding since Holland delivered. Getting out of the drug business is proving to be much more difficult than I’d anticipated. There is no one left of the Romero family to handle the business, only me. We have the largest, most intricately orchestrated importation of illegal high quality drugs coming into the United States and Europe. The people I deal with trust me because my name is synonymous with a smooth, uncomplicated business. My father was equally feared and respected in his industry. He developed a relationship with the law in the countries he distributed to, and they trusted no one but Arturo Romero—now that he’s dead, they trust his son. They hold me to a certain standard. They expect things, demand things that only

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the Romero name can deliver. I’ve been trying to find a way out ever since I found out Holland was pregnant, but so far nobody’s budging. They want my drugs, my connections and my protection. “Go get some rest, and love on those two ladies.” Sebastián grabs me in a onearmed hug that lasts too long. He stands there squeezing me for a while, slaps my back, and then he pushes me away. The whole thing felt very foreign. Sebastián doesn’t hug. He’s not the touchy feely, chatty type at all, but then again, I’ve never had a baby either, so . . . “Thanks. I will.” “I’ve gotta go get Candy before she blows her cover. She’s a sucker for babies.” I hired Candy as my personal assistant, but Holland’s never met her, and I’d like to keep it that way for now. I found out after my flight with Candy and after Sebastián came clean about their relationship that she

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was my father’s private bookkeeper. She somehow lost her job when we restructured after my father’s death. Sebastián couldn’t help her because no one knew they were together. My father had a strict rule about mixing business with pleasure. He forbade it under any circumstances. Candy knows the drug business from the inside and she’s street smart, but she’s kind and loving and motherly . . . just the kind of person Holland would love. I need her and Juliette as far away from anyone associated with my family as possible if I am going to keep them alive. Candy’s just too close. She knows too much, and she’s an asset that enemies would love to destroy, and that’s why Sebastián is the perfect match for her. He keeps her safe. It’s also why I don’t want her associating with Holland. Back in our hospital room, I slip off my shirt and shoes, leaving my suit pants on,

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and slide in behind Holland. She doesn’t move a muscle, and her hand is still laying on a very sleepy Juliette. This might be as close to heaven as I’ll ever get, and I’m going to enjoy every second of it while I can.

Chapter Twenty-Five Holland “I have a surprise for you.” Oh brother, another surprise. He’s already given me a car this month, and last night he gave me the most beautiful platinum charm bracelet with a tiny violin covered in diamonds, a bow, and three circular charms, each with our first initial on it, H, K, and J. I’ve no idea how he managed to get a J charm for Juliette. He hasn’t left my side for a second since she was born. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had the entire alphabet of charms in one of our bags somewhere. He’s a planner. Now he has something else, and I can’t imagine what it could possibly be. Just when I’m about to find out, Mama strolls through the door and right up to Juliette’s bassinette like granny of the year.

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“How’s my sweet little angel pie today? Are you all ready to go home with Mama and Daddy? Yes, you are. I know you are.” She’s talking baby talk to my daughter . . . baby talk. My mother, who always made fun of people that baby talk to their children. She would say to speak to them like an adult, and they will speak properly to you when they grow up. Who is this woman? “Yes we’re about to go home, Gloria. I was just getting ready to talk to Holland about that. In fact, could you give us a moment?” King says. Mama nods, giving him a knowing look. “Of course! Sure, sure. I’ll wait in the hall.” She leans over Juliette’s bassinette again and makes the scariest face I’ve ever seen. “Granny will be right back, snookum wookums.” She makes big, fat kissy lips and opens her eyes wide several times before

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tweaking Juliette’s cheeks and exiting the room. “What the hell . . . no, wait. Who the hell was that?” I point at the closed door, where some deranged version of my mother just exited. “Your mom is something else, that’s for sure,” King says, rolling his eyes. What’s a snookum wookum?” “Uh, you got me. Mama doesn’t believe in baby talk, so I don’t know where the hell that came from. She seems to know something about my surprise, though, which makes me much more curious . . . and worried. You told her and not me?” King has been folding clothes and putting them back into my overnight bag while I put all the flowers and gifts onto a cart to roll out to the car. There are so many flowers from so many people, most of which I don’t know. These are expensive arrangements. Some are plants and flowers I’ve never seen

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before. King knows a lot of people, and most of them are rich and spared no expense. “Your mom had to know. I needed some help.” “Help with what? What are you up to, King?” “Well . . . I don’t think it’s appropriate for a baby to live above a nightclub. I didn’t like my pregnant girlfriend living there either, but I needed some time.” “Time?” “To build you a house.” King crosses the room and stands so close to me that I have to tip my head back to see his face, but he doesn’t touch me. “You built me a . . . a house?” I don’t know what to say. I am totally at a loss for words. “Yes.”

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I still cannot speak. He’s done some pretty elaborate things for me, but this . . . Building a house is probably nothing to King. He’s got more money than he knows what to do with. But it’s a big deal to me. I’m stunned. “Holland?” King’s big hands wrap around my arms and he gently shakes me. “You okay, baby?” I answer by nodding my head up and down as my eyes fill with hot tears. For fortyeight hours straight, I have felt like an emotionally unstable nut job. Everything makes me cry, and it’s starting to piss me off. King pulls me into his arms, and I’m surrounded by the earthy scent of his new cologne. I didn’t think he could smell better than he already did, but somehow he does. “You smell so good.” I moan against his chest and he chuckles.

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“Glad you like it. Are you okay with the house thing? I just wanted you to have a real home, ya know?” I look up at him and nod. “Yes, of course. I don’t know why I never thought about it. Actually, I haven’t thought about a lot of things, like where’s the nursery going to be, where will she go outside to play, what about clothes and diapers . . . oh my God, King, I’m going to be a terrible mama. I can’t do this. What was I thinking?” The tears that were welling in my eyes race down my cheeks, only to be followed by another set and another until I’m full on sobbing. “Hey now, stop, you’re a great mother already, baby, a natural. I never mentioned any of those things because you had so much on your plate with the pregnancy and keeping up with your practicing. But the beauty of that is that it’s all done. She has a nursery filled with everything she needs. Don’t cry, baby, come on. Let’s get outta here so I can show you.”

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When I’m done blubbering and my nose is red and sore from the scratchy hospital tissues that I’ve used way too many of, a nurse arrives to wheel us to the car. She shows us the proper way to secure Juliette’s seat in the car and how to buckle her into the seat to keep her safe. King watches her every move with narrowed eyes. He’s memorizing how to secure the baby, but he’s also being a protective daddy. His hands twitch and he instinctively leans in closer a couple of times when he thinks the nurse doesn’t have a good hold on Juliette, but of course she does. I love watching him, and I’m glad he’s paying such close attention, because I haven’t heard a word the nurse has said. She, however, has been very attentive to King, answering all of his questions and encouraging him to try the buckles himself, which coincidently brings him into the back seat, brushing up against her. King is

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oblivious, though he only has eyes for Juliette and me. I love it when he makes that abundantly clear, planting a passionate kiss on my mouth right as nurse flirty pants finishes up with the baby. I swear I heard her tsk as she walked away, pushing my wheelchair. With Juliette all buckled in, Mama closes the trunk and slides into the front passenger seat next to King, and I ease myself into the back next to Juliette. “We’re going home, little miss,” I say, watching her scrunch up her little face and stick out her bottom lip. I can’t believe how much love I feel for this tiny human that I’ve only known for two days. It’s overwhelming. So many things are changing, and they aren’t little things either. They’re major things like adding a person to my family, driving, and now moving. It’s probably weird, but I’m going to miss the apartment. It’s where I had my first experience with

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King and where I spent most of my pregnancy. I also made friends with several waitresses and bartenders when I was bored and King was working in the club. I’d sit at the bar just outside the apartment and drink virgin drinks that my favorite bartender, Samantha, invented just for me. Everyone was nice, of course, because King is their boss, but Samantha and James were genuine. They really seemed to take an interest in me. James worked opposite shifts from Samantha, but James and I didn’t get a lot of time to chat. King was always suddenly done working and ready to go back to the apartment when James and I were talking. “Are you excited, baby? Wait until you see the nursery. I’ve had such a fun time decorating it. I mean, when you don’t have a budget, everything is fun. I didn’t know she was going to be a girl, of course, so I started with grey and chose pink and teal accents for a girl’s room and yellow and navy for a boy. I went by this morning and added all the little

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girly things and oh, it’s just precious.” My mama is gushing about a baby room for a baby she never wanted me to have. Something is seriously wrong here. No way did she suddenly decide having a grandbaby was the best idea in the world. Something’s up. “Mama.” “Yeah, sweetie, what?” “Why are you so excited about the baby and her room? You wanted me to have an abortion, remember? You didn’t want a granddaughter. You wanted a professional violinist.” She looks at King, but his eyes never leave the road. “Holland, baby, I think your mother is trying to make amends.” His eyes say ‘hush’ when they meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Holland, I never said I wanted you to have an abortion. I was just disappointed that you couldn’t go to Juilliard.”

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“Okay, whatever, mama.” I lean down and whisper to Juliette “I swear your dreams will always be just that . . . your dreams.” She struggles to keep her little eyes open, but she can’t, and she’s out again. This kid sleeps a lot. Twenty minutes later, we are driving down a lovely street with established trees and large Victorian homes. I thought King said he built the house, not that I mind. I love every single house on this block. The ride has been uncomfortable and quiet since I confronted Mama about her newfound interest in Juliette, but I’ve decided not to start anything, so I keep quiet. While gazing at Juliette, I feel the car turn into the driveway of our new home. Just like the rest of the houses on the block, this one is a picture perfect Victorian home with an enormous wraparound porch, an octagon shaped column on one side, angular rooftops, and scalloped siding. When the car pulls to a stop under a stone carport covered in lavender

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Bougainvillea Spectabilis vines, I cover my mouth with my hand. It’s a total southern fairytale. It wouldn’t surprise me at all to see little winged creatures fluttering around in the garden, dancing on flower petals and playing hide and seek. King turns around and stretches his lean, muscular forearm across the back of the passenger seat. “So, what do ya think?” I drop my hand into my lap. “I think . . . I think I don’t know what to think . . .” “That’s good, though, right?” “Yes, very good.” “Okay, let’s go inside. I’ll get the baby. You go ahead with your mom.” “Wait, I thought you said you built the house.” “I did. It’s an exact replica of the one that used to be here. The original home

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needed so much work that it was more cost effective to tear it down and rebuild, but the house was so beautiful that I only changed a few minor things.” King reaches into the back seat to help me out while Mama scurries up the steps to the porch. I follow at a slower pace because a) I’m sore and b) I don’t want to be around her without King. When I look back, King is sliding the car seat from its base like a pro. I stop and wait for him to catch up, which takes all of three steps with his long legs. When he reaches me, he leans over and kisses my forehead, nudging me to walk in front of him. Mama opens the door with fanfare while I make my way up the steps onto the porch. To my right, a porch swing softly sways in the breeze, and I imagine sitting there with Juliette some afternoon in the summer, with the scent of the spring flowers

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heavy in the air. I love this place already, and I haven’t even stepped inside. When I do, there is a cozy sitting room with a small fireplace and sofa right inside the front door. At the far end of the room is the turret I saw from the driveway. In the center of the circular area is a baby grand piano surrounded by floor to ceiling windows that flood the room with warm natural light. Next to the piano is a music stand and my violin, ready and waiting for me to start practicing. I’ll bet Mama had a lot to do with that space. I only have time to blink twice, and she’s already made her way over there, trailing her hand along the keys of the piano. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The perfect place to practice.” The way she stands there, clasping her hands together in front of her chest with her voice all breathy makes me sick. I’m starting to really dislike my own mama.

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King’s hand on my elbow eases the tension building in my chest, but only a bit. He squeezes, gently reminding me that I haven’t answered her. “Yeah, Mama . . . pretty.” Her face falls for a moment, but she recovers quickly . . . too quickly. It’s weird. She smiles a wild smile and moves toward the back of the house. “Let’s go look at the kitchen,” she says with a quick hop and a clap. She’s even more bizarre than usual today. When I look at King, he shakes his head and gestures for me to follow her. It’s hard to appreciate the beauty of the house when all I can think about is Mama’s mental stability. I’m going to do my best to ignore Mama and pay close attention to the details that King put into our house. There is a common color scheme of soft yellow and beige

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and different shades of brown that flows into the kitchen and a more formal living room area toward the back of the house. The kitchen is furnished with every modern amenity, but they are included in a way that they don’t look out of place in a classical Victorian home. I love the charming breakfast area and the French doors that open onto a patio, where a swimming pool is covered with a thick blue tarp. “A pool?” My breath lightly fogs the glass of the window, where I hang my fingertips from a muntin in the French doors as King sidles up next to me. “I know pools are dangerous, but hear me out . . . this one has a top of the line mesh cover that can only be opened and closed with a code, and it has a motion sensor alarm that will go off everywhere in the house if she even so much as toddles close to it.” King stands shoulder to shoulder with me. He’s adorable. I wish Mama weren’t

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here so I could kiss him and smooth the worry mark from between his eyes with my thumb. His eyes are full of expectation as he brushes the back of his knuckles against my cheek. He’s waiting for my verdict on the pool. I tilt my face into his hand and he cups my face. “I trust you to keep us safe.” He pulls me into his bubble of positive energy, and I don’t give a damn anymore if Mama is in the room with us or not. My mouth molds to his when our lips meet as he presses a kiss once, twice, three times before my heart begins to race and I slide my tongue against his. “Ahem . . .” Mama clears her throat from behind us. King pulls away, and I hold onto his shirt to keep him close, but he shakes his head again while smoothing my hair away from my face and mouths the word later.

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What the hell is going on around here anyway? I frown, and he rubs the pad of his thumb between my eyes the way I wanted to do for him earlier. He takes my hand and we silently walk from room to room, with King carrying the car seat and Mama in tow. The house is so incredibly beautiful and the attention to detail is remarkable. I can’t believe he did this for me, for us. How is it that he knows me so well after less than a year together? This house suits me perfectly. It’s warm and welcoming and spacious, but not obnoxiously so. It’s intimate enough for a small family like us, but large enough to entertain a few people if we wanted to. Everywhere I look, there are things of mine—books, photographs, trinkets, and knickknacks—placed here and there to make me feel at home. My head is starting to ache. I really need to lie down.

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“King, can you show me our bedroom? I don’t feel the greatest all of a sudden.” Concern clouds his face. “What’s wrong, baby?” He sets the baby’s seat down and turns to cradle my face in his hands. Narrowing his eyes, I swear he’s trying to see what’s going on in my brain. “Just a headache I think. Probably from all the excitement.” I smile weakly at him and catch Mama out of the corner of my eye watching us. “Come here.” King scoops me into his arms and carries me up the beautiful winding oak staircase. “What about Juliette? I don’t want to leave her with Mama,” I whisper into his ear. “It’s all right, I’ll get you into bed and go back for her. Savannah is coming over later to give us some time alone. We need to talk about your mother.”

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I rest my head against his chest and nibble on my bottom lip. I wonder how that conversation is going to go. I’m excited to see Savannah. She visited in the hospital, but between all the oohs and ahhs, we didn’t really have a chance to talk. She brought her mama, and for the first time since Savannah’s daddy took off, she looked happy, healthy, maybe even a little content—quite the opposite of my own mama right now, who is frayed around the edges and losing her mind. At the top of the stairs, there is a landing that splits off in two directions. King veers to the right, down to the end of the hall and into the master bedroom. I lift my head from his chest and squint in the bright sunlight of the room. My headache is getting worse. The sun’s rays feel like a thousand swords piercing my brain via my eyeballs. “Can you close the curtains? My head is killing me.”

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He lays me down like glass, and I sink into the feathery soft bed. The room blurs when I try to look around, so I close my eyes and listen to him lower the blinds and pull the curtains shut. When I no longer see a glow on the inside of my lids, I open my eyes and scan the darkened room. King is standing by an octagonal bay window next to a cushioned window seat. Soft, teal colored curtains block most of the sunlight. Even in the dark, I can’t seem to stop fidgeting. This headache is a bitch. “Holland, are you sure this is just a headache? I’ve never known you to have headaches, especially one this bad.” He’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, holding my hand. “Go get the baby, please, I don’t know what’s going on with my mama, but I don’t feel right leaving her alone with Juliette.” He hesitates, trying to decide which is the lesser of two evils—leaving me alone with

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this headache or leaving his baby with my harebrained mama. I’m relieved when he chooses Juliette and stands to leave, but Mama is already at the door holding my baby. She’s taken her out of her car seat and carried her up the stairs, a simple task that anyone could do, but bells and whistles are going off in my head, warning me to keep her away from my baby. Mother’s intuition . . . so that’s what it feels like. “She was starting to fuss. I thought maybe she needed to eat.” “Thank you, Gloria, I’ll take her.” When King holds out his arms and Mama places Juliette in his hands, my anxiety level drops from high to guarded on the homeland security system scale. “Holland isn’t feeling well. Would you mind getting her bag?”

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“Yes, of course,” she says, hustling out of the room. King returns to sit on the bed next to me with Juliette. “Do you think the pain medication they gave you for cramping would help your headache?” I close my eyes and take a deep breath in through my nose and blow it out. My pulse is pounding in my ears and I’m feeling nauseous. “I don’t know, but I’ll try it.” “Do you want to feed her, or should I get a bottle?” I want nothing more than to curl up around my little pink bundle of love, but God, my head. “I . . . I think I . . . no, King, I’m scared, something isn’t right. I’m having trouble seeing and I feel really weird.” I close my eyes again and clutch King’s thigh. I’m going to vomit, this feels like the morning

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after I met King, when I was hungover and the room was spinning, but this is worse, much worse. “Okay, hold on. Let me put the baby down.” Put the baby down, down . . .down . . . where is that again? I don’t know this place. Where am I? Where is he putting my baby? A zing of electricity begins in my feet and travels up my legs at the speed of light, bringing a wave of fear with it that I’ve never felt. “King, call—”

King,

something’s

wrong,

Chapter Twenty-Six King She’s seizing. I’ve never seen someone have a seizure in person, but there’s no doubt in my mind that’s what’s happening. “Gloria. Call 911 now.” Damn it, what do I do? Juliette is crying. I startled her when I yelled, but she’s safe in her bassinette and I can’t worry about her right now. I kneel on the bed next to Holland and roll her onto her side. Her body is jerking uncontrollably. I rack my brain, trying to think what you’re supposed to do when someone seizes. “What’s goin . . . oh my God.” Gloria enters the room, already on the phone with 911, to find out why she’s calling them.

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“What’s wrong with her?” “I don’t know. Tell them she’s having a seizure and to come to 2112 Sweetwater Lane right away. And tell them she just had a baby two days ago.” Holland’s body twists until her face is smashed into the pillow as she convulses. I slide the pillow out from under her and press the mattress away from her mouth and nose so she can breathe, but her skin is ashy and her lips are blue. Fuck, what is going on? After what seems like an eternity, her stiff muscles begin to relax. “Holland? Holland, baby, are you okay?” Stupid question. Of course she’s not okay. I can’t even tell if she’s breathing. Check her pulse, check her pulse . . . I press my fingers against the side of her neck and wait until I feel a weak, slow beat, thank God. “Baby, please open your eyes. Come on, Holland, can you hear me?” I shake her gently and pat her cheek, but just when I

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think she might be coming around, her body stiffens again. “No, no, no. This isn’t happening.” Gloria is moving around behind me, crying and talking to the 911 dispatcher while Juliette screams bloody murder in her bassinette. This is not how this day was supposed to go. I keep Holland on her side and watch and wait. Five hundred years and three long seizures later, I hear the sirens of an ambulance coming down the street. My heart is overwhelmed with dread. I can’t lose her. Gloria scrambles down the stairs to let the paramedics inside. “Upstairs to the right, at the end of the hall. Hurry, please!” she yells. Holland’s body is still and quiet. The seizures have stopped, or maybe she’s between them. I don’t know. Someone is

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kneeling beside me . . . the paramedic, thank God. “Sir, how long has she been unresponsive? Does she have a known seizure disorder?” “No, and I don’t know how long it’s been.” I turn my head parallel to Holland’s body and look at my watch that is on the arm holding her on her side. “We got home thirty minutes ago. I brought her upstairs fifteen or twenty minutes after that, and we were only here for a couple of minutes before she started doing this.” “Greg, she’s been seizing for at least ten minutes.” The paramedic next to me tells his partner. “Not constantly, though. She’s had three episodes with a minute or two in between.”

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“Okay, good, thank you . . . what’s your name?” “King.” The man pauses, as most people do when I introduce myself. It’s a weird name. “Okay, King, I’m going to need to examine her. Could you let me squeeze in there?” “You have to help her, don’t let her die.” “You’ve got it, buddy. I’ll take good care of her. Now, can you tell me a couple of things like—how old is she?” “Twenty.” “Is that her baby with the set of lungs back there?” “Our baby, yes.” I watch his partner crawl across the other side of the bed and start an IV, but I can’t move. My hands ache from holding her in place.

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“Oh okay, so ya’ll are new parents. That’s awesome. What’s her name?” “Holland.” “Does Holland have any medical conditions, asthma, blood clotting disorders, heart problems?” “No, no. She’s healthy. She just had a baby, everything went fine until we got home today,” I say, prying my eyes from her face for a moment to let this guy know how irritated I’m getting. I realize he’s trying to keep me calm, but he’s pissing me the fuck off. I wish he would just shut the hell up and help her. “B/P’s 187/98. She’s coming around,” Greg says to my friendly paramedic. “Alright, let’s get her loaded up. We need to get her to the hospital. King, do you think you could let go of her for just a minute while we get her on a gurney?”

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I grit my teeth when he puts his hand on my shoulder. She’s improving, though, so I stand and move out of their way while they slide her limp body onto the gurney. She looks so small and helpless. I wish they would just let me carry her downstairs. “What hospital do you want us to take her to?” Greg asks. “St. Mary’s, that’s where she delivered. Her doctor is Dr. Glock.” “Do you want to follow us with the baby, King?” Friendly asks. No, I don’t want to fucking follow them. I don’t want to leave her side, but I don’t have much choice. I can’t leave Gloria here with Juliette. Savannah rushes into the bedroom, jerking to a halt when she sees Holland being loaded onto a stretcher. “What’s going on?” She covers her mouth with a trembling hand as the gurney makes a loud click when they lift it from the

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ground. I grab Holland’s bag from the floor where Gloria dropped it earlier and follow the paramedics with Savannah on my heels. “How much do you know about babies?” I ask her. “Uh . . . what? Why? Hey, what’s wrong with her?” She yanks on my shirt as we walk. “I don’t know, Savannah. She’s having seizures and they’re taking her to the hospital. I want to ride with them, but I need you to take care of the baby for me. Can you do that?” “Um well . . . yeah.” Everyone pauses at the top of the stairs as they adjust the gurney to fit around the corner. “What about her mama? Can’t she watch the baby? I mean, I used to babysit a lot, but Juliette’s so new . . . and tiny and stuff.”

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“Gloria isn’t stable, Savannah, she’s having some sort of breakdown. I can’t leave the baby with her. You have to stay with Juliette,” I whisper so Gloria won’t hear me. Her eyes fill with tears, and she swiftly wipes them away. She glances at the paramedics and back at me with wide, concerned eyes. “Yes, okay. Yeah, of course, go ahead. I’ll figure it out and I’ll call my mama and have her come and help me. Is she gonna be okay? Like, you don’t think she’s gonna . . .” Her voice trails off and I place my finger against her lips. “Stop, she’s going to be fine. She has to be.” “King?” Holland murmurs from the bottom of the stairs. “Hey there, Holland, can you open your eyes for us?” Greg asks as I take the stairs two at a time to catch up.

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“Hey, baby, I’m right here, I’m not leaving you. How are you feeling?” She reaches her pale hand under the rail of the gurney, and I take it in both of mine as we roll down the sidewalk to the ambulance waiting in the street. Our new neighbors are milling around their yards and on the sidewalk watching us, probably wondering what the heck kind of people have to be toted off to the hospital the day they move in. Her eyelids droop. “I’m so tired.” Juliette cries inside the house. “The baby, who’s with the baby?” “It’s all right, Savannah’s here and she’s calling her mother to come help her.” Her body collapses back onto the stretcher and she sighs, closing her eyes again. Gloria appears and announces that Savannah and her mother are going to watch

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the baby, like it’s all her idea, and that she will follow in her car. “That’s fine, Gloria. We’ll see you there,” I call over my shoulder, climbing into the back of the ambulance. She turns to head to her car and hesitates before turning back around. “I really should ride with her, you know. I’m her mother, after all.” My fists ball at my side, and I look her straight in the eyes just before the doors are closed. “She wants me, Gloria . . . me, not you.” She gasps and the doors close. Fuck, I should have kept my big mouth shut. She’s crazier than a rat trapped in a tin shithouse. I hold Holland’s hand and use my other hand to text Savannah. I’m serious about Gloria. Don’t trust her around the baby. I may have just stirred up a hornet’s nest, so stay out of her way.

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Juliette has breast milk in the tan bag on the kitchen table. She’s hungry and stressed. See if you can feed her and calm her down while you wait for your mom. Holland’s awake. I’ll text you when we find out what’s wrong. Call me for anything. *** “Eclampsia? What’s that?” Savannah asks when I call to give her an update. “Apparently, it’s a disease women get when they’re pregnant. It usually begins during pregnancy, but she never had any of the typical symptoms.” “But she’s not even pregnant anymore,” she says, and I hear Juliette squeaking in the background. The sound makes my chest ache, she’s two days old, and I’ve already left her in someone else’s hands. My dad was never there for me until I could be of use to him in the business. I will not be that Dad. Holland will always come first before anyone else on earth. She will always be

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my top priority, with Juliette being a close second. There shouldn’t be a hierarchy for love, but for me, there is no question. It’s God, Holland, Juliette, and everything else, period. “The doctor says that sometimes it comes on after the baby is born. There’s no real cause, but it’s more prevalent in older women and teens.” “Ah, okay. Well how is she now?” “Better. They’re giving her medication in her IV to keep her blood pressure down. She’s resting. The seizures took a lot out of her.” “Um, okay, well do you know when you’re going to be coming home? I mean, we can stay and all, but I have to work tomorrow, and Juliette’s gonna need more to eat.” “I’ll talk to the nurses, but I think it would be okay to bring the baby down here.

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If you can stay a couple of more hours, I’ll be back to get her.” “Okay, sure, no problem. Take your time. Mama and I are having fun, so no hurry.” “Thank you, Savannah. You have no idea how much you and your mother have helped.” “Anything for you guys. So . . . is Gloria there?” “Yes.” She’s sitting across from me on the other side of Holland’s bed. She looks like any normal, attentive mother. “Oh, you can’t talk, huh?” “No, not right now.” “Okay, we’ll see you later then.” “I won’t be long. Take good care of my girl.” “You too,” she says.

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I smile and press end. Thank God Holland has such a good friend.

Chapter Twenty-Seven Holland After one week in the hospital and one week home, I think I’m getting the hang of this mothering thing . . . sort of. King, of course, surpassed me right away in the parenting department when he had to juggle a newborn and a sick girlfriend. He worked hard, balancing the baby’s needs with mine, giving me time to rest and time to bond with our princess. I fall in love with that man more and more every day. “Here, let me take her so you can get some practice time in, Mommy.” I shift Juliette from one arm to the other and smile up at him from the plush rocker in her nursery. “I can do it later. She’s wide awake right now. I want to spend time with her.”

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Truth is, I have never wanted to play the violin less in my life. Before Juliette and King, my life was all music all the time, but now that I have a family to take care of, I have no desire to play. “You sure? You haven’t played in weeks.” “I know, and I will. I’m just a little tired. Don’t worry, I’ll get back to it, I promise.” He hesitates, narrowing his eyes. “Are you sure you’ll be okay here alone for a few hours? I can cancel if you need help.” “No, I’m fine. Go on, get out of here—but kiss me first.” King is dressed in a suit for the first time in weeks. He has a ‘business meeting’ this afternoon. I don’t ask for details because I don’t want to know. He looks so handsome in his black suit, with his dark waves combed back and clean cut face—irresistible, really. One of our agreements when we decided to keep our baby

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was that I wouldn’t give up going to Juilliard. The other was that he would get out of the drug business. He’s been working on his end of the bargain for months now, and I haven’t done a thing about getting back to playing. If I stay quiet about his end of the deal, maybe he will forget about mine. Anyway, the less I know, the better. As for Juilliard, King wants to live in his penthouse in New York during the school year and come back to Texas when I’m on breaks until I graduate. All of that seemed like a good plan until this little bundle of sweetness looked up at me with King’s big brown eyes and stole my heart. Having eclampsia scared the shit out of me. Hell, the whole experience of having a baby scared me so much that I’m thinking Juliette will be an only child. Being sick taught me that life is fragile and unpredictable. Anything can happen. You never know when your time is up, so I want to spend as much of it with King and Juliette as possible.

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I can’t imagine going to Juilliard or playing in the New York Philharmonic Orchestra now. There may have to be some revisions made to our original plan. I know King’s not going to like the idea of me putting school on hold indefinitely. He had to do some fast talking and probably donate a hefty sum of money to keep my spot open this year. He still thinks that my lifelong dream is to play the violin professionally, but Juliette and King turned my dreams upside down. The only dream I have now is to spend my life loving the two most important people in my world. King bends to press his lips against mine, and without breaking the kiss, he kneels down in front of me and places his hands on either side of my face. Lost in the fog that surrounds us in these moments, I lace my fingers behind his neck and into his hair with my free hand and prepare to be swept away until a certain little someone begins to squirm and fuss. The fog lifts as we

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turn our attention to Juliette, and I swear she knows what she’s doing. As soon as she has us sucked into her baby euphoria, she stills and starts cooing. Stinker. “Always stealing the show, aren’t you, little lady?” I snuggle her closer and touch my finger to the tip of her nose. “Look, she’s smiling.” “She probably has gas.” We watch her until she scrunches up her face and starts to turn red, followed by a squishy furrp. We burst into laughter. Ah, the joys of parenthood. “That’s my girl. Told ya . . . gas,” he says. “Yeah, guess so. When will you be home?” I stand, and he follows me to the changing table.

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“In a couple of hours. Shouldn’t take long. We’re meeting at the club and then—” I hold up my hand, gesturing him to stop. “No, no, I don’t want to know. Just go and come back safe. I love you.” “You’re sure you’re okay?” “Yes, King, I’m fine. Ugh, go.” He rolls his eyes before he disappears down the hall, only to poke his head back in a second later to ask me one last time if I’m sure I’ll be alright. Some things will never change. I sigh and shake my head, listening for the door to close downstairs. When he’s gone and I’m finished changing Juliette, we head downstairs. I look out the window and find myself wishing it were warmer outside. The porch swing looks inviting, but the March air is still too cool for sitting outside.

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If we sat in the turret, it would feel like we were outside, but when I see the piano and my violin sitting silently in the sunlight, my stomach drops. I feel guilty not practicing or playing at all lately, but I’m busy, damn it. I’m supposed to be focusing on my baby, aren’t I? Not according to Mama. She’s been over here every day reminding me of how many hours and minutes it’s been since I’ve practiced. She’s totally obsessed. One day, I wanted to throw my violin at her and tell her to go become a professional musician herself. She actually brought it up to my bedroom while I was feeding Juliette and tried to swap me. I had to remind her that I was breastfeeding and she couldn’t exactly do that for me. That was a week ago. I told her I’d call if I needed her, and I don’t, so I haven’t.

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Back upstairs, Juliette and I curl up in the center of our king-sized bed on top of the soft teal comforter. King decorated the house to suit me . . . no royal gold bathrooms here. Nope, just lots of open, airy spaces. He had the decorators use a soft color palette of yellows and greys throughout the first floor, and upstairs in Juliette’s room, a darker grey that we have added pink accents to now that we know she’s a girl. Our room is my favorite, though, with round top windows surrounding a window seat, crown molding and hardwood flooring, with a large, white rug in the center under our bed. The teal bedding was chosen with me in mind, and it ties in beautifully with the teal and silver wallpaper on the accent wall behind our bed. The room also boasts a fireplace with a mantel covered in my belongings and at first, empty picture frames. I’ve already filled over half of them with photos of Juliette and King. An hour later, when Juliette is asleep, I slide my arm out from under her and scoot

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off the bed. I sit behind the desk that King has set up in our room so that he can work from home. I pick through the organized folders until I find what I’m looking for, my Juilliard letter of acceptance. I’ve looked at it every day this week trying to decide what to do. It’s only March, but I need to make a decision. I know for sure I can’t go to school this fall. There is no way I can be the mother I want to be while going to Juilliard and traveling for performances. The schedule is grueling. But I still have some soul searching to do about whether or not I want to go at all. I could wait a few years until Juliette is in kindergarten, but would they take me then? Probably not. And cue the tears. Everything makes me cry lately, which is probably why King is so freaked out about leaving me alone. As with all things pregnancy related, he has read up on postpartum depression, and he follows me around with a Kleenex box trying to make everything all better. The

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problem is that there usually isn’t anything to make better. I cry when I see a baby bird on the edge of the deck outside or when the mailman is late. Last night, I cried when a detective solved a mystery on television. I love him for it. I love him for a million reasons, and that makes me cry too. I abandon the letter when my little peanut starts to squirm and cry. I gather her up and we have a good old cry together, swaying back and forth in front of the bay window.

Chapter Twenty-Eight King My meeting with the new distributors didn’t go well. I’ve made it clear I want to step down, but these men are new and untrusting. They are the men replacing the key distributors who were murdered in my club almost a year ago, and they have no interest in dealing with a stranger. As powerful as I am, I have a major weakness, two of them, in fact, and they know it. It’s ironic that when I was alone, there was nothing anyone could do to me to make me stay. I could have walked away at any time, but I didn’t have a reason to. Now that I do, I’m stuck. There is no hope of leaving unless they all accept it and trust my successor, and after today, I don’t ever see that happening. They won’t hesitate to kidnap and murder my family if I step down. It happened to a

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close friend and business associate of my father’s, Hector Morales. He wanted to retire and spend his twilight years with his family. He got his wish, but instead of resting comfortably on the beach sipping tropical drinks, he and his entire family are resting in the cold ground. If I stay, they are in the constant danger of being close to the dark world of drug trafficking. If I go, they seek revenge by murdering my family. It’s a lose-lose situation. I can’t keep them safe unless we disappear, and we can’t disappear because Holland can’t live her life looking over her shoulder, especially if she is going to pursue her career. Making everyone happy in this situation is laughably impossible. “Home to the club or the house?” Sebastián asks. Sebastián is driving today so I can work while we are on the road. We took Holland’s car, and the back seat smells like my

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two favorite ladies. It’s making me miss them. “The house.” Holland is sick of me checking in with her today, but that’s too bad. The doctor informed us that she should be fine from here on out, but after witnessing her seizure, I’m wary of leaving her alone. Today was important, though and no one was available to drop by. Until today, I’ve been able to arrange for family and friends to nonchalantly stop by when I need to leave so she’s never alone. I’m pretty sure Holland caught on, but she hasn’t called me out on it yet. “King.” “Yes?” “I have a proposition for you.” “All right . . . shoot.” It isn’t like Sebastián to offer propositions, so I set my work aside and listen.

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“How would you feel about letting me take over the business? I’ve been around since the beginning, and I know how your father ran things. The distributors might trust me, and it would be a hell of a lot easier than finding someone new or making a new identity for your family.” “I have thought about that, but Sebastián, you have a family too. I didn’t think you would want them in harm's way.” “No one has to know. I can handle everything, and you could show your face occasionally to keep everyone at ease. And don’t worry about my family. I can take care of my own.” “Who’s going to be in charge of security? I could never trust anyone as much as I trust you. You’re as good as family.” “I can do both if I have a little help. I’d still be in charge of you and Holland and Juliette, of course, but some of the work I can delegate.”

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“I don’t see another way around it. Holland and I need to leave for New York in four months. I have to get this all settled, and frankly, I was beginning to think it was hopeless.” “You sure she’s still going to want to go?” I snap my laptop shut and set it on the seat next to me. “Yes, of course she’s still going. I’m not going to let having a baby disrupt her dreams.” “What anymore?”

if

that’s

not

her

dream

“Sebastián, do you know something I don’t? Because I’m starting to feel like you do.” He’d better tell me what’s on his mind, and Holland had better not be telling him she isn’t going to Juilliard. She knows it’s not negotiable.

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“No, she hasn’t said anything. I just know from experience that women change their minds a lot, and having a baby changes everything.” “Not this, I won’t allow it. Her entire life has been dedicated to playing professionally, and she’s too talented to let it go to waste. I refuse to be the reason she quits.” Sebastián is skeptical. He looks at me in the rearview mirror with raised brows. I don’t want anything to stand in the way of Holland playing in the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. If I have to take the baby and sit outside her classrooms so she can see her every hour, I will. I’ll hire a nanny—no, not just a nanny, the best fucking nanny ever. I’ll do anything to make going to Juilliard easier for her. She’s She has this er’s interest filling her

started doubting her dreams. idea in her head that her mothin her future is her way of fulown dreams of becoming a

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professional musician. I disagree. The moment I heard her play—no, the moment I saw her play—it was obvious. She’s special, gifted, a jewel the world shouldn’t be denied. “Just let me out here and take the car around to the garage. I want to check on Holland.” “You’ve been doing nothing but since we left the house, King. She’s fine.” I shoot Sebastián a ‘mind your own fucking business, or you won’t have any business to mind’ look as I exit the car. He may want to take over the business, but I’ll always be the boss. “Holland, where are you?” I call out as soon as I get the door open. “Shush.” She’s standing at the top of the staircase, holding one finger over her lips. “I just got her to sleep.” “Just now? She was awake a long time.”

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“Well, I may have had a little to do with that.” I lean my shoulder against the doorframe and admire her. She’s beautiful today. She’s beautiful every day, but being with the baby seems to bring a special light to her eyes and a bounce in her step. The blue in her dress causes her eyes to be a clear blue grey, like the ocean on a calm day, but my favorite part of this dress is the way it shows off her shapely legs. She slowly descends the stairs, dragging her fingers along the bannister until she is standing right in front of me. She lifts up onto her tiptoes and kisses me hello. “Hey.” “Hey. Anything exciting happen while I was gone?” “Does a poopy diaper count as exciting?”

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“No, it does not.” I slide one hand into her hair and another around her waist. She’s back into her pre-pregnancy clothes already, and she insisted on beginning a workout regimen before her six-week appointment to see the obstetrician, but after her illness I said absolutely not. We ended up compromising on yoga and walking . . . slowly, and never alone. “So the baby is sleeping.” “Mmmhmm” She trails her finger along the side of my face, looking at me with her big, innocent eyes. “And nobody’s home.” “Nope, not a soul.” A wicked smile spreads across her face. “Wanna play around?” I know sex is off the table for now—sex . . . table . . . hmm . . . this is going to be a long four weeks—but nothing says we can’t do some heavy petting.

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“Play around how?” More pretend innocence rings in her voice. She has my tie, and she’s wrapping it around her hand as she turns so her backside is against my front, my very hard front. I moan when she dips her knees slightly, and using my tie as leverage, she rubs that fine ass of hers against my throbbing cock. Just as I’m thinking this afternoon is looking up, a cry comes from a baby monitor on the table next to the couch and I am released. “Sorry.” She turns to apologize with an adorable pout on her lips. “It’s okay. Well it’s not okay,” I say, looking at my cock straining against my suit pants and then into her eyes. “You can make it up to us later.” I wink and she blushes. I love that I can still make her do that. “I’ll go get her. You go get some practice time in.”

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Her face falls, and she looks at the violin on the piano bench across the room. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to play, and that concerns me. We had a deal. “Baby, you need to practice. It’s been weeks. What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without playing?” She worries her bottom lip, and I see even more signs of her discontent with her music. Her shoulders sag and she crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ve never gone a day without practicing.” Her soft admission doesn’t surprise me. I had a hunch she’d never missed a day. This is bad. “So why haven’t you been playing?” “King, I told you. I’m not sure playing the violin has ever been my dream. I think it’s my mama’s.” “Bullshit.”

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Her head snaps in my direction. “What?” “You heard me, that’s bullshit. Yeah, your mom’s nuts and she went too far suggesting the abortion, but your talent cannot be wasted. You told me once yourself that music is a part of you and without it you’d die. I believe that.” “Well I don’t. Not anymore. And while we’re on the subject, I don’t want to go to New York or Juilliard anymore. I want to stay here with you and Juliette.” She can’t even look at me when she says it. She’s been talking to the wall just over my shoulder. I move to the left so she has to look at me. “Holland, we had a deal. You have the baby and go to school, and I get out of the drug business.”

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“You haven’t kept up your end of the deal either. You had a meeting with your drug people just today.” “That’s different, I’m working on it. Things like this don’t happen overnight. It’s tricky, but at least I haven’t given up. She blinks, and one lone tear slides down her cheek, reminding me of the hormones, the crying and the tissues . . . Lord, the woman has gone through a lot of tissue in the past two weeks. I’d be smart to invest in the Kleenex company. “I can’t do it. I want to be there for every little thing she does, all the milestones and the things she’s going to learn. If I go to school, I’ll miss it all. She won’t know who her mama is.” Now the dam breaks hard and fast. She sobs as I gather her in my arms and carry her upstairs, where the little career hijacker is crying almost as hard as her mother.

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But I know Juliette isn’t the real hijacker. I am. I knew there was a slim chance she would feel this way, but I kept telling myself that her love of music was too strong for her to quit. I was wrong, and now I have to help make it right. Maybe she just needs a couple of more weeks to work through this postpartum depression and she’ll change her mind. I lay Holland on our bed while she looks anxiously at the bassinet, but I ignore Juliette for just a second to tend to Holland. Babies don’t die from crying for a few minutes, and I should know. ‘What to Expect’ says so. I cover Holland’s legs and hand her one of the many boxes of tissue I have strategically placed all over the house. I pluck a few and wipe her tears away before I pick up the baby. Her tiny, sweet face is screwed up tight and she’s bright red. She’s pissed, but when I put her into Holland’s

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arms, she is instantly quiet, nuzzling against her breast. Lucky kid. “I’m going to see about some dinner. I’ll be right back. Can I get you anything?” She sniffles loudly and wipes her nose with her free hand. “No, I’m fine.” “I’ll bring you a bottle of water and a snack anyway. Stay put.” “I’m not going anywhere,” she says, looking me straight in the eye to make sure I understand the double meaning of her response. Two weeks. I’m giving her two weeks to change her mind. I’m also giving myself two weeks to figure out what to do about my business. There has to be a way that we can all live safely and Holland can still pursue her dream. There has to be.

Chapter Twenty-Nine Holland Well, at least now he knows. I wasn’t really sure until he confronted me about it, and then it was crystal. I’m living my life for King and Juliette now, not my music. People change. They grow and try new things, and becoming a mother and adding a member to your family is number fourteen on the Holmes and Rahe stress scale. I looked it up. King isn’t the only one doing research on postpartum depression, pregnancy, and babies. I snuggle down into the bed and daydream about our little family—Juliette’s first words, her first steps, first birthday, so many firsts that I can’t possibly focus enough on Juliette with the grueling schedule at school, and then what? When I graduate, the real problems start, like traveling all over the

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world with the orchestra when Juliette would be starting kindergarten. No, it’s not going to happen. I’ve made the right decision, I’m sure of it.

Chapter Thirty King Three weeks later, things weren’t coming together with my associates, and Holland hasn’t budged on her decision to ditch the best music school in the country. Word has spread that I’m settling down. I know how they operate. We don’t have much time. Their supply is being threatened, and I’ve seen this happen before. Hector Morales was the last big supplier who tried to leave, and his entire family was slaughtered. The thick vein of drugs I supply is the lifeline of the three main cartel leaders in Mexico. No one else in the world has my connection. My supplier refuses to trust anyone but me. Romero blood equals unequivocal trust, and I’m the last one alive to bleed it.

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I have no choice. I don’t see any other way to keep her alive and allow her to fulfill her destiny of being a world-renowned violinist. My decision will break hearts and hurt the people I love most, but it will also give Holland her life back, literally and figuratively. She is destined for greatness beyond her wildest dreams, or at least she was before she met me. I’m leaving. And I’m taking Juliette.

Chapter Thirty-One Holland The fluorescent lights of the grocery store seem brighter than usual today. The colors of the fruits and vegetables in the produce aisle are more vibrant. Everything in my life has intensified since Juliette’s birth—well, not everything. Music has become my enemy instead of the friend I’ve always known. I haven’t looked at my violin in over two months, much less played it, even though King has been up my butt about it every single day. The more he encourages me, the more I refuse to have anything to do with it. What the hell is wrong with me? When we first brought Juliette home, I had no desire to play. My focus was on her. But as the weeks went by, I found myself feeling unfulfilled, like there was a hole inside of me that only playing the violin could fill.

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I’ve made my choice, though, and there’s no turning back. My life is King and Juliette, period. I may decide to go to college when she starts school. It won’t be Juilliard, but I can still get a degree in music, maybe become an orchestra teacher. Who knows? ‘Those who can’t do teach.’ Ugh, I really hate that quote. I can do, that’s the problem. I wish I could split myself in half and send half to Juilliard this fall, and the other half would stay here in Texas with King and Juliette. My stupid cart has a wiggly wheel. They probably all do, but this one’s particularly annoying. Looking down, I see a wad of tape preventing it from moving smoothly, and I bend down to pick it off. “Holland?” I look up into a mildly familiar face. I know her, but I can’t remember from where. I’m so bad at this. “Oh . . . hi. It’s stuck,” I say, pointing at the stubborn wheel.

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“Oh yeah? Hold on, I’ve got something for that.” I watch her rummage through an enormous purse until she pulls out a pair of tweezers. Who carries tweezers in their purse? This chick does, apparently. Bending down next to me, she easily plucks the tape from the wheel. “There, ta da. All fixed.” We stand, and she hands me my purse that inadvertently fell onto the ground when I crouched down. That’s it. She’s the lady from the Department of Transportation who helped me get my purse when I was pregnant. “Thanks, that was driving me nuts. It’s good to see you again . . . I’m so sorry. I’m horrible with names—what was yours again?” “Candy, and that’s okay, honey. You have a kid. They start sapping your brain cells the second they’re conceived. Did you have a boy or a girl?”

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“A girl. Wanna see?” I slide my phone out of my back pocket before she answers, because doesn’t everybody want to see my gorgeous baby? “Sure.” I shove my phone under her nose, and before she knows it, I’ve forced her to look at pictures of Juliette from birth to this morning. She is oddly quiet as I swipe through the photographs until I hear her sniffle. When I look up, she is staring at me with tears in her eyes. Uh oh, what have I done? “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .” “No, no, honey, it’s fine.” She swipes a stray tear from her cheek. “You just seem like such a good mama. She’s a very lucky little girl.” What do I say to that? I’ve been going on and on about Juliette and I don’t even know this lady. Maybe she’s lost a baby, or maybe she can’t have babies . . . crap.

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“I didn’t mean to upset you. I get carried away sometimes.” I turn back to my cart and shove my phone into my back pocket. “All new mamas get carried away—good ones, anyway. I’m just an ol’ sap. I have a son of my own. He’s my heart. I was just like you when he was a baby.” Oh, thank God she has a child. Now I don’t feel so bad about rambling on about Juliette. We walk along, me pushing my cart and her with a basket on her arm, selecting produce like old friends. By the time we leave, we’ve exchanged phone numbers and made plans to have lunch next week. In the parking lot, she waves goodbye and disappears into a shiny silver Audi. I climb into the back seat of my own car, where Sebastián has been waiting to drive me home. King refuses to let me drive. It’s been almost two months, and he’s still petrified that I’ll have a

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seizure while driving. He also thinks I need a bodyguard. He’s still working his way out of the drug world, so Sebastián is never more than a hundred feet away from me. It’s so weird. Another thing that’s weird is being away from my baby. I’ve only left her one other time, and it was to go to the dentist. I couldn’t argue my way around that one. Today I was surprised when King encouraged me to run to the store alone, and even more surprised when I wanted to. I have to admit that there are times when I feel like nothing more than a feeding machine. I wouldn’t change a second of it for anything, though. Just like Candy’s son, Juliette is my heart. I’d do anything and sacrifice everything to make her happy. It’s an altruistic, unconditional love that I never imagined existed. It started with King and blossomed into something extraordinary with Juliette. ***

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Vibes and magical ways of the universe aren’t my thing, but when we pull up to the house, something in the air feels off. I’m out of the car before Sebastián comes to a full stop, hopping out onto the moving concrete of the driveway. Striding up the front steps, I abandon the groceries in the seat next to me. Sebastián is still in the car, calling my name through my open door. The moment I’m inside, I call his name. “King?” Nothing . . . panic grips my heart. It’s too still in here, too quiet. They could have gone out. No, he wouldn’t wake her, and I put her down for a nap right before I left. I’ve only been gone an hour. She sleeps a minimum of two hours in the morning. Something feels very wrong. God, where are they? I race up the stairs two at a time. My mind is frantic when I fling open the door to her nursery. My eyes dart to every corner of the room. Nothing, no one . . . I turn on my heel and fly down the hall to our bedroom. The double French doors stand

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open exactly the way I left them. I stop short and spin in a circle, finding yet another empty room. “KING.” Downstairs. They have to be downstairs, I mutter to myself—in the kitchen, they have to be, they just have to . . . this is probably stupid, nothing is wrong. I’m overreacting. I’m a first time mom. It happens, right? I whip around and sprint down the hall to the stairs and take them down two at a time again. Sebastián is in the foyer with a bag of groceries in each hand, wide-eyed. “Holland, what’s the matter?” He sets the groceries down on the floor where he is standing and follows me to the back of the house. The patio. Yes, they’re on the patio. She woke up crying and he took her out there to console her by showing her the sky and the trees.

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“Holland, what the hell is going on?” I can’t say it out loud, not until I’m sure, not until I see for myself that they aren’t here. In the kitchen, I rip open the door to the patio and yell their names. “Juliette. King.” They aren’t here either. God no, no, no, no . . . this isn’t happening. I walk all the way around the covered pool and check both sides of the house before I go back inside. The back of the house is an open concept design, making it all too easy to see that there is no one in the living room or formal dining room. I can say it now . . . I’ve searched everywhere. “They’re gone . . .” I whisper. Trembling from head to toe, my heart pounding, I hold my head and squeeze my eyes shut tight. “Gone? They must have stepped out. I’m sure they will be home soon. Calm down, Holland, everything is fine.”

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It sounds logical when Sebastián says it, maybe he’s right—they went out, that’s all. Maybe there was an emergency and he didn’t want to bother me. Gotta love denial. It’s a very powerful thing. I want to believe him. God, more than anything, I want to believe him, but there’s a sixth sense or mother’s intuition at work here, and it’s telling me that he’s wrong. The flecks of quartz in the countertop of the island blur, and I reach out to steady myself. I step back and drop my head between my extended arms and deep breathe. I feel beads of sweat breaking out across my forehead. I’m going to faint . . . shit, not now. I can’t, I have to keep looking for them. The closet. I grasp the granite until my knuckles are white. When I’m sure my head is clear enough to walk, I straighten up and pass Sebastián, heading back to the front of the house upstairs to the nursery.

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“I have to go upstairs.” Sitting in the rocker that I rock Juliette to sleep in every night is her giant pink elephant. I swear that thing is looking at me with pity in its beady little eyes. I can’t bring myself to cross the threshold and enter her room. If the closet is empty, this will all be true, they will be gone, my life will be over. I flinch when Sebastián places his hand on my shoulder. I didn’t even hear him come up behind me. “Holland, come back downstairs. I’ll make some tea and we can wait for them. I’m sure he’ll be right back.” I shrug his hand off of my shoulder and cross the room, pausing for a second before I open the door to my baby girl’s walk-in closet. I feel for the light switch and flip it on. Empty. Oh God, it’s empty. No tiny pink dresses, no perfectly folded Onesies or sleepers in the shelving unit on the far wall, no boxes of diapers or wipes. I don’t want to see

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empty shelves or rustling little naked hangers. I want my baby. The walls tilt when my vision blurs. I drop to my knees and grab fists full of my hair and scream. I don’t recognize my own scream. It sounds like another woman wailing over the loss of her family, another mother imploding in agony and grief, another lover mourning the loss of her soulmate. Sebastián’s arms circle my shoulders and he tries to comfort me. I can’t breathe, I’m suffocating. The room is too small. I need to escape. “Why?” I ask, choking on emotion. “Why?”

*** My world turned black when I passed out that day, and one week later it’s still

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black. I can’t eat, I haven’t bathed, I haven’t left my bed since Sebastián and a physician deposited me here, pumped full of tranquilizers a week ago. I can smell them here on the sheets, her lavender body wash, his clean, soapy scent, even a spot of spit up on my pillow brings me comfort. I lay breathing them in and crying, rocking back and forth on my side under the comforter and moaning. I’m pitiful, and I don’t give a shit. The loss is physically painful. My heart is wrecked, my bones ache, my lips are dry from dehydration, and for the first few days, even my breasts hurt. They were engorged with useless milk that I’ll never use. In short, I’m a fucking hot mess with no end in sight. I’ve been on a rollercoaster of hating King for disappearing with my baby and missing him so much I think my soul is frozen in time, waiting for him to return, for them to return. Mama has been here, Savannah too. I haven’t spoken a word. There isn’t anything to say. I’m going to lie in this bed

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and stare catatonically at the drawn curtains. Somebody, I think it was Savannah, tried opening them, but I just stared straight into the sun, so Mama told everyone to leave them closed for now. I try not to listen much either. It’s amazing how easy it is to tune people’s voices out. I know they’re there and I hear them, but they sound like the teacher from the Peanuts cartoon, wha whawha wha wha wha . . . nothing in the world makes any sense. Everything is warped like the Peanuts teacher’s voice. King left me a letter. I hate his stupid letter. Sebastián found it in Juliette’s crib after my breakdown, but he didn’t show it to me until two days ago. I’m guessing he probably figured I couldn’t get any worse, so what the hell. Somebody’s always watching me. I’m not paranoid. It’s a fact. They’re making sure I don’t do anything stupid like kill myself.

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Joke’s on them, though, because I am killing myself, one day at a time, by refusing to eat or drink. Mama thought she’d be slick, leaving the baby’s video monitor on the dresser with a stupid bouquet of flowers one day. I noticed, but I don’t give a shit. Let ‘em watch. It’s not going to be a very interesting death. I’ll lay here until I either starve to death or rot away and become one with the mattress. I’m past being hungry. I wish I could remember how long a person can go without food before they die. I think it’s the lack of water that kills you first, and if so, hey, this shouldn’t take much longer. My mouth is so dry I couldn’t talk if I wanted to, which I don’t. I wet the bed on day two. Sebastián just rolled me back and forth, stuffing towels under me, and Mama changed my clothes. I haven’t had anything to drink for days now, so there will be no more of that.

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When I opened my eyes today, there is an IV hooked up to my arm. I remember Sebastián talking to me last night when I felt a bee sting my ass. I wondered for about two seconds why there was a bee in my bedroom before instantly falling asleep. They drugged me so they could hydrate me, very sneaky. “Don’t bother taking it out, the doctor will just knock you out and put it right back in,” my daddy says. He’s sitting in a chair next to my bed with his arms crossed and a stony expression on his face. The curtains are open, the sun is pouring in, my sheets are clean, and so am I. “What are you trying to do, Holland? Do you think letting yourself die is going to help find King and Juliette? I didn’t raise a selfish daughter. How dare you even consider giving up? They aren’t the only people in your life who love you, ya know.” His brows pull together in a tight scowl as he shakes his head back and forth.

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“I’m so disappointed in you.” Disappointed? I can’t believe he just said he is disappointed in me. Doesn’t he realize that my baby has been stolen by the only man I’ve ever loved? Doesn’t he get that there is nothing left to live for? Obviously not. The IV fluids have me hydrated enough that I’m able to part my lips, and for the first time in over a week, I speak. “You don’t know. Nobody knows how much it hurts. How can you be disappointed in me? I didn’t ask for any of this. My baby is gone. I’ll never see Juliette again.” They have pumped me full of enough fluids that I’m able to fucking cry again. I’m so sick of crying. The tears fill my eyes and spill onto my clean pillowcase, but Daddy continues to look at me with frustration. “I raised a fighter, not a quitter. If you want your family back, eat something and get your ass out of that bed and go find them.”

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Daddy’s yelling. He never yells. I can’t remember a time in my life when I’ve seen him truly angry. He was upset when I got pregnant. He almost turned white, and that’s a hard thing for a black man to do. When he found out the father of my baby was a twenty-five-year-old drug lord, he wasn’t happy either, but he never once yelled at me. Maybe he’s right. Maybe there’s a chance I could find them. If I still have access to King’s money, I could hire a private investigator to figure out where they went. The problem with all of that is I know he doesn’t want to be found, and if anybody in the world had the resources to disappear, it’s him. In his letter, he said that he couldn’t be the reason I didn’t follow my dream of becoming a professional musician. It said, “I can’t rob the world of your talent” or some stupid shit like that. He said I would never be safe as long as I was linked to him, he said my life would always be in danger. I would

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have taken the risk. I would have looked over my shoulder every day for the rest of my life to spend it with them. How dare he make that decision for me? I wanted him and Juliette. How could he be unhappy with that? Unless he never really loved me at all. This could have been his plan all along. Maybe he sold Juliette on the black market and took off to live in the jungles of Columbia with a harem of women and his drugs. Okay, so that’s taking it a little far. In my heart, I know he loved me, but he sure has chosen a monstrous way to prove it. Did he seriously think I’d say ‘Well, that’s that, they’re gone, guess I’ll go on to Juilliard and become famous’? A sudden new spark of emotion shoots through my body. It’s anger, and it melts a miniscule part of my frozen soul, inadvertently giving me hope. He can’t just run

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away with my daughter because he thinks it’s best for me. I won’t let him. I sit up in bed with newfound optimism, and Daddy moves to my side to adjust the pillows. When he’s made sure I’m not going to topple over, he cups my cheek in his hand. “Now that’s my girl. I knew you were still in there. Let’s work on getting you better so you can get busy finding them, but you have to promise me one thing.” “What’s that, Daddy?” “That you’ll kick his ass for putting you through this when you do find them.” “That’s a promise I can definitely keep. Daddy?” I reach out and cover his hand with mine. “Yeah, baby?” I bite my lip, and a single tear runs down my cheek.

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“Thank you,” I say with a catch in my voice. “Of course.” His eyes are warm now. The disappointment is replaced with encouragement. “Daddy?” “Yeah?” “I love you.” We lean together simultaneously and wrap our arms around each other. No words are necessary. Daddy holds me tight for a while. I needed this reality check, and Daddy was just the one to give it to me. I sit back against my pillows and start planning my next move, but first I’ll have to actually move. I need to eat and get my strength back, but while I’m still stuck in bed I can start making some phone calls—which reminds me.

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“Daddy, have the police been notified that King kidnapped Juliette?” He’s quiet for a moment before he answers. “I don’t think so, sweetheart.” “Why not?” “My guess is because Sebastián doesn’t want the authorities involved in King’s business.” All this time, I’ve been thinking of Sebastián as my friend, the only one who could imagine what I’m going through because we both lost people we loved. He could be in on it, though. In fact, that would make perfect sense. Sebastián can’t be out of touch with King. He’s his right hand man. Now that I think about it, he was calm and unruffled the day I came home to an empty house. He kept saying everything would be okay and they’ll be home soon, but he knew . . . he knew they would never be coming home . . . ever.

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The first thing I’m going to do is notify the police. Then I’m going to check the bank account King set up for me and see if I have enough money to pay for a private investigator. Then I’ll start spreading their picture all over social media, which is the equivalent of slapping a kid's face on the back of milk cartons in the seventies, only better. I have new purpose, thanks to my very smart daddy, who always taught me to be sensible. Ideas are coming fast and furious now. The desire to find them is quickly replacing my depression. I thought I would die there in the fourth stage of grief, and I’m not sure I’ve moved on to acceptance, because I will never accept that King leaving with Juliette is what’s best for me. In fact, I think I may be clear back on step two, anger. I’m focused and pissed. I’m going to do exactly what Daddy made me promise to do, I’m gonna find King and Juliette and kick his ass

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for putting me through this torture. This, Mr. Romero, is unforgivable.

Chapter Thirty-Two King Home . . . The house feels strange without my father in it. I haven’t been back since he died. Mom has been gone longer, but Dad was the primary presence in this house, so being here without him almost feels wrong. The absence of Holland also feels wrong. This is for her own good. I keep telling myself that, and I truly believe it, but that doesn’t make the pain any less devastating. Mine is meager compared to Holland’s, however. Sebastián makes sure to tell me that every day . . . more than once. I lost her, but she lost both of us, and I’m not sure she even gives two shits about losing me right now. She’s angry—well, angry probably isn’t a strong enough word. There is

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no word that adequately describes what she’s going through. I almost went back to her yesterday during a weak moment. Sebastián informed me that she hadn’t had anything to eat or drink for over a week. When I spoke to Gloria, she told me she had a plan to get some IV fluids into Holland while she was tranquilized. I didn’t like that idea. It was sneaky and invasive, but from the sounds of it, she was going to starve herself to death in our bed if they didn’t do something drastic. I was still going back and forth about it when I found out that Holland’s dad was back in town and he was going to visit her. Robert always had a way with Holland. She trusted him as much as she mistrusted her mother, and that’s a lot. “King?” A voice floats up from the balcony beneath mine. Every window and door to the outside is open, and the perfect Puerto Rican breeze is blowing the sheer white

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curtains into the room. As unhappy as I am without Holland, my childhood home provides me comfort, which in turn fills me with guilt because Holland has nothing to comfort her. I’ve taken everything she cares about, ripped it from her unsuspecting hands, and left her to bleed to death in our absence. That’s how she sees it, but I know better. She has something to take comfort in. She’s just forgotten it. Without Juliette and me to focus on, I’m positive she will finally turn back to the thing she loved most before us, the thing that makes her who she is . . . music. “She’s awake,” Candy calls up. “I’ll be right down.” I enlisted Candy to help with Juliette for a few weeks. I wouldn’t trust just anyone with my child, but Candy is a mother, and she is in a relationship with my lifelong friend and head of security. She’s safe. She

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didn’t want to do it. She doesn’t want any part of my plan, and neither does Sebastián, really, but he’s more tolerant because he knows how real the danger of being a part of my life is. She hated detaining Holland at the grocery store while I cleared out of the house, but she didn’t have a choice. It was in her personal assistant contract . . . sort of. Candy was so happy to have the job that she didn’t think to have a lawyer look over the terms and conditions with a fine toothed comb. She trusted me because of my close relationship with Sebastián. Big mistake. There are only a handful of people that I wouldn’t think of fucking over in this world, and she’s not one of them. Essentially, she is contracted to be my assistant in any way I deem necessary, with the exception of sex. When Juliette and I are in a regular routine, I’ll let Candy go home to Houston. I want her to keep close tabs on Holland until I’m able to come back or until she makes the very bad decision to quit.

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Sebastián will never let that happen. He loves her, and being the head of security and the disposer of problems, he would never let Candy become a problem. Hurrying down the hall in my bare feet against the the cool marble floor reminds me of being a kid and running through this rambling mansion. Growing up in this house, we had rules—lots of them—but most were meant to keep us safe from the many enemies that my father acquired over the years. There were heavily armed guards at the gates and every entrance to the house. My father built this house so that the back yard faced the ocean. He said it was easier to guard the house. He thought it was safer and easier to guard somehow. Ironically, he was murdered in his own bed by a hit man who swam ashore after jumping off a boat. I have triple the number of guards my father had when I was a child, and I’ve installed the best security system money can

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buy. I’m not taking any chances with Juliette. My plan is to disassemble the Romano drug empire piece by piece over the next three or four years while Holland finishes college. By then, she will be an established musician well on her way to fame, and with the danger of the drug business behind us, I can return Juliette. Descending the stairs, I hear the soft cries of my little princess, and when I enter her nursery, Candy is swaying back and forth with Juliette in her arms on the patio, trying to calm the storm. “She’s getting hungry I think. Do you want to feed her, or should I?” Candy’s hand shields Juliette’s face from the sunlight while she bounces and sways. “I’ll do it. Here, let me take her.” I reach out and she passes me a perfect little replica of Holland.

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“Thank you, Candy, really. I want you to know how much I appreciate your taking such good care of her.” “It’s not like I have much choice, King. You’ve sort of trapped me into being an accomplice to kidnapping.” She’s pissed. She probably hates me, but there’s no one else I trust to keep quiet about all of this. She has a lot to lose if she doesn’t. “You know it’s for her own good, Candy.” “No, I really don’t. You weren’t there, King. She was so happy and proud . . . when she pulled out her phone and started showing me pictures of Juliette in that grocery store, I came this close to telling her to go home and stop you.” Holding up her thumb and pointer finger a millimeter apart, she shows me just how close I came to getting caught and, unbeknownst to her, just how close she came to losing her life if she had.

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“But you didn’t.” “No I didn’t. I’d like to keep my head securely attached to my body, thanks. For the record, I think this is all wrong. You can’t make decisions like this for her. She wanted to have a family. Maybe she would have gone back to the violin, but King, priorities change. People change. She had a baby, for Christ’s sake. How do you just rip that all away from her? And she loved you, like out of this world, crazy, bonkers love, and you just threw it away.” Her hands fly up above her head in frustration. “I don’t expect you to understand, Candy. Being with me put her life at risk. Drug dealers are ruthless and evil. Some of them like to torture people just for the fucking fun of it. Every single cartel out there knows I wanted out, and they know she’s the reason why. If my business were to dissolve, theirs would too. They would lose their lavish lifestyles, their bottomless bank accounts, their status and respect. My staying painted

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a target on her back no matter how you look at it. I’m trying to save her damn life. “And Candy, have you ever heard her play? Seen the way she melts into that instrument and becomes one with it? It’s spectacular . . . no, that word doesn’t even do her justice. Her talent is profound. She absolutely cannot waste it. We agreed when we decided to be together that she would still go to Juilliard, and I would get out of the drug business, and she didn’t keep her end of the deal.” “Neither did you.” With her hands on her hips, she squints in the sun, watching me struggle to make sense of this for her. “I was trying.” “But you hadn’t done it yet, and maybe she was trying, too. You just didn’t know it. Maybe she just needed some time.” She’s treading on thin ice, making me justify my actions and my love for Holland,

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and I’ve had just about enough of her smart mouth. She knows that if anyone else were saying these things, there would be no sunrise for them tomorrow, but she also knows I need her, and that’s making her brave . . . too brave. “That’s enough, Candy.” I turn my back on her and head to the kitchen. She’s quiet as I leave—at least there’s that. I sigh and hold a kiss on my fussy daughter’s wrinkled up, angry forehead. She’s had trouble adjusting to formula, but thank God she’s doing much better. Those first few days were hell. It hurt knowing she wanted her mommy instead of the rubber nipple of a bottle, and honestly, I can’t blame her a bit. I want her mommy, too, but this is the best thing for her. I’m sure of it.

Chapter Thirty-Three Holland Right on Birch, left on Stony Creek Drive. It’s been a week since Daddy gave me a lifesaving kick in the ass, and now I’m on my way to see a private investigator. I checked my bank account, and King left me some money . . . a lot of money. Enough to live on for . . . well shit, for forever, probably. The problem is that I can only withdraw enough for living expenses and a thousand on top of that every month, so hiring a great PI is out of the question. Daddy helped by pitching in some of his savings, and I used my allotted money for the month to hire Mr. Bond. ‘Bond . . . James Bond . . .” Daddy’s said it a million times since I told him the PI’s name. He thinks it’s hilarious. I couldn’t

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care less about his name. I just want him to find my baby. I find his office easily enough and park in front of the building. While investigating my financial situation, I found that King paid for my birthday Mercedes in full and put it into my name. I should be happy, but it actually pisses me off. I know I’ve never had a job, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t have gotten one and paid for my own car and my own bills without him. Its guilt money, and that’s why it pisses me off. He could have stayed here and avoided the guilt. I hate him. I love him. I want to kill him. I want to kiss the living shit out of him. I slam the heel of my hand on the steering wheel and flop my head against the back of the seat. He makes me nuts. The street sign on the corner blurs, and I feel like my eyeballs are vibrating in their sockets. I

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take a deep breath, and when I can see clearly again, I exit the car and enter the glass office building. The first thing I see is a Barbie doll receptionist sitting behind a large marble counter. I can only see her from the neck up, but I’d bet all the money I’ve gathered for this PI that she has double Ds and a plunging neckline. I step forward and cross my arms on the counter while she finishes a call. Yep, low cut, form fitting blouse, double Ds . . . at least add to that long blonde hair and cat eyeliner, and you’ve got a dead ringer for the iconic doll. “May I help you?” Oh my God, her voice sounds like a cartoon character. I stifle a laugh. “Yes. I’m here to see Mr. Bond.” I smile and hope she doesn’t make a joke about James Bond, because I’ve heard just about enough of those from Daddy.

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“Up the elevator to the eighth floor. It opens right into his reception area.” Her perfect red-lipped smile is bright and genuine as she points toward the elevator, and I immediately feel guilty for judging a book by its cover. I’m not usually so cynical, but lately my sorrow has been replaced with bitterness. It’s a coping mechanism, or so my therapist says. I can’t believe I have a stupid therapist. Daddy thought it would be a good idea for me to talk to someone outside of the family. He said I should ‘get it all out there’. I love him and I appreciate how he’s helped jump start my life again, but it’s safe to say that I hate therapy—hate it. I thank Barbie and ride the swanky elevator up to the eighth floor, where another receptionist greets me behind another tall marble counter. Tucked behind this desk is a stunning brunette with sharp blue eyes and flawless skin. She should be on a runway, not answering phones. It’s actually sort of funny

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that she works for Mr. Bond, because she looks like a Bond girl, all legs and . . . what the hell? I can’t believe I just had that thought. Who am I to say what anyone should or shouldn’t be doing? It’s the same thing King is doing to me, assuming he knows what’s best for me when he has no idea. The gorgeous woman clicks a few keys on her keyboard before looking up at me. “Ms. Bennett?” “Yes.” “Mr. Bond is ready for you. Follow me, please.” I nod and follow her down a long hallway, admiring her legs and her walk, which is exactly like a runway model. She knocks on the open door. “Mr. Bond, Ms. Bennett is here to see you.”

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For some reason, I was expecting to see a Sean Connery version of James Bond, not the Pierce Brosnan version sitting before me, leisurely drinking coffee. “Coffee?” he asks, holding up his cup. Ms. Model receptionist waits at the door with her hand on the knob until I answer. “No, thank you.” “That will be all, Sarah.” Sarah nods and closes the door. When I turn my attention back to Mr. Bond, he’s assessing me, head tilted, curious. “I thought you’d be older.” Now what does he mean by that? “Ah, sorry?” I shrug and fiddle with the edge of my sweater. “No need to apologize. Have a seat.” He gestures to the chair opposite him. I sit

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on the edge of the chair, reflecting the way I’m feeling . . . on edge. His office is warm and inviting, unlike the cold, modern design the rest of the building had. His desk is massive and mahogany, probably an antique. A large Persian rug, warm brown walls, and two floor to ceiling windows make the area feel very masculine. “If you’re a private investigator, why don’t you know how old I am? And what’s my age got to do with anything?” “You’re King Romero’s girlfriend, yes?” “Yes. Was.” I straighten my back and perch even further on the edge of my seat. “King’s older than you.” His brows lift, as if that answers everything. “And your point is?”

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Mr. Bond sets his coffee cup down and places his elbows on the desk in front of him, steepling his fingers. “My point is that you’re very young, Ms. Bennett, and King is very dangerous. It’s an observation, that’s all. So you’re trying to find him?” “Yes, and our baby.” If the age thing had him curious, the mention of a baby has him drooling. “You and King have a baby?” he says, lifting his brows. “Yes, and he disappeared with her three weeks ago. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.” Frowning, he leans back into his chair, lacing his fingers over his abdomen. “Any idea why he would do that?” I look at my lap, where my hands are balled into tiny fists.

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“I’m a violinist.” “And? He doesn’t like musicians?” A smart ass. Great. His attitude makes me want to take my business elsewhere, but after researching, I know he’s the best I can get with the money I have. Actually, he’s way out of my budget. I had to clean out my savings account to pay for this. “He likes musicians very much, or at least he did.” I thought I’d cried every tear there was left to cry. Wrong. They spring to my eyes, and one escapes down my cheek. I wipe it away. I’m so sick of these conflicted feelings I have for King. “So why do you think he left you?” “Our relationship was unexpected. When we decided to make a go of it, we promised each other something.” I snuff, and he leans forward, pushing a box of tissue toward me. I take a couple without making eye contact and dab at my nose.

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“What did you promise?” “I was accepted into Juilliard. We got pregnant, and he didn’t want the baby to interfere with my career, and I wanted him to . . . find a less dangerous occupation.” “I know he’s a drug kingpin, Ms. Bennett. It’s all right, you can speak freely. I’ll admit I only saw you today because my curiosity got the best of me. I can’t take your case. Nobody can if they want to wake up and live another day. There isn’t a person alive in the state of Texas—or anywhere, for that matter—that would look for King Romero. He’s that dangerous. I understand that you’re upset that he’s disappeared, and I’m sure you’re dying inside without your baby, but being associated in any way with that man is the same as a death wish. His enemies are your enemies, and believe me, you do not want his enemies.” I move my trembling hands from my lap to grip the arms of the chair. My heart

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begins to pound, and it falters a beat or two. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening. King’s reputation can’t be working in his favor. It’s so unfair. He could have left me all the money in the world, and no one would have taken it. From what Bond is telling me, opposing King is as good as nailing your own coffin shut. How did I never see the dangerous man that the rest of the world knows so well? How could I have been in love with such a monster? And now that monster with those very dangerous enemies has my baby. No one is going to help me find Juliette. I’m never going to see her again unless King wants me to, and he won’t want me to if I don’t go to Juilliard, period. I had no idea how serious he was about my future. I thought Mama was demented, but King has her beat a million times over. Hate is winning the war over love for King big time right now. I’d like to bash

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his head in with my fucking violin and shove my bow up his ass. I hate him for making this decision for me. I hate that he has taken control of my life. I hate that he’s robbing me of even one minute of my daughter’s life. And most of all, I hate him for loving me. He gave me the most precious gift, and then he snatched it away. I. Hate. Him. I don’t even feel him prying my hands from the arms of the chair. He stands me up, scoops my lifeless rag doll body into his arms, and carries me across his office to the sitting area, where he lays me on the couch and places a pillow under my head. When he’s arranged my hands over my tummy, he sits on the edge of the couch with his hip touching mine.

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His lips are moving. He’s saying something, but I can’t hear. I concentrate on every breath. I slide my hand over my heart to see if it’s still beating. It is. He reaches out to brush my hair away from my face. I can’t move. “Ms. Bennett? Can I call someone for you? I don’t think you should be driving. If there is no one, I can take you wherever you need to go.” ‘If there is no one’ His words penetrate my soul. I don’t have anyone. “There’s no one,” I whisper. He looks away, avoiding my eyes for a moment and sighs deeply. And then he closes his eyes, and he speaks the words that keep me from driving my car off a bridge on my way home. “I will help you.”

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The sun comes out from behind the dark black cloud, and my life instantly has purpose again. “I’m not making any promises, but I can’t watch . . .”—He waves his finger in a circle over my body before finishing his sentence—“this.” I sit up and wrap my arms around his neck and hug him tight, so tight it hurts. When he doesn’t return the embrace, I let him go and apologize for the uncomfortable moment. “I’m sorry, I’m just so grateful you’re willing to help.” “You apologize unnecessarily a lot.” I swipe the tears off my cheeks and he stands, allowing me room to get up too. “Not usually.” “I can see what King saw in you. You’re endearing and a tad addictive. It’s

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hard to say no to you,” he says, walking away. Is he flirting? God, please don’t let him think he’s going to get anything other than money in return for his services. “I’m only paying you with money, Mr. Bond.” His hand is on the doorknob when my words stop him cold. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath before he turns to focus his piercing blue eyes on me. “I don’t work like that, Ms. Bennett, and please call me Dax. I’ll be in touch with you when I have something, but I do need to ask you what do you plan on doing if I find him?” What kind of stupid question is that? Isn’t it obvious? Maybe I shouldn’t have hired this guy after all. I retrieve my purse from the chair and walk toward him with my shoulders back and my chin held high.

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“I’m going to get my baby back, of course. What else?” Dax shakes his head and opens the door. “I’m only going to be responsible for finding him. What happens after that is on you. I’ll be in touch. Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” “Yes, and thank you again. Apparently, I’m asking you for a lot.” I place my hand on his arm. His eyes narrow and he clenches his jaw. “That’s an understatement.” He briefly covers my hand with his own. Something in his eyes makes me believe in him. I don’t know if I’m just that desperate and he’s my only hope, or if he really wants to help me, but right now, I don’t care why. I just want my baby back.

Chapter Thirty-Four King “When are you sending Candy home?” Sebastián asks. “Soon. How’s Holland?” “She’s still looking for you. She’s obsessed, King. She’s never going to go to Juilliard without knowing where you and Juliette are.” “She still using Bond?” “Yes, and I’m warning you, he’s getting close.” “Stupid fucker must have a death wish.” “King, can I say something and have you promise not to freak the fuck out?” “No, but you’d better say it anyway.”

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He takes a deep breath and blows it out before speaking. “I think Dax has a thing for her.” I drop my pen onto the desk and turn my chair around to face the French doors that overlook the ocean. “What makes you say that?” If he’s touched her, I’ll be on a flight there in twenty minutes to kill him myself. “He’s very attentive. He’s at the house all the time for meetings over dinner, and he helps her with more than just her case.” I’m on my feet now, pacing outside on the balcony. “Sebastián.” “I don’t mean that. Well, not as far as I can tell, anyway, but he takes her grocery shopping and to her shrink, things like that. The guy isn’t taking any new cases. All of his focus is on Holland.”

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“Fuck. Get rid of him, Sebastián.” I let her try, but now she needs to just fucking go to Juilliard. School starts in a few weeks and they’re expecting her. “So you want me to warn him first, or just take care of it?” “Find out how close they are and use your best judgment. I trust you. And if you don’t kill him, make sure he stops looking for me. I don’t care how, just do it.” “I’ll call you later and let you know which way it goes.” “Yeah, okay. Don’t be long. I’m uneasy about this.” “Two hours, and one way or another it’s taken care of. Don’t worry.” “Thank you, Sebastián.” When we hang up, I want to hurl my phone into the fucking ocean. I want to go home to Holland, I want to kiss her lush

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mouth and touch every inch of her silky bronze skin, I want to lay tangled in her arms and talk with her about everything and nothing. I want to hear her play—it’s been so long. I have a constant pain in my chest where her essence used to live. I’m sure Juliette misses her too, although she’s doing very well. Babies adapt easily. She’s happy, and we have a good routine going now. I was planning on sending Candy back in a week or so, but I think she needs to go now. Sebastián misses her, and so does their son, and I need closer eyes on Holland to make sure the infamous Bond isn’t making a play for her. I know the guy. He’s a good PI—handsome, well-known, and the ladies love him. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he took to Holland. After all, it only took me twenty seconds to fall in love with her. I also know that I can’t kill every man who’s interested in her. Well, I could, but I won’t. It’s not their fault she’s irresistible.

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Bond is too risky, though. He just might be able to find me, and that can’t happen. Holland is safer without me, and she absolutely must start school next semester. I’ve got a lot of pull at Juilliard, but they won’t hold her spot forever. *** Candy, Juliette and I stand in the hangar waiting for the jet to taxi down the runway. Sebastián flew down with their son, Leo, to take Candy home. She’s been distant with me since I forced her to help me leave Holland, but right now she’s holding onto the sleeve of my shirt, bouncing up and down on her toes, watching the plane move closer to us. “I miss them so much. I can’t imagine how Holland must feel being away from you and Juliette, and she doesn’t even know where you are.”

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She takes every opportunity to make me feel like shit about my decision . . . every single opportunity. As helpful as she’s been, I can’t say I will miss her when she’s gone. I roll my eyes and peel her hands off of my arm to check on Juliette in the stroller. She’s wide-eyed and kicking her little legs, but she’s not crying. I thought the sound of the plane would scare her, but this little girl never seems to be bothered by loud noises. I tickle a dimple on her left cheek, and when she smiles, it warms my heart. Candy catches the smile and decides to throw in one last dig. “I bet her mama would love to see that smile.” “Candy, stop. I know you don’t understand, okay? I get it, but nothing is going to change my mind. She’s safer without me, and I’m staying out of her way until she’s fulfilled her dream . . . period.”

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Candy huffs and turns her attention back to the plane that has stopped right outside the hangar doors. Before the doors are completely open, she sprints up the stairs. I’ve had a few pangs of mild guilt since leaving Holland, but I just keep reminding myself that I’m doing it for her. I’m keeping her safe. But when Candy steps out of the plane holding her five-year-old son, raining kisses all over his face, it hits me so hard that I grab my heart and stagger back a step. The love between a mother and her child is a powerful thing. Could I have underestimated Holland’s drive and determination to find her daughter? Maybe Candy is right, maybe leaving pushed her further away from music. Maybe if I had waited a little longer . . . I look into Juliette’s eyes that are so much like her mother’s stormy greys, and all

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of my doubts are erased. She is safe, she is safe, she is safe. If we had stayed, she never would have gone to Juilliard. There’s no doubt in my mind. She’s a good mother, and she would have put Juliette first before her career. At least with us out of the picture, she has a chance. The people pursuing her now will be looking for her talent, not her blood. Sebastián’s family makes their way across the tarmac into the hangar. Candy gradually loses her grip on Leo, and he slides down onto his feet. Straightening her back, she slowly turns Leo by his shoulders to face me so she can introduce him. I can’t believe I’ve never met Sebastián’s son. That’s a hell of a secret to keep all these years. It makes me wonder what else Sebastián has kept from me. “Leo, I want you to meet Mr. Romero, sweetie. He’s my boss—Daddy’s too—say hello.”

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I blink and blink again. This kid is a miniature me. He looks exactly like me when I was five. Tousled, wavy hair, big brown, deep-set eyes with long, black feathery lashes, naturally light brown skin and generous lips. There are probably ten family photo albums at the house full of pictures of me at this age. Leo extends his hand, waiting for me to shake it. I think he introduced himself, but I’m frozen, stunned into silence. It’s mind blowing. “King?” Candy says. “Oh yes, I’m sorry. Nice to meet you, Leo,” I say, snapping back to reality. I shake his little hand and look into Candy’s proud, sparkling eyes; this boy doesn’t look a thing like his mother. Sebastián is standing just behind Candy with his hand on the small of her back. I see wistfulness in his eyes for just a second before his trademark poker face returns.

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“You’ve got a good looking boy. He looks a lot like me when I was his age—actually, he looks exactly like me. I have pictures. I’ll show you sometime, Candy. It’s startling.” Sebastián

coughs

and

clears

his

throat. “We should probably get going to dinner so we can make it home in time for Leo to go to bed. He has school tomorrow,” Sebastián says. But I’m staring at little Leo, who has wandered over to Juliette’s stroller where he’s peeking inside. He feels me looking at him and he turns his face toward me as he places his hands behind his back right away. “I’m not touching,” he says, shaking his head back and forth. I frown at Candy and Sebastián.

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“We’ve taught him never to touch other people’s babies or pets.” Candy laughs, hustling over to Leo. “It’s okay, baby, she’s King’s little girl. Her name is Juliette, isn’t she beautiful?” “Uh huh, where’s her mama?” Oh God, this kid must have ESP or something, and Candy is feeding him mental guilt messages to torture me with. “Oh, um, she’s back at home. She didn’t feel very good, sweetheart, so she won’t be having dinner with us.” Candy says, eyes darting back and forth between Leo and me. He shrugs his shoulders, accepting his mother’s explanation—and why wouldn’t he? It sounds logical. She’s a good liar, which is one of the reasons I hired her to be my personal assistant. “You need to make sure Candy and Leo don’t bump into Holland. He might

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accidentally slip up,” I say under my breath to Sebastián, and he nods, agreeing with me. “All right, let’s get going,” Sebastián says, clapping his hands together. Ten minutes later, with the kids all buckled in the back of the limo, we’re on our way to dinner. Leo chats with his mother. I stare at Leo, and Sebastián stares at me. He’s waiting for something. I don’t know what, but I feel nervous energy rolling off of him. Sebastián has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. He’s always been there for me, encouraging, protecting and supporting me. When my dad couldn’t be at my sporting events, Sebastián was there. He was there for every birthday party, every school event, even parent teacher conferences. He was there with my mother. He was my father’s head of security—that’s where he was supposed to be. It never seemed strange to see him in the bleachers of a swim meet

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with my mom instead of my dad. It was his job to protect us. But this boy, Leo . . . I know I’m making him nervous, but I can’t stop staring. He has the same long fingers; his top eyelid has the same tiny fold where they meet the bottom lid in the corner . . . the way Sebastián’s do . . . I’ve been leaning forward to see Leo better, but when it hits me, I slump back against the seat and raise my arms and cover my face with the heels of my hands. Could Sebastián be . . . did he and my mother . . . Oh, God. This kid isn’t just Sebastián and Candy’s son, he’s my half-brother. “Stop the car.” The driver’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Sir?” “Stop. The. Car.” I glare at Sebastián as the driver maneuvers the car to the side of

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the road, and I know I’m right when all the color drains from his face. Fuck. I buried my father two years ago. This is wrong, wrong, wrong. How could my mother do this? She loved my father . . . didn’t she? I open the door, step out, and start walking with Sebastián right on my heels. “King. King, wait,” he says, but I can’t. I’m not looking at him right now. He and my mother had an affair. My father isn’t my father, and my mother wasn’t the saintly, devoted wife and mother I thought she was. “King. I wanted to tell you, but your mother was afraid Arturo would kill me. He ignored Isabelle. She was always alone and I was always there. He practically forced us into each other’s arms. I loved her, King. I loved her more than anything or anyone in the world. I still do. It’s been eating me alive for twenty-five years. You needed to know; this situation with Holland is insane. I asked

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Candy to bring Leo here because I knew you would put two and two together. You can’t keep doing this to Holland. Juliette is a baby, King. She needs her mother. Don’t deprive her of that. I was there for you every day, and I got to be a part of your life even if you didn’t know it. It killed me, but I was more involved than Arturo, so I knew in my heart I was a good father to you. Please don’t make Juliette grow up without her mother . . . King, please, King . . . she’s my granddaughter . . . please.” I keep walking. My hands are clenched into fists at my sides, my jaw so tight that I may break a tooth, but I keep walking. I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I turn around. When he stops trying to follow me, I shake out my hands and take a deep breath. God, I need a minute alone. This is some fucked up shit. My entire life has been turned upside down and inside out.

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My father wasn’t my father, and my real father’s not dead; my mother didn’t love my father—or whoever—shit, this is a mess. And I have a little brother. I come to a bridge, lower myself onto the ground, and dangle my feet over the edge. I can hear Sebastián’s feet crunching under gravel. The limo door slams, and the driver floors it until the car is right behind me. I wish they would just go and let me sort through this for a while, but Sebastián probably thinks I’m going to jump off the bridge or something. He hates heights, and he isn’t fond of water, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would jump in to save me. He’s always been there to catch me when I fall, and now it’s clear why. He’s my dad. The car door opens and I hear Candy’s voice. “Shush, you just stay here. Let me talk to him.” I don’t look up, but I feel her sit down next to me. She’s too close. I need space. I can’t breathe. I scoot away from her.

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She seems to understand and even wiggles a little in the opposite direction. “King . . . I want you to know that I didn’t know about this. I found out just now like you did, and I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine why he didn’t tell you the minute your father—um, I mean Arturo—died. Hell, this is so confusing. He loves you, though. I do know that. I’ve always known that. He talks about you with such pride, and he worries about you all the time. I just thought it was because he was like family to you.” I can see her out of the corner of my eye, reaching out to touch me, but she hesitates and returns her hand to her lap. “I was right, though, huh? You’re family—blood family.” “Why? Why would he keep this from me so long? They’re both dead. It doesn’t make sense.”

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I push my hands through my hair and lace my fingers behind my neck. “Maybe he was afraid if someone found out you weren’t Arturo’s real son, you would lose the business after he died. Could that be it?” she asks. Holy shit. That is it. She’s right. Partners, colleagues, rivals, enemies, all of them would turn their back on me if they knew I wasn’t the true heir of the Romero fortune. My father’s bloodline ended with him. I’m not responsible for the drug business. I have a way out, a legitimate, honest to God way out. Pushing all of the emotional elements of the situation aside, I get up and hold out my hand to Candy. She looks up at me with wide eyes, slowly takes my hand, and lets me help her to her feet. “Let’s go.”

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Back in the car, I climb in next to Sebastián and Juliette without a word. I’ll need some time to adjust to this life-altering news, but for now, the most important thing is figuring out how to hide a lot of money before the world learns that King Romero, son of the most powerful drug cartel in the world, is really King Ortega, son of a security guard.

Chapter Thirty-Five Holland Two weeks ago, Dax fell off the face of the earth. We were so close to finding King and Juliette, and—poof—he just disappeared into thin air. I’m not stupid. I know King had something to do with it. Honestly, I was surprised he didn’t step in earlier. I’m sure he’s got someone watching my every step, waiting to see if I’ll go back to school, waiting to see if I’ll cave and give up on finding my little girl. I just hope he didn’t hurt Dax. He was a good friend to me. I know he wanted more, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to remove the barbed wire surrounding my heart. But if I did, it would have been for Dax. He risked everything to help me, including his life. I’ll probably never know if he’s dead. King has professionals for that. When somebody

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wrongs him, they die, and there’s no trace, no tracks, nothing. Dax educated me on the life of a kingpin. He taught me things I never wanted to know, things I try to put out of my head every day. King has proven himself to be a monster capable of anything. He’s ruthless and selfish and evil and egotistical. I can’t believe I ever loved him, and one thing’s for sure. I’ll never in a million years forgive him for stealing my baby and leaving me alone and broken. Never. *** I miss my baby girl. God, she’s not even a baby anymore. She’s three years old today. I fidget while the musicians around me shuffle their sheet music, preparing for tonight’s performance. Today is supposed to be a joyful day of celebrating with baby dolls and pink balloons, but instead, I’m well on my way to a migraine listening to my colleagues in the orchestra

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tune their instruments. I usually have butterflies in my belly before a concert, but every year on this particular day, the butterflies turn to cement. I need to focus . . . these people are looking to me for direction and leadership. I can’t be distracted, not even today. But it’s impossible. The buzzing crowd wins my attention for the third Valentine’s Day performance in a row. I scan the audience like I do every year on this date, and I pray I’ll see him sitting out there somewhere in the dimly lit auditorium with my little girl in the seat next to him. It’s a dream I’ve been having every night for three long years. I’m sitting on stage in the Lincoln Center, consumed by the music, focused on leading my string section, when out of the corner of my eye, I see King sitting in the third row with our beautiful raven-haired daughter next to him. The

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room blurs and my violin slides from my hands, clattering to the floor in slow motion as I stand in shock. The members of the orchestra stop playing in waves, beginning with the musicians closest to me, until only the percussion people are left clanking and rattling awkwardly. The auditorium is silent when I call out her name and bolt backstage, but when I arrive at their row, the seats have been abandoned. I spin around to look up the aisle. No one is there, no one but the hundreds of glaring eyes that are now fixated on me. I glance back at the vacant seats in disbelief, and something glimmers there, catching my eye. If the lights hadn’t been turned up in the house because of my unheard of behavior, I would never have seen it. I push past the patrons decked out in sequins, fur stoles and tuxedos and lurch for the sparkle in the seat. I thread my fingers through the delicate chain and look at the dangling piece of jewelry that brings so many beautiful memories rushing to my mind. It’s

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a charm bracelet with a tiny diamond covered violin, a bow, and three round charms with the letters K, H and J stamped on them. My charm bracelet. King gave it to me right after I had our baby three years ago, before he took her and disappeared. I considered canceling tonight. I’ve never cancelled. Being the concertmaster for the New York Philharmonic Orchestra makes me second in command of the entire orchestra, and I don’t take that responsibility lightly. I’ve worked myself to death night and day for three years. I barely graduated from Juilliard because of my grueling travel schedule. I doubled my classes and finished my bachelors in music in just two years. After that, I auditioned for concertmaster at the unheard of age of twenty-three, and after two weeks of auditions, I won the spot. No one was more surprised than me, and no one was more proud than my mama.

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I’m a loner outside the orchestra. The people I work with are as close as anyone will ever get to me. I’m damaged beyond repair as far as relationships go, and I have become a music machine. I live it, I breathe it, but I no longer love it. I do it because there is nothing else—no boyfriend, no family beyond my parents, who have found new husbands and wives to spend their lives with, no close friends, no interests beyond music. Nothing. I wonder if he knows what he’s done to my life. Did he ever realize that I needed more than music to make me happy? Did he ever know I would have walked through fire to spend my life loving them? The answer can only be no, because he never came back. He never even sent me a picture of Juliette. It was like he wanted to erase them from my memory—out of sight, out of mind. It didn’t work, not at all. Out of sight only meant that they became burrowed deeper into my heart, woven into my soul

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where they will forever reside, reminding me of the incredible love I lost. When King vanished and Dax went missing, I had two options: give up, or give King what he wanted and pray he would come back when he saw I was keeping my end of the deal. I knew if there was so much as a glimmer of hope of me seeing my child again, I had to try, so I went to Juilliard in the fall like King wanted me to. I was swept up in the whirlwind of school, travel, and performing so much that I never had a chance to quit when they didn’t return. Now I’m living the life I always dreamed of. I’ve achieved everything I ever wanted, and I’m known all over the world as one of the youngest, most talented violinists of all time. I should be happy. I would have been happy if I had never fallen in love with King Tomas Romero. I stand and face the musicians to lead them in an organized tuning. This requires

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me to turn my back on the audience, and I hate not being able to see them. If there ever were a day he would bring her back to me, it would be on her birthday. I don’t know why I believe this, but I do. Maybe it’s the dream, maybe it’s a vibe from the universe, or maybe it’s just me using her birthday as an excuse to get my hopes up year after year. When the conductor enters and the applause dies down, I continue to torture myself, scanning the faces of every person in the crowd. He could look different now. He may be in a disguise. Sometimes there will be a man who resembles King in the crowd, and I’ll blur my eyes and imagine it’s really him, but like the cold, hard reality of life, the man will come back into focus and I’m still alone. The lights turn up. It’s intermission, and everyone is buzzing around, taking a quick break when Rob, one of the production managers, touches my shoulder from behind.

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“Oh.” I shout and jump a foot off my chair. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, Ms. Bennett. There is a phone call for you. He’s been holding for fifteen minutes. I told him I could take a message, but he insisted on waiting.” “Who is it?” I ask, sucking in a breath to hold until he answers. “He won’t say, but he told me to tell you three years is long enough?” Rob looks confused. Did I hear him right? “What?” “Three years is long enough. He said you would know what that means.” Oh God, I’m going to be sick—no, I’m going to pass out. Shit I may be sick and pass out. It has to be King. I jump up and thrust my violin and bow into Rob’s chest, grab the long, full skirt of my dress into both hands, and hike it up so I can run. I weave in and

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out of the chairs, hop over a few obstacles, and snatch the phone lying on the counter in the lounge. “Hello,” I say, panting into the phone and bowing my head to hide my face with my free hand. The voice on the other end of the line is calm and familiar. “Holland?” My eyes fly open, and I stand up straight. “Sebastián?” “Yes, dear, I’m sorry if I led you to believe it would be King, but I needed to be sure you would come to the phone.” I lower my head and shake it back and forth, squeezing my eyes shut tight. Why is Sebastián calling me? “What . . . what do you want, Sebastián?” “This is very important, Holland. I need you to pay close attention, all right?”

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My head hurts. I’m dizzy, and if he doesn’t hurry up, I’m going to vomit. “Sebastián, I don’t feel well.” “It’s okay, just listen and everything will be fine. There is a stool behind you. Sit down.” He can see me. I remove my hand from my eyes to look around instinctively, but the lights are blinding and they intensify my headache. I close them and feel around behind me for the stool and pull it close so I can sit. “Good girl.” “Where’s Juliette? You have to tell me where he’s taken her, Sebastián, please. I need her, I’m dying without her—” “I know. That’s why I’m calling. He’s there, Holland, he’s in the theatre watching you play. He’s always there when you play. He’s been following you all over the world, secretly watching as many performances as

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he could attend. He has this warped, sick idea that you’re better off without him, and that he and Juliette would only distract you from your career.” “No. No, Sebastián, that’s not true.” I slap the palm of my hand so hard on the marble counter that it stings. “I know, that’s why I’m calling you. I’m going to give you the name of his hotel and the room number. He has Juliette with him, but you have to finish the show without letting on that you know anything so you can catch them. If he senses a problem or anything out of the ordinary, he will disappear again.” “Okay, what hotel?” “Can you go back out there and finish without him suspecting?” “Yes, yes, I can do anything if it means I get Juliette back. Just tell me the name of the hotel.”

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“He’s staying at The Ritz, room 211 . . .” I hang up the phone and call my driver and instruct him to be ready to leave the instant the show is over. When I hang up with him, I dial information and ask for the Ritz and they connect me to the front desk. “Hello, I have a friend staying in the hotel tonight and I wanted to be sure I had the correct room number. Can you help me?” I ask. A pleasant woman on the other end asks me for the guest’s name, and when I tell her it’s King Romero, she can’t find it. “It’s room 211—are you sure?” “Yes, Miss. There is no King Romero registered in that room or any other room here tonight. I’m sorry.” “Can you tell me who’s staying in room 211?” “No, ma’am. I’m so sorry, but we aren’t allowed to give out that information.”

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“That’s okay, thank you anyway. Oh, and please don’t mention that anyone asked for King Romero. I don’t want to cause any trouble.” “Yes, ma’am, and thank you for calling the Ritz.” The line is disconnected, and I cross my fingers and toes that I haven’t just blown my chance to see my baby. The lights flash, indicating the intermission is almost over. When I return, I stand off stage with the conductor and wait to be introduced. I skipped my introduction earlier due to my headache, but I want the rest of the performance to seem as normal as possible so King isn’t spooked. Oh my God, I could be seeing my little girl tonight. This doesn’t seem real. Juliette doesn’t seem real. I have no idea what she looks like. I have nothing but a few weeks of memories to go on and a string of pictures taken on my phone that I had printed and

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put into an album when I thought it was all I’d ever have of her. I’ve never wanted a performance to be over more. I’m nervous, scared, thrilled, and torn between crying and shouting at the top of my lungs. It takes every ounce of my selfcontrol to smile and play my solos; the long pieces of music that I usually love drag on forever until the last encore, when the audience is finally filing out of the theatre. I move around the stage, hugging and congratulating my colleagues on a job well done, and wish them all a Happy Valentine’s Day before heading to my office. When I open the door and turn on the light, I yelp when I see Sebastián sitting at my desk. “Damn it, Sebastián, you scared the shit out of me,” I say, clutching my chest. “I’m so sorry, Holland. You hung up, and I had to make sure you were going to the hotel.” He’s standing right in front of me now, with his hands on my shoulders.

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“Are you kidding? Seriously, you think that after three years I would pass up an opportunity to get my daughter back?” “Then why are you in your office and not in a cab on your way to the Ritz?” “I always lock my violin in my office after a performance. You said to make it look normal so I don’t scare him off. God, Sebastián, he ruined my life by leaving me. I wouldn’t just . . . just . . .” The dam breaks, and I slump against Sebastián and sob. “I know, shush, it’s going to be okay now.” His arms circle my shoulders, and he pats my back. “I have to go, I have a car waiting,” I say, pulling away sniffling. He hands me a handkerchief. I didn’t know men still did things like that. It’s sweet. I blow and hold it up, scrunching my face. “Am I supposed to give this back?”

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The corners of his mouth curve into a small smile, and he shakes his head back and forth. He reaches behind me for my purse and thrusts it at me. “Now go after him, and please, Holland don’t hate him. No one knows him better than I do, and I can assure you that he always thought he was doing the right thing. No matter how wrong he has been, he still loves you.” “I’m not going after him. I’m going after Juliette.” My voice is stone cold, and the river of tears that were just falling dry up when Sebastián mentions King and love in the same breath. I’ve spent three years trying to come to terms with what King did to me. My therapist says forgiveness is important, but that I have to want it for myself, and so far, I’ve been okay with being angry and miserable. King broke the heart inside my heart. He abandoned me and took the most precious thing on earth, and for that, I will never forgive him.

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The ride to the Ritz is a blur of hyperventilation and a churning stomach. I’m trying not to let my hopes get too high. King has been keeping Juliette and himself successfully hidden for years. He may have already left. He might have discovered the crack in Sebastian's loyalty. Maybe he sensed something was off during my performance tonight. I can’t believe he’s been watching me perform all these years. How dare he spy on me? He has secretly been involved in my life—he never really lost me, and he never lost Juliette at all. While I suffered alone, he had the luxury of watching me play, knowing exactly where I was and that I was safe. It would have been so easy for him to send a picture or a letter, but he didn’t. He chose the cowardly way out. He hid in the shadows and watched me graduate and become famous. He got exactly what he wanted, just like a King.

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Inside the hotel, I bypass the front desk and make a beeline to the elevators with my head down. I don’t take time to admire the luxurious lobby or the beautiful people wandering around. I’ve seen enough swanky hotels to last a lifetime. I’ve grown to hate the temporary fake sense of home they try to provide. I long for a place full of my own things. I want to step outside into my yard and hear the locusts buzzing in the trees and children laughing and playing, not car horns honking and pedestrians whistling for a cab. I want a home. When the doors slide open and the car dings, my heart is pounding, my mouth is dry, and my stomach is flopping around like a fish out of water. I take a deep breath and exit left down three doors to room 211. I raise my hand and knock on the expensive oak door and wait. Someone’s moving inside. Thank God they’re still here. I step to the side so he can’t see me

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through the peephole. That’s all I need—to get this close, only to have him lock me out. The door swings open wide, and standing right in front of me, filling the doorway, is King, shirtless in only his suit pants. For a fraction of a second, my body betrays me and I take a shaky breath and lean forward. He is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He hasn’t changed a bit. His hair might be a little shorter and his facial hair is cut into a goatee instead of his close-cut beard, but other than that, he’s the same perfect, sexy, chiseled man. “Damn, Sebastián where did you go—” The color drains from his tanned face and his eyes widen when he sees me instead of Sebastián outside his door. We stare at each other, speechless, for a long time before his shoulders slump and he drops his head back, sighing while he looks at the ceiling. “I want to see my daughter.” I have to push the words from my lips. The longer we

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stand here, the angrier I get. The desire to cause him pain, any kind of pain, physical or emotional, is overwhelming. It’s a good thing that love is my driving force tonight and not revenge or retribution, because if I were armed, I’d shoot him in the heart. He lifts his arm to block my entrance. “Holland, she’s sleeping. We need to talk.” “Fuck you, King. So now we need to talk? What was wrong with talking three years ago before you kidnapped my daughter and left me alone to pick up the pieces? Let me see her, now.” “No, not when you’re like this. She’s never met you. If you wake her up like this, you’ll scare her.” My nails are cutting into my palms inside my tightly clenched fists, and my entire body is vibrating with anger. “And whose fucking fault is that?”

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He reaches out to touch me, but I lean back and take advantage of the opening he just made by moving his arm and darting past him into the large, dimly lit suite. “Holland,” he yells. I scan the room quickly, trying to guess which door leads to the room Juliette is sleeping in, but there’s no time. King just slammed the door, and I hear his bare feet pounding behind me. I say a short prayer to God, asking him to point me in the right direction, and run to the second door on my left off the living room. “Holland, stop, we have to talk first, damn it.” I chose the right door. He wouldn’t be so frantic if I hadn’t. I know it’s wrong to let my emotions sweep me into her room late at night like this—he’s right, I’ll scare her—but I can’t help it. I’m so close, and it’s been so long.

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I burst through the door, and there, in the center of a king-sized bed, is a tiny little raven-headed child, lovingly tucked under the duvet, fast asleep. The room is dark except for a stream of light coming from the en-suite bathroom. King is right behind me now. His heavy breathing blows the loose tendrils of my hair around my neck and ears, and the heat from his body reaches out to warm my back. I step forward, and he reaches out to take me by the arm. I look over my shoulder and glare at his hand and then into his eyes. “Take your hand off of me,” I say between gritted teeth. He raises his eyebrows and inhales sharply before he releases me. I approach the bed slowly. Part of me wants to wake her, and another part wouldn’t mind staring at her while she sleeps for the rest of the night. How do I start, what do I do?

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King is right behind me again. He’s too close, but there is nowhere else for me to go but into the bed, so I sit down on the edge, several feet from Juliette. “Does she know me? Have you even shown her my picture so she knows she has a mama?” My Texas twang naturally replaces my Yankee New York accent when I speak of her. “Yes, every day. She has been surrounded by images of you her entire life. I made sure of it.” She knows who I am . . . as much as I hate King, I’m grateful to him for allowing her that. Now that I know I’m not a complete stranger to her, I can’t resist the urge to wake her up so I can look into her eyes. “Juliette . . .” She doesn’t move. She must be a hard sleeper like King. I try again, a smidge louder.

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“Juliette.” Nothing. King’s hand is on my shoulder again. I wish he would stop touching me. “Holland . . .” “Why isn’t she answering me?” “Holland . . .” “Juliette,” I say, loud enough to wake even the deepest of sleepers, but she doesn’t move a muscle. Her shoulder rises and falls with every easy breath, but she doesn’t stir. King turns me in his arms and squats down until we are eye to eye. “She can’t hear you.” He places his hands on my shoulders and shakes his head back and forth. “What?” “She’s deaf, she can’t hear you. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. She was

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born with a profound hearing deficit. She’s never been able to hear.” “No, she was fine when she was a baby. Nobody said there was anything wrong with her hearing in the hospital, and they test for that.” He releases my shoulders and drops his arms to his sides. His face clouds with sympathy, or maybe it’s pity. I don’t know, but I do know I want to smack the shit out of him right now. I have no choice but to believe him. I wasn’t allowed to be there for her. I didn’t even know my baby girl was deaf. I watch my hand slap King across the face as if it had a mind of its own. His head snaps to the side, freezing thereafter the impact of my hand. His eyes are closed, and I can’t resist the urge to have another go at it. I slap him again and again until adrenaline has consumed me and I’m pounding my fists against his chest.

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“I hate you, I hate you so much! I wish you were dead!” I yell while he stands there, taking every bit of abuse without defending himself, until suddenly he grabs my wrists firmly to stop me. “Stop,” he says, turning me to face the bed, where two very big eyes watch me with horror. When King knows I’ve seen her, he lets go of me and leans over to turn on the light next to Juliette’s bed. He crawls across the bed and sits directly in front of her and begins to sign. She watches intently until he stops, and then her eyes are on me again. God, I want to hold her and caress her skin, smooth her tousled hair away from her face, and kiss every inch of her from head to toe. But I’ve gone and messed things up by freaking out on the only parent she’s ever known.

Chapter Thirty-Five King If Sebastián weren’t my father . . . well, you know. He fucking told her. I should have known. He’s been begging me to bring Juliette back every day since Holland graduated from Juilliard and won the auditions for concertmaster with the New York Philharmonic. It wasn’t like I didn’t want her back in our lives. I did, I do, more than anything. I ache for her every single day. I tell Juliette how wonderful and beautiful and talented her mommy is, we look at pictures taken by the team of people who have kept track of her since the day I left, and we watch every one of her performances on video. Watching her play is bittersweet. I expected nothing less from her. I knew if we were out of the picture, she would blow the classical music

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world’s mind, and she certainly has, but the hole in my heart where she belongs grows larger every day we are apart, and the cruel irony of having a deaf child who will never hear the beauty of her mother’s gift gnaws at my conscience. I can’t help but think that maybe she was fine in the hospital, and when God saw me take her from her mother, he took her hearing away to punish me through her. I couldn’t let the past three years be for nothing by showing up right now. She’s been out of danger for eighteen months, ever since the dirty world of drug cartels learned that the Romero empire had no real heir. But her career was peaking, she was living her dream, and I didn’t want to interrupt it. I sign to Juliette that her mommy is here to see her, but she is a little upset about something that has nothing to do with her. She signs back that Mommy is scary and that she wants me to stay with her until she’s gone. When she’s done using her hands to speak to me, she crawls into my lap on her

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knees and wraps her little arms around my neck, turning her face away from Holland. I feel like the biggest shithead in the universe when I look to see how Holland is handling this. Her face is full of so much pain and longing that I have to look away too. This isn’t how I wanted this to go. I wanted to ease them back together over the next year, introducing them in Puerto Rico where Juliette would feel comfortable. I wanted to tell Holland about our daughter’s disability. I’d hoped she would have an opportunity to learn a little sign language before meeting her so she could communicate with her right away. All of this would have been possible if Sebastián hadn’t gotten so fucking impatient. I was going to call Holland in a few more months, but he didn’t believe me. Sebastián thought I was never going to let

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Holland see Juliette again. He could never see the big picture. Nobody could. She fulfilled her half of our deal a million times over when she graduated from Juilliard in half the time allotted and became the youngest person in history to ever win the audition for concertmaster. I’ve never been more proud of anyone or anything in my life. I’ve also kept my promise to get out of the drug dealing business. It was much easier when the word spread that Arturo Romero wasn’t my real father. Fifteen months after moving to Puerto Rico, I had millions of dollars squirreled away in offshore accounts. Suspicions were high for an entire year until the cartels relaxed and realized that I had no say in the matter. My connection was adamant: no true Romero, no supply. When Juliette is calm, I tuck her back under the covers. I start to scoot off the bed to leave and she grabs my wrist. I sign that

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everything will be okay. I tell her not to worry, and that Mommy is a very loving person. She asks if her mommy will be here tomorrow when she wakes up, and I tell her I’m not sure, but probably not. Her full bottom lip slips out in a pout. I kiss her nose and leave the door open a crack in case she needs me. Holland isn’t in the bedroom anymore, so I search the living room. Empty. I look in the bathroom and the dining area before I decide that she must have felt so out of place and unwanted that she left. Fuck, I want to punch my father right now. I pace the length of the living room several times and decide there is nothing I can do right now. I can’t leave Juliette in the hotel room alone to try and catch her downstairs. I’m going to have to wait for Sebastián to get back to go to her apartment. I turn off all the lights and toss toys and books into a wicker basket that we drag

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along with us everywhere when we travel. I check on Juliette one more time and find her sound asleep exactly how I left her—with one exception. Holland is wrapped around her little body, spooning with her face buried in her hair. It’s impossible to tell where Holland’s wild mass of waves stops and Juliette’s begins. Seeing them together makes me stumble, and I grab the doorframe for support. I don’t know how long I stand there watching the two most beautiful people in my life take breath after breath. It’s surreal. Mother and child reunited. It’s the third most moving moment of my life. Number one was when I saw Holland dancing at Ecstasy and fell in love with her at first sight, and number two happened while watching her deliver our daughter. When my muscles begin to ache from standing in the same spot for so long, I leave the door open a crack and pad into the living room to call Sebastián.

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A sense of wellbeing radiates through the suite. Knowing that Holland and Juliette are sleeping in the next room together is so incredibly right that I’m struck with the realization that the past three years have been more off-balance than I thought. But how could that be? Holland is everything she ever wanted to be, famous, world-renowned, a Juilliard graduate. She fulfilled every dream she worked her entire life for. Sebastián picks up after only one ring. He was waiting for the call. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I sit on the edge of the couch with my elbows propped on my knees, caught in this tight situation with my father. “King, I couldn’t let you do this again. My granddaughter needs her mother, and you need Holland. She’s a star. Isn’t that what you wanted? It was time to give her her life back.”

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“Give her her life back? What I wanted? She has the life she dreamed of, Sebastián. I may have had my doubts at first, but when we found out Juliette was deaf, I knew I was doing the right thing. Holland would never have gone back to playing. She would have devoted every ounce of herself to Juliette. She wouldn’t have gone to college, and she never would have played all over the world in so many orchestras. It had to be this way.” “All right, King. I know I’ll never make you see that what you did was wrong. The past is the past, but those two need to be together now, and in the future. You were taking too long. I couldn’t watch another birthday go by without them knowing each other. “You don’t see what I see. She may be famous and accomplished, but she’s hollow. The music doesn’t fill her up like it used to. The only thing that can fill the void in her life

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is Juliette, and God willing, if she can ever forgive you, she needs you too.” I sink back into the couch and stare out the window at the lights of the New York skyline. She will never forgive me. I sacrificed her motherhood for her career, and it wasn’t my choice to make. I knew she would never forgive me the moment I left our house in Houston and got on a plane to Puerto Rico with our baby. “Where is she now?” he asks. “Sleeping with Juliette.” “She’s still there? How did it go?” “It was rocky. She rushed in before I could tell her, and Juliette woke up scared. I thought she slipped out when I was tucking Juliette back into bed, but when I went back in, she was curled up with her.” “And Juliette didn’t get upset?”

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“I never heard a peep from the bedroom, and they were both asleep when I found them, so apparently not.” “You got lucky, son. Things could have been so much worse.” “She loves her, so much. I saw it in her eyes tonight, and it made me doubt myself. I messed up, I was wrong. But I’ve been telling you I was going to contact her soon. You just had to push, didn’t you?” “Your way isn’t always the best way, King. In fact, your way has pretty much sucked for the last three years. Somebody had to show you that you were wrong. Guess it was me.” “Well, it’s done now. There’s no going back. I don’t know what the hell is going to happen in the morning, but you’d better be here bright and early to help if I need you.” “I’m right downstairs. Call me for anything.”

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“I will.” We hang up, and I toe off my shoes and lay down on the couch. What now? I have no idea what to expect from Holland tomorrow, or Juliette, for that matter. I get up and check on them one more time. Holland is under the covers, and Juliette is facing her now with her hand on Holland’s cheek; both are still sleeping. Tears well in my eyes for the first time in years. They are so beautifully meant to be together. I can’t believe I ever thought she was better off without her daughter. The dam of guilt that’s been building for years breaks free, flooding me with regret. I was wrong, so, so wrong. Now I have to make it right. Somehow, I have to find a way to put Holland’s life back together.

Chapter Thirty-Six Holland I couldn’t just leave. Seeing her for those few seconds lit a part of my heart that has been dark for so long. I needed to touch her, smell her, and feel her warmth close to me to believe she was real. While King comforted her, I slipped into the bedroom next to Juliette’s and tiptoed back in when he went looking for me. She is already asleep, and since she can’t hear, I’m able to sit in a chair behind her and watch her for a few minutes, but I can’t stand it. I press my knee into the mattress, and the movement wakes her. She rolls over and I freeze. She gazes at me for a few seconds, and just when I’m sure she’s going to yell for her daddy, she reaches out her chubby little arms, inviting me closer. She’s

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seen me in pictures and on video. I’m not a complete stranger. Our hearts and souls know one another. She lived inside of me, she kicked and grew, and she felt my love for her. I crawl closer, and she takes my hand and rolls back to her side until we are spooning. She fits perfectly in the curve of my body. She feels like home. I bury my face in her hair and breathe her in, and she wiggles closer to me. Lord, I’m in heaven with her in my arms again. The planets align and the stars are all in their proper place in the sky. Every molecule of my body relaxes when I melt against her. The exhaustion and worry of three long years without her falls away, and a peace I have never known blankets us both. Her breathing is slow and regular, her grip on my hand relaxes, and the steady beat of her tiny heart lulls me to sleep.

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Before I even open my eyes in the morning, I feel the calm in my soul. I slide my hand across the sheet, half asleep, in search of her, but find a cool, empty pillow instead. When I jerk awake and sit straight up in bed, I’m face to face with a wild-haired three-year-old sitting on her knees in soft pink fleece pajamas, watching me intently. She raises her hand to wave hello, and I do the same and smile. She smiles back. I don’t know what to do now. I have no way to communicate with her. I don’t know sign language, and I have no idea if she reads lips. Do deaf children read lips? Juliette touches my lips with the tip of her finger, as if to answer my question. “Do you read lips?” She nods her head up and down and holds out her fingers as if to say just a little. Well that’s something. “Do you know who I am?”

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She nods again, and I scramble to think of a way she can respond other than nodding. She’s too young to text back and forth with. There’s an app for everything. There must be an app for this. I sit up to retrieve my phone from my back pocket, and she surprises me by crawling into my lap. “Oh . . .” My arms move to make way for her, and she snuggles in, pulling the comforter around us both. It’s sort of strange that she’s so comfortable having a semi stranger in her bed. King has done a good job familiarizing her with me. When she’s settled, I hold my phone in front of us both and search for some sort of app that helps the hearing and deaf communicate, and voilà, there it is. She recognizes the app’s logo and turns to smile up at me. I pause and look into her eager eyes until she returns her attention to the phone and impatiently taps the screen, but suddenly I realize that I don’t need an app to say what I want to say. I turn her in my lap and point to

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myself and cross my arms over my chest, and then I point to her. Juliette’s eyes light up like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. She repeats the sign and throws her arms around my neck in a long overdue embrace. I hold her so tightly that I can’t believe she doesn’t fuss. The emotions I’ve been holding back for so long come rushing to the surface, and I begin to cry. My shoulders shake, and she turns around and places her hands on my wet cheeks. When I open my eyes, her face is full of concern, and I watch as she flicks her index finger up, raising her eyebrows. She’s signing something, so I search the bed for my phone to learn what she’s just said. I wish I knew how to tell her that these are happy tears. She finds the phone first, though, and scrolls until she finds a picture of a woman shrugging her shoulders in question and turns the phone to show me she is confused.

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Explaining via sign language that I’m overwhelmed with happiness because I didn’t ever think this day would come seems too difficult, so I just smile and sign I love you, I love you, I love you until I can’t sign anymore because my hands are full of her. “Ahem.” King is standing just inside the bedroom door, watching us with tears in his eyes. Good. Asshole. “I can help you if you’d like.” Juliette notices my rigidity and turns to see what I’m looking at. When she sees her daddy, she leaps off the bed and into his arms, taking my heart with her. The pain her reaction causes me is unintentional, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less, and it’s totally not her fault—it’s his. He is the monster I used to live and breathe for, the man who I

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would have given anything, the man who ripped out the lifeline feeding my soul, the man who singlehandedly ruined the best part of my life by making decisions for me that were never his to make, the father of my little girl . . . King. He swings her into his arms and hugs her tight. I take the opportunity to speak freely while her face is turned away. I don’t know how good she is at reading lips, and I definitely don’t want her reading what I’m about to say. “You’re an evil, vile monster. I don’t need your help. You’ve done enough already. The only thing I want from you is my little girl. Nothing else. You make me sick. I can’t imagine hating someone more than I hate you.” That’s not all true. The sight of him feels more like a KitchenAid mixer set on high, with a bread hook blending all my insides together. I hate him, yes, but

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miraculously, somehow I don’t think the love I once felt for him is completely dead. Can that even happen? Can I love and despise the same person at the same time? I think I can. I think I do. I also think it doesn’t matter. “I’m glad to see you two are getting along.” “Fuck you, King.” I swing my legs off the bed and walk around him so Juliette can see me. “Are you hungry?” She reads my lips and nods yes. “Why don’t you order some breakfast, King, and I’ll get acquainted with my daughter?” I smile for Juliette, but my tone is full of venom. He’s not used to being told what to do, and he’s never seen me angry. “Holland, I’m not going to argue with you in front of her. We can have breakfast, but after that we need to sit down and figure out what to do next.”

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“There’s nothing to figure out. You’ve deprived me of her for three years. I want back into her life . . . permanently.” “Like I said, after breakfast. Sebastián is coming up. I’ll order for him too.” “Did he know? Has he known all along?” “Yes. He helped me, he had no choice.” “Everyone has a choice, King. He just didn’t want to die. That’s how you deal with problems, isn’t it?” “Not now, Holland.” “Not now . . . not now. When do I get to decide anything, huh, King? When will you allow me to live my life the way I want to?” Juliette has squirmed from his arms. She may be deaf, but she can sense the tension between us and she doesn’t like it. Her

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little hand slides into mine, and she pulls me into the living room. King is in the bedroom on the phone, ordering breakfast and calling Sebastián, the traitor, to come up and eat with us. He must be staying in the same hotel. Of course. He travels with King everywhere, he knows all of King’s business, he’s been in on this from the beginning. Ugh. Another asshole. He was so concerned when King disappeared. I should have known. Juliette leads me to the couch, where she motions for me to sit. She drags a basket of toys and books between our feet. She begins to pluck toy after toy from her collection, showing me each one and watching my reaction. I love that she wants to share her things with me, but I’m distracted by my anger. Getting through breakfast with these two rats is going to be hard. Sebastián walks through the door not five minutes later, smiling ear to ear when he sees Juliette and me sitting on the floor

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where she’s set up tea for two . . . not three or four. It’s juvenile, but I’m reveling in her undivided attention. I ignore Sebastián and focus all of my attention on the sweet girl handing me a cup of pretend tea. “Good morning, Holland,” Sebastián says. Juliette notices my sideways glance and looks to see what’s taken my attention away. When she sees Sebastián, she jumps up exactly the way she did when she saw King and flies into his arms. He squats down eye to eye with her for a hug, and she signs something to him. “How’s my beautiful granddaughter?” he says, signing at the same time. Granddaughter? What the hell? I snap my eyes to his, and he realizes he’s let a secret out of the bag. King steps in to rescue him. The assholes have to stick together, I guess.

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“This is another reason we should have talked before all of this happened,” King says, pinning Sebastián with a livid glare. “Come on, princess, let’s have breakfast with Mommy and Daddy. I saw the man pushing the room service cart our way,” Sebastián signs to her. He ignores us both and swoops Juliette up over his head. After a huge, over the top breakfast, of which Juliette hardly ate a bite, Sebastián offers to help her get dressed and go for a walk. “No way,” I say. “Holland, I told you where they were. Why would I try to take her away now?” “Ah gee, I dunno, Grandpa. I’ve developed some trust issues over the past three years. Wonder why?” King sighs, and Sebastián looks at him with raised eyebrows as he pushes away from

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the formal dining table. Who needs a formal dining room in a hotel? “I’ll just take her into her room and find her some clothes and brush her hair and teeth,” Sebastián says, offering Juliette his hand. She looks back and forth between us. He releases her hand and signs that I’m not leaving, but Mommy and Daddy need some time to talk. She narrows her eyes suspiciously until I nod. She signs something back to him and he translates for me. “She says she doesn’t want you to go . . . ever.” I bite my lip to keep from crying again. I don’t want her to think that’s all mamas do. “Tell her I’m not going anywhere.” I watch Sebastián sign my response to her, and when she’s satisfied that I’m not leaving, she follows him out the door, only to run back in and launch herself into my arms.

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She stands between my legs, and I press my face against the top of her head and burn her scent into my memory. Her little face tilts up, and she quickly kisses me on the cheek before she runs back after Sebastián. My heart swells a thousand times its normal size. She doesn’t want me to leave, and she kissed me for the first time. I lean to watch them disappear behind Juliette’s bedroom door. I don’t care what they say. I don’t trust either of them beyond my sight. “Let’s sit in the living room,” I say, leading the way. King sits on the couch, and I choose the chair furthest from him. He unbuttons his suit coat, shaking his head back and forth. “I don’t bite,” he says, glancing at the space I’ve put between us.

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“I know,” God, I don’t want to talk to him. I just want to be with Juliette. I haven’t been in a room alone with King for a long time. It feels so different, so foreign that I can hardly remember how it felt to be comfortable and relaxed with him. “You don’t have to sit clear over there.” “I know.” “Suit yourself.” He shrugs, smoothing his tie. “I will.” I cross my arms over my chest, shutting him out as much as possible. He sighs and rolls his eyes. “Well, I guess I’ll start at the beginning.” “Yes, that would be good. I’d like to hear how you try to rationalize all of this.” He takes a deep breath and begins.

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“You were a target for every enemy I’ve ever had. You were in serious danger when my associates learned I was going to cut off their supply so I could get out of the business. I had to separate myself from you. I did it because I love you. I wanted you to be safe and successful, and the world deserved to hear you play.” “The world deserved to hear me? What about what I deserved, King? What about me? Don’t you think I deserved to have a say in how I wanted to live my life? Why didn’t you talk to me about the danger? Why did you have to take Juliette? Why couldn’t you just disappear and leave us together? You sacrificed my relationship with my child without even discussing it with me.” “She was safer with me until I got things under control, and she would have been a distraction for you.” I’m stunned. A distraction? Safer with him? He’s not going to be safe from me in a

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second, because I’m going to kill him myself. My entire body is trembling with fury. It’s all I can do not to launch myself at him and claw his eyes out. He bows his head for a moment and takes a deep breath. When he looks up, he looks past me over my shoulder. I can hardly hear him when he speaks. His voice cracks and wavers on the edge of tears. “I saw you doing what I knew you could do, what you wanted to do when I met you, and it validated my decision. When the danger was gone, you were so happy and I didn’t want to blow it all out of the water by returning too soon. I swear, I was planning to bring her back to you. God, Holland, I was so sure I was doing the right thing, but then last night . . . the two of you curled in that bed together . . .” His quiet, gravelly voice breaks, and my cold, angry heart lurches, but I shove that pity far away, because the pain and loss I’ve

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experienced at his hands can’t compare to his sudden realization. “King, the life you thought I wanted isn’t the life I wanted. I love music. My dream was to be a professional musician, but dreams change. You should have told me about the danger, you should have given me some choices, you should have come back the instant the danger was gone, but instead you railroaded my life, twisting and molding it into what you thought it should be.” I cover my face with my hands and rest my elbows on my knees. I’m so angry and hurt. I don’t want to talk about this right now. I just want to start making up for lost time with Juliette. King is quiet. When I look up, he’s slumped back into the couch with one elbow on the arm holding his head, with his hand shielding his face. I see a tear fall from behind his hand and land somewhere in his lap, and I wonder how many tears he left me.

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They can’t compare with mine. I could have filled an ocean with my tears, maybe two. I cried every day for six months. I cried when I woke up, and then in the shower, I cried when I moved to New York, I cried in the bathroom between classes at Juilliard and on breaks during performances, and finally, every night, wherever I was in the world, I cried myself to sleep until one day, I just stopped. I can’t say I gave up hope because I never did, but something inside of me was broken. I surrendered to my fate and became a robot. I accomplished goal after goal, but I never enjoyed the rewards. I had no one to comfort me when I moved to New York, but King had Juliette, and that’s a bitter pill to swallow. I stand to leave. I’m finished talking. There isn’t anything left to say really. I know why he did what he did, and I realize he was protecting me, but he knows the way he did

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it was wrong. He doesn’t move until I pass him, and he reaches out to grab my wrist. “Don’t go.” He doesn’t even look at me when he speaks. He has no right to ask me to stay. “I wish I had been given the chance to say those words three years ago,” I say and shake free of his grip. “I’m sorry.” His words dissolve in the air behind me as I walk across the living room and open Juliette’s door. Sebastián is almost finished dressing her in a grey and pink jumper with grey tights. He’s buckling her little black Mary Jane shoes. Her hair is parted perfectly down the middle and French braided down each side. I’m impressed. “You’re pretty good at that.” He looks up, and Juliette follows his eyes to me.

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“Thank you, lots of practice.” I wince, and he drops his eyes. “Sorry, I don’t mean to rub it in.” “It’s okay. I know you didn’t have a choice. King gets what King wants. So tell me why you refer to yourself as Grandpa Sebastián. I never took you for much of a family man.” He stands and helps Juliette down from the edge of the bed. She runs to me and I pick her up. She snuggles against my neck, and when she pulls away, she signs something in the space between us. Her signs are so small and cute. I wish I could understand what she’s saying. I look at Sebastián for help. “She says she wants you to go with us to the ballet. We are going to see Cinderella this afternoon. You’re welcome to join us, of course.”

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I nod yes, and a smile that would light up the darkest night spreads across her face. “Would you like to go home and get changed and cleaned up first?” he asks. I cock my head to the side and give him an ‘are you out of your fucking mind’ expression. “We can go with you, Holland. I swear I’m not trying to keep you apart anymore. I never was. I told him to talk to you, but you know him, he wouldn’t listen. I’m his father, Holland. I had an affair with his mother, and we could never tell anyone he was mine. Arturo would have killed me—her too, probably. I had to stand on the sidelines and watch Arturo put his drug business ahead of him when I wanted to claim him as my own. I participated in his life as much as a security guard could without looking suspicious, so believe me when I tell you that I want you to be with your daughter.”

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“You’re . . . his father?” Juliette has been swinging her eyes back and forth between Sebastián and me, trying to catch some of our conversation. She takes my face between her hands, forcing me to focus on her. When she has all of my attention, she begins to sign again. “She wants to go to your house, she caught that much of our conversation. If you have more questions, we can talk in the car.” “Okay.” I nod so Juliette knows we are leaving. She squirms out of my arms and bolts out of the room. She’s probably going to tell King our plans. “Is King going to the ballet?” “Yes, he takes her every year when they come to watch you play on her birthday.” “They come every year?” I think he mentioned that before, but things are just now starting to sink in.

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“How many of my performances does he come to?” “Since you became concertmaster, all of them. Before that, he came to as many as he could without disrupting Juliette’s schedule.” That’s a lot of traveling. I’ve been in almost every country at least once over the past three years, playing in concerts and auditions. I can’t believe he followed me everywhere. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but he loves you, Holland. He loves you so much, and he’s so incredibly proud of you. He never shuts up about how talented you are, and he constantly fills Juliette’s head with stories about you. He shows her photographs and videos. He wanted her to know you. He was planning on contacting you this year, but I was tired of his plan. She was growing up, and you were missing it. She needed you,

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and so did he, so I betrayed him, and I don’t regret it for a second.” I pace back and forth while he talks. He’s right. I don’t want to hear that. I don’t care what he wanted or why he wanted it. His plan robbed me of three years with my daughter, and I’ll never forgive him. “I’m glad she knows me, but I was never allowed to know her, and I can’t forgive him for that . . . ever. There were other ways. He could have talked to me. He could have kept us safe together. I didn’t need to be a fucking professional violinist. I would have chosen Juliette a million times over my career. He has a fucked up way of loving people, and I don’t want to be on the receiving end of that kind of love. I just want my daughter back. I want to get to know her, learn how to communicate with her, and have her in my life.”

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I stop and turn to face Sebastián. His eyes are sad and defeated. He must have thought there was a chance for King and me. He was wrong. “I was afraid you’d feel this way.” “Can you blame me?” I cross my arms over my chest and stare at him hard. “No, I guess I don’t. You have no idea of the danger you were in, though, and I just hoped . . .” He slides his hands in his pockets and looks at the floor. “I can’t believe you’re his real daddy.” I narrow my eyes and look closer at Sebastian’s features. King has his strong chiseled bone structure and his dark eyes. I can see the resemblance now. “I know; it’s been so good to finally get it out in the open. It’s what got him out of the drug business.” “He’s out of the business? How?”

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“He wasn’t a Romero. His connection didn’t trust him anymore. He was of no value to the cartels anymore, so they backed off.” “When? When did they know?” He shuffles his feet. “A year ago.” “A year? He could have brought her back a year ago?” “I’m telling you, Holland, everything he does, he does it for you or that little girl in there. You were doing so well he—” “Sebastián, just stop. I don’t care anymore. I stopped loving him a long time ago. I almost died when he left. And then when Dax gave me hope, he swooped in and squashed that too.” “Dax? You should thank King for getting rid of him. He wasn’t worthy to breathe the same air as you. He was a major player. He saw you as a challenge, and when he

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conquered you he would have left you more broken than before.” “I couldn’t have been more broken than I already was.” “I hear you're going to the ballet with us,” King says, entering the room with an ecstatic Juliette. “Ah, yeah . . . I need to go home and get cleaned up first, but I’m not letting her out of my sight, King, not for a second, do you understand?” I’m standing my ground on this. I may never let this child out of my sight as long as she lives. “Of course, absolutely. The car is waiting for us downstairs. Are you ready?” “I’ve never been more ready in my life.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven King It’s been one month since Holland and Juliette were reunited, and I’m no closer to convincing her that everything I did was to keep her alive. We’ve been staying in Puerto Rico for two weeks, and she has all but ignored me every single second since we stepped off the plane. I’m not complaining, really. She’s building a relationship with Juliette, learning sign language, swimming with her, watching movies, playing games . . . I just wish they would include me once in a while. It’s torture living in the same house day after day, seeing her in her sexy bikini, smelling her perfume on the cushions of the couch long after she’s gone to bed, and watching her absentmindedly run her fingers through her hair when she concentrating.

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How could I have been so wrong? It’s so easy to see now that this is where she belongs, raising our daughter and living under my roof. She seems to have come to life these past few weeks. She laughs often her skin glows, and I’m always catching her humming. I’ve even heard her play her violin for Juliette. She’s fascinated with the instrument. She may not be able to hear, but she loves to touch it, pluck the strings and feel the vibrations when Holland plays for her. I find Sebastián drinking coffee on the terrace. “Morning,” he says, lifting his cup. “Coffee?” “Yes, please. Retirement agrees with you, old man.” “Thanks.” “Where are the girls?” I pull out a chair and sit across from him under the perfect, warm Puerto Rican

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sun. He points toward the beach, where Holland and Juliette are building a sand castle. They stop occasionally to sign to one another, and my heart melts. “I have to take them to Houston.” Sebastián stares quietly as Juliette dumps water on Holland and Holland shrieks and sprinkles sand in Juliette’s hair. “She’s never going to let it go, King.” “I know.” “Then why the trip home?” “I have to keep trying. I love her. Now that I’ve seen how it should have been, I can’t give up on us.” Sebastián sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He thinks it’s hopeless, but he hasn’t seen the glimmer of our old love in her eyes. He doesn’t know that sometimes she stops to watch me before she enters a room. I can feel

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her there. He doesn’t know her tells, but I’ll never forget the way she rubs the side of her neck or how she puts her finger on her bottom lip when she’s thinking about me. “It couldn’t hurt to make sure things are running smoothly at Ecstasy I guess,” he says. “We could stay a night or two in the apartment and a few at the house.” “Why anyway?”

did

you

keep

that

club,

“Sentimental reasons. I couldn’t sell the place where I met her.” He lifts his eyebrows skeptically. “I don’t think she’s going to go for that. She’ll never let Juliette stay in a dance club, King.” “Yeah, you’re probably right. We will go to the house then.” “I’ll call Candy and tell her to stay in Houston with Leo. She was planning on

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coming back tomorrow, but this will save her a trip. Does she know?” “About Leo and Candy? No, I feel like she’s had enough to process lately. It can wait.” “She’s going to be pissed when she finds out Candy was in on this.” “Another reason not to say anything just yet.” “King, Candy’s my wife now. You can’t keep avoiding her. Holland is going to find out about Candy’s involvement as soon as she talks to her.” “Then she won’t talk to her for a while. I need time.” He shakes his head and takes a drink of his coffee. “Forever isn’t long enough for her to forgive you, King. I’m sorry, but I think the

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sooner you accept, that the better off you’ll be.” “Never. If it takes forever, then I’ll spend forever convincing her that I love her.” He stands to leave and rests his hand on my shoulder. “I admire your tenacity, son, but I’m not sure what you’ve done is reversible. Some damage is permanent.” He squeezes my shoulder and leaves me alone to watch my girls . . . my girls, as in both of them. They’re mine . . . I will never give up. *** “Why can’t we go together, Daddy?” Juliette signs. “Because Daddy has to go tonight to get some things ready, and Mommy doesn’t like flying in our plane.” I sign back to her.

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“Why doesn’t she like our plane?” she signs with her adorable brown dimpled hands. “Mommy likes people, she likes to be with lots of people when she travels, and she likes big planes.” It’s not true. She prefers the jet, but it’s the first thing that came to mind when she asked, so I went with it. Holland doesn’t want to fly in the jet because of me. She said she couldn’t stand to be in such a small space with me for that long because she hates me that much. She agreed to go, though, so I didn’t argue about it. I just need her in Houston, in our old house, so she will remember how it was before I destroyed her life. I wanted to go back ahead anyway to make sure the house is in order, and a few special things are waiting for her when she arrives. Juliette’s bottom lip sticks out in a pout. She’s not used to being separated from me. Whenever I have traveled in the past,

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she has come with me, but Holland refuses to allow her out of her sight. She still doesn’t trust me. She sleeps in the same room as Juliette every night. She even goes so far as to lock the door when they go to bed. Sometimes I think Sebastián is right. She’ll never forgive me if she can’t even trust me not to take Juliette from her bed in the middle of the night. “I have a surprise for you there. I have to go first so I can get it ready,” I sign, trying to make her forget about traveling separately. “A surprise? I want a surprise,” she signs with excitement. “Okay, then Daddy has to go tonight, and you and Mommy will come tomorrow.” She nods her head up and down and her eyes sparkle with anticipation. I’ve tried not to spoil her with material things like my father—or I guess I should say Arturo—did

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with me. I keep the gifts down to a dull roar unless it’s a birthday or Christmas, so a surprise is a big deal for her. I kiss her on the nose and then each cheek. She hugs me tight and signs, “I love you.” I sign that I love her back, and Holland guides her into their bedroom without a word—no goodbye, no safe travels, no fuck off, dickhead, nothing. I’m not sure what else to do to win her back. I’ve sent her flowers—lame, I know. I’ve left her gifts of jewelry, trinkets, electronics, music. She returns them all to the floor outside my bedroom each night. I’ve pledged my love and loyalty. The only thing I have left in my arsenal is something I don’t want to give to her. I kept a journal every single day we were apart. I wrote down all of Juliette’s milestones and her daily activities, from how many times she burped to what day she learned which color of the rainbow. At the end of each entry, I wrote her a love

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letter—not a note, but a letter—every day. Every feeling and experience I had for three years is written down in those books. It’s a double-edged sword. If I give it to her, she will see how much I thought about her and that I never stopped loving her for one second, but she will also know everything she missed, everything I took from her.

Chapter Thirty-Eight Holland For the first time since I was reunited with Juliette, we are sleeping with the door unlocked. King is gone. We’ve been living under the same roof for a while now, and it feels weird to know he’s not here somewhere. If I weren’t so sure I hated him, I would think I missed him, but I don’t. At least, I don’t think I do . . . he’s making this more difficult than I thought was possible. I hate the gifts he leaves for me. I honestly despise them. They feel like bribes or little pieces of manipulation. But I’m having more and more trouble ignoring the growing tenderness in my heart for him. He’s been very kind and loving and generous, and he’s respected every single demand I’ve made and every wish I’ve had. I even threw in some ridiculous things to see what he’d do

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like requesting lobster for breakfast, lunch and dinner for a week, or the time I told him Juliette and I were going to watch the midnight showing of the latest Disney movie. He would raise his eyebrows and cock his neck back, but he never questioned me. It was always, “Alright, Holland.” “Whatever you think is best, Holland.” “If that’s what you want, Holland.” A couple of times I wanted him to put up a fight just to make it interesting, but I knew he wouldn’t do it. I could ask for the moon, and he would hire someone to figure out how to get it for me. He’s desperate, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it. The longer I’m in Puerto Rico, the more evidence I find that he was telling the truth. He truly believed he was doing the right thing for me. He thought I was destined for greatness and that if he stood in my way, I would be devastated and resent him for it forever.

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And as far as I can tell, he’s completely out of the drug business. I haven’t seen a contact or heard a business phone call for weeks, and Sebastián, his father—God, I still can’t believe that—swears he handed it all over to the Russians. But still . . . three years . . . I can’t set aside the misery and heartache he put me through unnecessarily, even if he did think it was right. It’s like shoving a butcher knife through someone’s chest just to cut a tiny mole off of their back when they could have removed it with a scalpel by simply turning the person over—if it needed removing at all. A mole is an irregularity. It’s not necessary to remove it. I never considered Juliette an irregularity or an obstacle to overcome. She was a part of me. He didn’t have to remove her from my life so that I could live. She was one of the things keeping me alive and he was the other. Without them, I was lost.

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*** Someone is pounding on my door. I open my eyes and look at the clock on the bedside table. It’s six a.m. and our flight isn't until noon. We aren’t late. What the hell is going on? I sit up and pad quietly so I don’t disturb Juliette, until it dawns on me that it’s not necessary—she can’t hear us. “Holland,” Sebastián yells and bangs on the door some more. I open it and look down at where my hand is on the knob; he’s surprised it’s not locked. His eyes are wild and red-rimmed. He’s been crying. Alarms and whistles start going off in my head, and my heart plummets. “There’s been an accident . . . a plane down . . . King could be . . .” Oh my God. My hand flies to cover my mouth, and tears spring to my eyes . . . tears. I swore to never shed another tear over that

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man, but he might be . . . no, no, no, this isn’t happening. I lost him once. I can’t lose him again. I didn’t say goodbye last night. I told him I hated him . . . Sebastián looks over my shoulder at Juliette. She’s still asleep. “Come, we have to make some calls and find out what’s happening.” I nod and reach for my robe from the chair next to the door and glance one more time at Juliette. She may have lost her daddy. The thought rips me apart. She loves him so much—he’s her world—this would shatter her. When the door is closed, Sebastián leads me to the main living room at the end of the hall, where the TV is on and a reporter is talking to a coastguard official about a plane that went down around midnight last

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night—the same time King’s jet was supposed to be flying to Houston. I stop halfway into the room and stare at the screen, listening to them describe King’s plane. There were no survivors. They don’t know what caused the crash—the weather was perfect, the sky was clear, and it just took a nosedive straight into the ocean. Sebastián turns just in time to see me drop to my knees and lean back on my heels. I can’t feel. I’m numb. This isn’t like when I came home and couldn’t find Juliette and King. It’s worse. There’s no panic, no urgency, no question, because there isn’t anything anyone can do. He’s gone, he’s at the bottom of the ocean, and he’s never coming back. His plane crashed, and he died alone in the ocean without knowing that I love him. I’ve always loved him. “Now Holland, we don’t know for sure, it might not have been his plane. He

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could be in Houston right now. We need to contact the authorities.” Our eyes meet, and I can tell he’s grasping at straws, trying not to accept that his son is gone. It strikes me as ironic that he was only able to fully and openly love his son for the same amount of time that I was kept from loving my daughter. He shakes his head back and forth. “Don’t you give up on him, Holland. He’s not dead, he will not be dead. He’s my son, dammit! You may have stopped loving him, but I haven’t.” “I never stopped.” I blink once, freeing two large, hot tears. Sebastián helps me up and over to the couch, where we sit together. I watch the news coverage that’s repeating over and over that the one man I ever loved might be dead. Sebastián is on his phone for what seems like forever. I haven’t heard a word he’s said. I started tuning out sound a while ago when I couldn’t stand to

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hear the story repeated one more time. When he hangs up, he takes my hand in both of his. I’m still numb. I can hardly feel his fingers on mine. When I look over and see his ashen face, I know. “It was his plane,” he says. Those four words strung together in that specific order at this specific moment destroy me. Part of me knew he was gone already, but the confirmation of his death brings the shock rushing back a thousand fold. “I didn’t know . . . I didn’t know . . .” I whisper as Sebastián’s arms circle my shoulders. “I know, but he believed you did, he never gave up, he swore he would spend the rest of his life trying to make it right between you two, and he did, he’s gone, he died trying.” His sobs break free, he cries against my neck, and I sit there with my arms at my

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sides, staring through the French doors at the ocean lapping against the shore, the same ocean that claimed King and his plane. I didn’t think I loved him. I thought I despised him, but now that we will never have a chance to make amends, I realize how blind I’ve been. *** I haven’t seen Juliette all day. I’ve been curled up on my side in King’s bed doing the same thing I did when he and Juliette disappeared. I’m breathing the scent of him into my lungs, where I wish I could keep it locked up forever. How do you tell a three-year-old her daddy is dead? I haven’t even learned how to sign the word ‘dead’ yet. I should be comforting Sebastián. He just lost his son, but he had to go pick up his wife somewhere. I didn’t even know he was married. He never mentioned her.

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Sebastián sent Juliette to play at the neighbor’s house with their little girl. They have been friends with King for years, and the girls have grown up together. It’s strange not being with her. I have literally not let her out of my sight for a month, but there’s nothing to worry about now. There’s no one to take her from me, because King is gone. I’m glad she enjoying one last afternoon of carefree fun, believing that her daddy is in Houston preparing a surprise for her. I wish the afternoon could last forever so she never has to know this pain. I open my eyes when I hear a rustling on the balcony outside of King’s room. When I look, it’s a big ol’ seagull flapping its wings before settling on a post that supports the balcony. Stupid bird. King hates it when they hang around pooping on the patios. I jump out of bed and shoo the stupid fucking bird off the patio.

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When I turn to go back into the house, I notice a series of leather-bound books stacked on his desk. They don’t look like books that you read for pleasure, but they aren’t business binders either. Something about them draws me to the desk. I sit in his huge leather office chair and slide one of them off the top of the stack and flip it open. May 23rd Today Juliette smiled and I swear it wasn’t gas. Her smile is the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen with the exception of yours, Holland. She misses you, though I know she’s only two months old, but I swear she looks for you. Her first word will be mama. I swear it. Even though you’re not here, she will know you, my love. When you’ve fulfilled your dreams of becoming a famous musician, we will come home and she will call you Mama. I promise, she will be able to pick you out of a crowd of thousands. She will know you. She will know who her mama is.

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We have the diaper-changing thing down pat now. I can finally get her changed without making a colossal mess. You would be proud. I showed her your picture three times today, and I played her a track of you practicing. She doesn’t respond to the music yet, but she’s young. She’ll learn. No one can resist your talent, Holland. You’re going to be a star. I can’t see to read anymore. My eyes are so full of tears, but I flip through the pages of the book and see that he wrote something every single day. I grab the next book on the stack and wipe my nose with the back of my hand before I flip it open and find more entries, hundreds of them, and at the end of each day's narration, there is a letter that begins, My dearest Holland, “I do love nothing in the world so much as you.” –William Shakespeare

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Shakespeare, he quoted Shakespeare. I turn the page, and there is another letter after the daily rundown that begins similarly. My dearest Holland, “Pride can stand a thousand trials, the strong will never fall, but watching the stars without you my soul cries.” –William Shakespeare I slam the book closed and push away from the desk until the chair hits the wall and I scream. I grip the arms of the chair and scream for the loss of a man who I spent years wishing were dead, only to mourn gravely when he is. The door to King’s room swings open. I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around my legs, and bury my face. “Go away. Leave,” I yell. No one can console me now. I just need to be alone. Whoever it is ignores my pleas and approaches. I pull my legs closer and squeeze my eyes shut so hard I see sparkles.

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“Holland? Baby, open your eyes.” Oh God, I’m really losing my shit now. That sounded exactly like King. Can a person hallucinate voices? I keep my head down until I feel a hand gather my hair and move it to the side and a kiss on the back of my neck. All the air is sucked out of the room, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I’m dizzy, and I don’t even have my eyes open. It can’t be, he’s gone. It was his plane, that’s what Sebastián said, I’m sure of it. It was his plane. I’ll never forget those four words. “Sweetheart, look at me, it’s okay, I wasn’t on the plane.” I tell my muscles to let go, I order them to relax, but they won’t listen. When his big, warm hands are on both sides of my head, lifting my face to his, I know it’s all a mistake, a terrible, awful,

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horrible mistake. He’s alive, and he’s here right in front of me, breathing and . . . living. I launch myself out of the chair and into his arms, wrapping my arms and legs around his body, clinging to him, because this time, God answered my prayer. This time he listened, this time he brought my King back to me. He sewed the last few stitches of the mortal gaping wound in my heart shut with this miracle. “I love you, King. God, I love you,” I say, kissing his neck. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear you say those words again.” His voice cracks, and I pull away just enough to cover his mouth with mine. Our kiss is desperate and so very long overdue. I can’t put my hands every place I want them to be fast enough. “I never stopped loving you, Holland,” he says between kisses, but I don’t want to hear him talk right now. I want to show him how I’m feeling instead.

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“Shush, take me to bed.” “Something else I never thought I’d hear again.” “Prepare to hear that often.” “Pinky swear?” he says, walking me to the bed, where he lays me down and holds out his pinky finger. “Pinky swear.” We link our fingers together and shake on it. “You love me again.” He smiles like a kid in a candy store with an American Express card. “I do.” Standing at the end of the bed, King reaches behind his head and pulls his t-shirt off with one hand and drops it to the floor. I tremble at the sight of the body that I know so well, the one I’ve been missing for years, the one I thought I had just lost forever.

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“Wait,” I say, sitting up and placing a kiss on his chiseled abs. “Wait? What do you have in mind here, baby?” “Nothing, just wanted to see if you could do it.” I smile up at him, and he tackles me, dragging me up the bed to punish me for teasing him. “That’s the last time that trick’s going to work, you know? You’re gonna get it now, baby,” he says, stripping my clothes off. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

Epilogue “Hey, gorgeous, wanna go to the beach today, or maybe you’d rather go to the beach?” King whispers in my ear from behind me, where he is spooning against me. “I think you just said the same place twice,” I murmur against his arm with my eyes still closed. “That’s because we’re in Aruba, on the beach, where I can watch my sexy wife in her tiny white bikini all day. Unless you’d rather stay in bed naked all day. That’s even better. I’m totally down for that.” King slides his chiseled, lean body against my backside, kissing and nipping a trail to my waist and ending at the small of my back. He has one hand full of ass cheek as he bites down a little harder than usual on

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the other, but I still giggle until he turns me over and tears off the sheet to start our daily honeymoon ecstasy festival. I hold my hands over my eyes and smile as he kisses every ticklish spot on my naked body. “Close your eyes.” “I’ve already got them covered,” I say between fits of giggles. “Just make sure they’re closed, Mrs. Ortega, got it?” “Yes, got it.” I love it when he calls me by my married name, and I love even more that it’s not a name synonymous with the drug world. King took Sebastián’s name so we could start fresh, and fresh is what he’s been for the past ten days of our honeymoon. But I’m not complaining.

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With my eyes closed, I feel the warmth of his body disappear and I hear something being stirred in a glass. The bed dips when he returns and straddles me between his legs. The heavy weight of my favorite part of his anatomy rests on my belly. I stick out my lip and pout. “I wanna look.” “Nope, not yet,” he says, removing my hands from my eyes. “Keep em closed.” The sun pours in through the windows of our bungalow so brightly that even with my eyes closed, I can see his form moving above me through my thin lids. “What are we doing?” “Cross your wrists.” I do as I’m told, and he raises my wrists and ties them with a soft piece of material to the headboard.

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“Trust me?” “If I could open my eyes, I’d roll them so you would know how silly that question is.” “Okay, open them.” I swear, it doesn’t matter how many times I look at this man—he still takes my breath away. Every tattoo, every scar, every chiseled muscle makes my mouth water and my heart flutter. After my moment of shock and awe, I watch as he reaches to the bedside table for a glass of water with a spoon in it. “What’s that?” “Water.” He shrugs matter-of-factly. “You thirsty?” I ask, smiling. I know he’s up to something. “Nope.” “Okay, I give, what’s up with the water?”

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He begins to stir, and I see it begin to cloud from something that’s settled on the bottom. “You gonna drug me?” “Nope.” He stops stirring and looks at me seriously. “This is three months’ worth of birth control pills.” “What?” I try to sit up, forgetting my hands are tied. “Why would you ruin all those . . .” He’s smiling now as he stirs. He sees that I’m beginning to understand. “You want another baby?” My words are so soft, they’re barely audible. “Yes. Do you?” We haven’t talked about expanding our family. It’s only been a year since I was reunited with King and Juliette, but we’re

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married now, and all of the hurt and pain is behind us, so what better time? “Yes.” My eyes mist with tears of joy. His smile widens and he sets the glass down. “Well, we could get started trying right now if you want.” “I need something first.” “Anything, baby, it’s yours.” “Pinky swear that you’ll never, ever leave me again.” He looks at me long and hard, deep into my eyes, past my common sense and around the corner to my insecurities, where he stops. “I, King Tomas Ortega, pinky swear to love and honor, respect and be true to you, Holland Blue Bennett-Ortega, until my dying breath.” He reaches up to where my hands are bound and tugs on my pinky with his.

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“Those are your wedding vows.” “Those are my pinky swear vows now too.” He drags his finger from the hollow of my neck to my navel and wraps his hands around my hips. “Okay, and one more thing.” He winks. “Anything.” “I just want to be Holland Blue Ortega, no more Bennett.” He leans down and feathers his lips against mine. “You’ve got it, Mrs. Ortega, now close your eyes again.” “Again?” He nods, and I close my eyes and feel another silky piece of material cover my eyes. He ties it loosely behind my head, and when I open my eyes, it’s completely dark. His lips are on mine again, more urgently this time. He takes his time, kissing

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me dizzy and tasting every inch of me, from my shoulders to my belly. When I’m panting and desperate, he leans back and bends my knees to grace me with the pleasure of his mouth between my legs. I arch my back off the bed, coming apart at the seams when he takes me to heaven, not once or twice, but three times before sliding his thick cock into my soaking wet folds. “I love you . . . God, King, I love you.” I gasp and dig my nails into his arms. “I love you too. Now hold on.” His words send a shiver down my spine, and I grab the headboard tighter. He glides out, and I hear him whisper something before he buries himself deep inside of me, moaning against my skin. The headboard jerks when he reaches over me to hold onto it for leverage. When he pulls away and begins thrusting in and out of me, I can taste the desire in the room. I’m no longer in Aruba in a bed with my new husband. I’m being tossed around in a tidal wave, sucked down deep

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until I don’t know which way is up. I’m at his mercy, and his current pulls me to the edge of pure pleasure until I burst through the surface and melt around this man who loves me so completely. My hands are released and the blindfold is shoved down almost frantically. “Holland, are you okay?” Some things never change. When I open my eyes, King looks down at me with concern, still panting. I watch a drop of sweat trickle down the side of his face and drip onto my bare chest. He gathers my sated body into his lap and cradles me in his arms, stroking my hair and rocking us back and forth. “I’ve never heard you cry out like that.” “You’ve never made me come like that.”

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He stops rocking and looks down at me. “Never?” “Uh uh, not like that.” I shake my head back and forth. He looks around thoughtfully before meeting my eyes again. “Must have been the restraints or the blindfold.” “Nope, pretty sure it was this,” I say, wiggling in his lap. He chuckles and lifts one corner of his mouth in a smirk. “Well, whatever it was, I think I’ll do it again and again, and then we can eat, and I’ll give it another shot—how’s that sound?” “Like a perfect day in paradise.” “Every day is a perfect day in paradise with you, baby. Every single day.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emerson Rose is a self-proclaimed sun worshiper and summer lover who loves nothing more than to be poolside with any of her five daughters or two granddaughters. Emerson lives in the Midwest, however, so most of the year is spent in coats and boots instead of swimsuits and flip-flops. Emerson spends her weekdays carpooling, writing romance, doing laundry, and letting dogs in and out and in and out of the house. On the weekends she’s a busy O.B. nurse in a nearby hospital helping women have babies. So you could say she works both ends of the life spectrum, first she writes the romance that makes couples frisky and then she shows up nine months later to catch the baby!

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Emerson is also a big fan of love and happily ever afters. “I’ve been bitten by the love bug and I can’t resist sharing that feeling. I write about strong intelligent women and confident, competitive, dominant men who want to believe they are in control. But hey let’s face it we all know who’s behind all that confidence.” – Emerson Rose You can like her on Facebook here. Join the Prism Heart Press mailing list to be notified of sales and upcoming releases!

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